would have pursued his studies. The old manuscripts. might be lying. They might be deliberately withholding

information. He trusted no one but himself.

His studies might take him years, but ...

A spasm of coughing interrupted his work. The cough was painful, debilitating, frightening. His windpipe closed,

he could not breathe, and when the paroxysms were very bad, he had the terrible feeling that he would never be able

to breathe again, that he would suffocate and die.

This was one of the bad ones. He fought, struggled to breathe. He grew faint and dizzy from lack of air, and when

at last he was able to draw a breath with a certain amount of ease, he was so exhausted from the effort that he was

forced to rest his head on his arms on the table. He lay there, almost sobbing. His injured ribs hurt him cruelly, his

diaphragm burned from coughing.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder.

"Raist? Are ... are you all right?"

Raistlin sat upright, thrust aside his brother's hand.

"What a stupid question! Even for you. Of course I am not all right, Caramon!" Raistlin dabbed at his lips with

a handkerchief, drew it back stained with blood. He swiftly concealed the handkerchief in a secret pocket of his

new red robes.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Caramon asked, patiently ignoring his brother's ill humor.

"You can leave me alone and quit interrupting my work!" Raistlin returned. "Are you packed? We leave

within the hour, you know."

"If you're sure you're well enough ..." Caramon began. Catching his brother's irritated and baleful gaze, he bit

his tongue. "I'll ... go pack," he said, though he was already packed and had been for the past three hours.

Caramon started to leave, tiptoeing out of the room. He fondly imagined that he was being extremely quiet. In

reality, with his rattling, jingling, clanking, and creaking, he made more noise than a legion of mountain dwarves

on parade.

Reaching into the pocket, Raistlin drew forth the handkerchief, wet with his own blood. He gazed at it for a

dark, brooding moment.

"Caramon," he called.

"Yes, Raist?" Caramon turned around, pathetically anxious. "Is there something I can do for you?"

They would have many years together, years of working together, living together, eating together, fighting

together. Caramon had seen his twin kill him. Raistlin had seen himself kill.

Hammer blows. One after the other.

Raistlin sighed deeply. "Yes, my brother. There is something you can do for me. Par-Salian gave me a recipe

for a tisane that he believes will help ease my cough. You will find the recipe and the ingredients in my pouch,

there on the chair. If you could mix it for me ..."

"I will, Raist!" Caramon said excitedly. He couldn't have looked more pleased if his twin had bestowed a

wealth of jewels and steel coins upon him. "I haven't noticed a teakettle, but I'm sure there must be one around

here somewhere.... Oh, here it is. I guess I didn't see it before. You keep working. I'll just meas ure out these

leaves.... Whew! This smells awful! Are you sure? ... Never mind," Caramon amended hurriedly. "I'll make the

tea. Maybe it'll taste better than it smells."

He put on the kettle, then bent over the teapot, mixing and

measuring the leaves with as much care as a gnome would take on a Life Quest.

Raistlin returned to his reading.

Magius struck the ogre on the head with his staff. I charged in to save him, for ogre's are notoriously thick-skulled, and I could not

see that the wizard's walking staff would inflict much damage. To my surprise, however, the ogre keeled over dead, as if it had been

struck by a thunderbolt.

Raistlin carefully noted the occurrence, writing:The staff apparently increases the force of a blow.

"Raist," said Caramon, turning from watching for the teapot to boil, "I just want you to know. About what

happened ... I understand. .."

Raistlin lifted his head, paused in his writing. He did not look at his brother, but gazed out the window. The

Forest of Wayreth surrounded the tower. He looked out upon withering leaves, leafless branches, rotted and