In the morning, as Caramon fixed his twin a bowl of hot gruel to sustain him through the rigors of the day, there

came a knock on the door. Caramon opened it to admit Sturm. The young man was haggard and deathly pale, his

eyes red and swollen. He was composed, however, had control of himself.

Caramon ushered his friend inside. Sturm sank into a chair, his legs collapsing beneath him. He had slept little

since the first day of his mother's illness.

"Is Lady Brightblade. .." Caramon began, but couldn't finish. Sturm nodded his head.

Caramon wiped his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sturm. She was a great lady."

"Yes," said Sturm in a husky voice. He slumped in the chair. A tremor of a dry sob shuddered through his body.

"How long has it been since you ate anything?" Raistlin demanded.

Sturm sighed, waved an uncaring hand.

"Caramon, bring another bowl," Raistlin ordered. "Eat, Sir Knight, or you will shortly follow your mother to the

grave."

Sturm's dark eyes flashed in anger at Raistlin's flippant tone. He started to refuse the food, but when he saw that

Caramon had picked up the spoon, was intending to feed him like a baby, Sturm muttered that perhaps he could

manage a mouthful. He ate the entire bowl, drank a glass of wine, and the color returned to his wan cheeks.

Raistlin shoved aside his own bowl only half eaten. This was customary with him, however; Caramon knew better

than to protest.

"My mother and I talked near the end," Sturm said in a low voice. "She spoke of Solamnia and my father. She told

me that she had long ago ceased believing he was alive. She had kept up the pretense only for my sake."

He lowered his head, pressed his lips tightly together, but shed no tears. After a moment, his composure regained,

he looked at Raistlin, who was gathering his medicines, preparing to set out.

"Something strange happened at ... the end. I thought I would tell you, to see if you had ever heard the like.

Perhaps it is nothing but a manifestation of the disease."

Raistlin looked up with interest. He was making notes on the illness, recording symptoms and treatments in a

small book for future reference.

"My mother had fallen into a deep sleep, from which it seemed that nothing could rouse her."

"The sleep of death," Raistlin said. "I have seen it often with this illness. Sometimes it can last for several days, but

whenever it comes, the patient never wakes."

"Well, my mother did wake," Sturm said abruptly.

"Indeed? Tell me precisely what occurred."

"She opened her eyes and looked, not at me, but beyond me, to the door to her room. 'I know you, sir, do I not?'

she said hesitantly, adding querulously, 'Where have you been all this time? We've been expecting you for ages.' Then

she said, 'Make haste,

Son, bring the old gentleman a chair.'

"I looked around, but there was no one there. 'Ah,' my mother said, 'you cannot stay? I must come with you? But

that will mean leaving my boy all alone.' She seemed to listen, then she smiled. 'True, he is a boy no longer. You will

watch over him when I am gone?' And then she smiled, as if reassured, and drew her last breath.

"And this is the strangest part. I had just risen to go to her when I thought I saw, standing beside her, the figure of

an old man. He was a disreputable old man, wearing gray robes with a shabby sort of pointed hat." Sturm frowned.

"He had the look of a magic-user. Well? What do you think?"

"I think that you had gone a long time without food or sleep," Raistlin replied.

"Perhaps," Sturm said, still frowning, puzzled. "But the vision seemed very real. Who could the old man have

been? And why was my mother pleased to see him? She had no use for magic-users."

Raistlin headed for the door. He had been more than patient with the bereaved Sturm and he was tired of being

insulted. Caramon cast him an apprehensive glance, fearing that his brother might lash out, make some sarcastic

comment, but his twin departed without saying another word.

Sturm left soon after, to arrange for his mother's burial. Caramon heaved a doleful sigh and sat down to finish off

the remainder of his brother's uneaten breakfast.

Spring performed its usual miracle. Green leaves sprouted on the vallenwoods, wildflowers bloomed in the

graveyard; the small vallenwoods planted on the graves grew