to go higher. Kitiara made light of his twin's illness whenever Caramon asked, but he could tell she was worried.

Sometimes in the night, when she thought he was asleep, he'd hear Kit give a sharp sigh, see her drum her fingers

on the arm of their mother's rocking chair, which Kit had dragged into the small room the twins shared.

Kitiara was not a gentle nurse. She had no patience with weakness. She had determined that Raistlin would live.

She was doing everything in her power to force him to get better, and she was irritated and even a little angry when

he did not respond. At that point, she decided to take the fight personally. The expression on her face was so grim

and hard and determined that Caramon wondered if even Death might not be a little daunted to face her.

Death must have been, because that grim presence backed down.

On the morning of the fourth day of his twin's illness, Caramon woke after a troubled night. He found Kit slumped

over the bed, her head resting on her arms, her eyes closed in slumber. Raistlin slept as well. Not the heavy, dreamtortured

sleep of his sickness, but a healing sleep, a restful sleep. Caramon reached out his hand to feel his brother's

pulse and, in doing so, brushed against Kitiara's shoulder.

She bolted to her feet, caught hold of the collar of his shirt with one hand, twisted the cloth tight around his neck.

In her other hand, a knife flashed in the morning sunlight.

"Kit! It's me!" Caramon croaked, half-strangled.

Kit stared at him without recognition. Then her mouth parted in a crooked grin. She let loose of him,

smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt. The knife disappeared rapidly, so rapidly that Caramon could not see

where it had gone.

"You startled me," she said.

"No kidding!" Caramon replied feelingly. His neck stung from where the fabric had cut into his flesh. He

rubbed his neck, gazed warily at his sister.

She was shorter than he was, lighter in build, but he would have been a dead man if he hadn't spoken up when

he did. He could still feel her hand tightening the fabric around his throat, cutting off his breathing.

An awkward silence fell between them. Caramon had seen something disquieting in his sister, something

chilling. Not the attack itself. What he'd seen that bothered him was the fierce, eager joy in her eyes when she

made the attack.

"I'm sorry, kid," she said at length. "I didn't mean to scare you." She gave him a playful little slap on his

cheek. "But don't ever sneak up on me in my sleep like that. All right?"

"Sure, Kit," Caramon said, still uneasy but willing to admit that the incident had been his fault. "I'm sorry I

woke you. I just wanted to see how Raistlin was doing."

"He's past the crisis," Kitiara said with a weary, triumphant smile. "He's going to be fine." She gazed down on

him proudly, asshe might have gazed down on a vanquished foe. "The fever broke last night and it's stayed

down. We should leave him now and let him sleep."

She pushed the reluctant Caramon out the door. "Come along. Listen to big sister. By way of repaying me for

that fright you gave me, you can fix my breakfast."

"Fright!" Caramon snorted. "You weren't frightened."

"A soldier's always frightened," Kit corrected him. Sitting down at the table, she hungrily devoured an apple,

still green, one of this season's first fruits. "It's what you do with the fright that counts."

"Huh?" Caramon looked up from his bread slicing.

"Fear can turn you inside out," Kit said, tearing the apple with strong white teeth. "Or you can make fear work

for you. Use it like another weapon. Fear's a funny thing. It can make you weak-kneed, make you pee your pants,

make you whimper like a baby. Or fear can make you run faster, hit harder."

"Yeah? Really?" Caramon put a slice of bread on the toasting fork, held it over the kitchen fire.

And, yes, I went to the burial. Like it or not, she was my mother. I guess her death was pretty awful for you and

Raist, huh?"

Caramon nodded silently. He didn't like to think about it. Morosely he munched on the burnt toast.

"Do you want some eggs? I can fry 'em," he said.

"Yes, I'm starved. Put in some of Otik's potatoes, too, if you've got any left." Kit remained standing by the

window. "It's not that Rosamun meant anything to me. She didn't." Her voice hardened. "But it would have been

bad luck if I hadn't gone."