Otik was a good man, one of the best in Solace. He would have given away his belove d inn if he had thought that

would

have helped the sick woman. But he did enjoy gossip, and Gilon's tragic death and his wife's strange illness were

the talk of the common room.

Caramon finally managed to close the door. He stood listening a moment to Otik's heavy footsteps tromping

across the boardwalk, heard him stop to talk to several of the ladies of the town. Caramon heard his mother's

name mentioned frequently. Sighing, he took the food into the kitchen and stacked it up with all the rest of the

provisions.

He ladled spiced potatoes into a bowl, added a tempting slab of ham fresh baked in cider, and poured a glass

of elven wine. He intended to take them to his mother, but he paused on the threshold of her bedroom.

Caramon loved his mother. A good son was supposed to love his mother, and Caramon had been as good a

son as he knew how to be. He was not close to his mother. He felt closer to Kitiara, who had done more to raise

both him and Raistlin than had Rosamun. Caramon pitied his mother with all his heart. He was extremely sad and

worried for her, but he had to steel himself to enter that room as he imagined he would one day have to steel

himself to enter battle.

The sickroom was dark and hot, the air fetid and unpleasant to breathe and to smell. Rosamun lay on her back

on the bed, staring up at nothing. Yet she saw something, apparently, for her eyes moved and changed

expression. Sometimes the eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, as if what she saw terrified her. At these times, her

breathing grew rapid and shallow. At other times, she was calm. Sometimes she would even smile, a ghastly

smile that was heartbreaking to see.

She never spoke, at least that they could understand. She made sounds, but these were guttural, incoherent.

She never closed her eyes. She never slept. Nothing roused her or caused her to look away from whatever visions

she saw, visions that held her enthralled.

Her bodily functions continued. Raistlin cleaned up after her, bathed her. It had been three days since Gilon's

burial, and Raistlin had not left his mother's side. He slept on a pallet on the floor, waking at the least sound she

made. He talked to her constantly, telling her funny stories about the pranks the boys played at school, telling her

about his own hopes and dreams, telling her about his herb garden and the plants he grew there.

He forced her to take liquid by dipping a cloth in water, then holding it to her lips and squeezing it into her

mouth, only a

trickle at a time lest she choke on it. He had tried feeding her, too, but she had been unable to swallow the food,

and he had been forced to give this up. He handled her gently, with infinite tenderness and unflagging patience.

Caramon stood in the doorway, watching the two of them. Raistlin sat beside his mother's bed, brushing out

her long hair and reciting to her stories of her own girlhood in Palanthas.

You think you know my brother, Caramon said, talking silently to a line of faces. You, Master Theobald, and

you, Jon Farnish, and you, Sturm Brightblade, and all the rest of you. You call him "Sly" and "Sneak," You say

he's cold and calculating and unfeeling. You think you know him. I know him. Caramon's eyes filled with tears. I

know him. I'm the only one.

He waited another moment until he could see again, wiping his eyes and his nose on the sleeve of his shirt,

slopping the wine over himself in the process. This done, he drew in a last, deep breath of fresh air and then

entered the dark and dismal sickroom.

"I brought some food, Raist," said Caramon.

Raistlin glanced at his brother, then turned back to Rosamun. "She won't eat it."

"I ... uh ... meant it for you, Raist. You got to eat something. You'll get sick if you don't," Caramon added,

seeing his brother's head start to move in negation. "And if you get sick, what will I do? I'm not a very good

nurse, Raist."

Raistlin looked up at his brother. "You don't give yourself enough credit, my brother. I remember times when

I was ill. You would make shadow pictures on the wall for me. Rabbits. .." His voice died away.

Caramon's throat closed, choked by tears. He blinked them away quickly and held out the plate. "C'mon,

Raist. Eat. Just a little. It's Otik's potatoes."

"His panacea for all the ills of the wo rld," Raistlin said, his mouth twisting. "Very well."