He replaced the brush on a small nightstand. Taking the plate, he ate some of the potatoes and nibbled a little

on the ham. Caramon watched anxiously. His face fell in disappointment when Raistlin handed back the plate,

still more than half filled with food.

"Is that all you want? Are you sure? Can I get you something else? We've got lots."

Raistlin shook his head.

Rosamun made a sound, a pitiful murmur. Raistlin moved

swiftly to attend her, bending over her, talking to her soothingly, helping her to lie more comfortably. He moistened

her lips with water, chaffed the thin hands.

"Is ... is she any better?" Caramon asked helplessly.

He could tell at a glance she wasn't. But he hoped he might be wrong. Besides, he felt the need to say something,

to hear his own voice. He didn't like it when the house was so strangely quiet. He didn't like being cooped up in this

dark, unhappy room. He wondered how his brother could stand it.

"No," Raistlin said. "If anything, she is worse." He paused a moment, and when he spoke next, his voice was

hushed, awed. "It's as if she's running down a road, Caramon, running away from me. I follow after her, I call to her

to stop, but she doesn't hear me. She doesn't pay any attention to me. She is running very fast, Caramon...."

Raistlin stopped talking, turned away. He pretended to busy himself with the blankets.

"Take that plate back to the kitchen," he ordered, his voice harsh. "It will draw mice."

"I'll ... I'11 take the plate back to the kitchen," Caramon mumbled and hurried off.

Once in the kitchen, he flung the plate toward what he assumed was the table; he couldn't see very well for the

blur in his eyes. Someone knocked on the door, but he ignored it, and after a while whoever it was went away.

Caramon leaned against the fireplace, gulping in deep breaths, blinking very hard and fast, willing himself not to cry

anymore.

Regaining his composure, he returned to the sickroom. He had news that would, he hoped, bring a small amount

of cheer to his twin.

He found Raistlin seated once more by the bed. Rosamun lay in the same position, her staring eyes sunken in her

head. Her wasted hands lay limp on the counterpane. Her wristbones seemed unnaturally large. Her flesh seemed to

be slipping away with her spirit. She appeared to have deteriorated in just the few moments Caramon was gone. He

shifted his gaze hurriedly away from her, kept it focused on his twin.

"Otik was here," Caramon said unnecessarily, for his brother had surely deduced this from the arrival of the

potatoes. "He said that the Widow Judith left Solace this morning."

"Did she," Raistlin said, a statement, not a question. He looked around. A flicker of flame lit his red-rimmed eyes.

"Where did she go?"

117.

"Back to Haven." Caramon managed a grin. "She's gone to report us to Belzor. She left claiming he was going to

come here and make us sorry we were ever born."

An unfortunate choice of phrase. Raistlin winced and looked quickly at their mother. Caramon took two swift

steps, laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, gripped it hard.

"You can't think that, Raist!" he admonished. "You can't think that this is your fault!"

"Isn't it?" Raistlin returned bitterly. "If it hadn't been for me, Judith would have let mother alone. That woman

came because of me, Caramon. I was the one she was after. Mother asked me to quit my magic once. I wondered why

she should say such a thing. It was Judith, hounding her. If I had only known at the "

"What would you have done, Raistlin?" Caramon interrupted. He crouched down beside his brother's chair, looked

up at him earnestly. "What would you have done? Quit your school? Given up the magic? Would you have done

that?"

Raistlin sat silent a moment, his hands absently plucking the folds of his worn shirt. "No," he said finally. "But I

would have talked to mother. I would have explained to her."

He glanced at his mother. Reaching out, he took hold of the pitifully thin hand, squeezed it, not very gently, willing

to see some response, even a grimace of pain.

He could have crushed that hand in his hand, crushed it like an empty eggshell, and Rosamun would have never

so much as blinked. Sighing, he looked back at Caramon.