"What do you mean, 'bad luck'?"

"Oh, I know it's all superstitious nonsense," Kit said with a rueful grin. "But she was my mother and she's

dead. I should show respect. Otherwise, well"-Kit looked uncomfortable-"I might be punished. Something bad

might happen to me."

"That sounds like the Widow Judith," Caramon said, cracking eggshells, making a clumsy and ineffectual

attempt at extricating the egg from the shell. His scrambled eggs were noted for their crunchy texture. "She

talked about some god called Belzor punishing us. Is that what you mean?"

"Belzor! What a crock. There are gods, Caramon. Powerful gods. Gods who will punish you if you do

somethingthey don't like. But they'll reward you, too, if you serve them."

"Are you serious?" Caramo n asked, staring at his sister. "No offense, but I've never heard you talk like that

before."

Kitiara turned from the window. Walking over, her strides long and purposeful, she planted her hands on the

table and looked into Caramon's face.

"Come with me!" she said, not answering his question. "There's a city up north called Sanction. Big things are

happening there, Caramon. Important things. I plan to be part of them, and you can, too. I came back on purpose

to get you."

Caramon was tempted. Traveling with Kitiara, seeing the vast world outside of Solace. No more backbreaking

farm work, no more hoeing and plowing, no more forking hay until his arms ached. He'd use his arm for sword

work, fighting goblins and ogres. Spending his nights with his comrades around a fire, or snug in a tavern with a

girl on his knee.

"What about Raistlin?" he asked.

Kit shook her head. "I had hoped to find him stronger. Can he work magic yet?"

"I ... I don't think so," said Caramon.

"Odds are he won't ever be able to use it, then. Why, the mages I've heard of are practicing their skills at the

age of

twelve! Still, I'm sure I could get a job for him. He's well schooled, isn't he? There's a temple I know about.

They're looking for scribes. Easy work and fat living. What do you say? We could leave as soon as Raistlin is

well enough to travel."

Caramon allowed himself one more glimpse of walking around this town called Sanction, armor clanking,

sword rattling on his hip, the women admiring him. He put the vision away with a sigh.

"I can't, Kit. Raist would never leave that school of his. Not until he's ready to take some sort of test that

they give in a big tower somewhere."

"Well, then, let him stay," Kitiara said, irritated. "You come alone."

She eyed Caramon, giving him almost the same look he'd imagined from the women in Sanction. But not

quite. Kit was sizing him up as a warrior. Self-conscious, he stood straighter. He was taller than the boys his

age, taller than most men in Solace. The heavy farm labor had built up his muscles.

"How old are you?" Kit asked.

"Sixteen."

"You'd pass for eighteen, sure. I could teach you what you'd need to know on our way north. Raistlin will

be fine here on his own. He's got the house. Your father left it to you two, didn't he? Well, then! There's

nothing stopping you."

Caramon might be gullible, he might be thickheaded-as his brother often told him he was-and slow of

thought. But once he had made up his mind about something, he was as immovable as Prayer's Eye Peak.

"I can't leave Raistlin, Kit."

Kitiara frowned, angry, not accustomed to having her will thwarted. Folding her arms across her chest, she

glared at Caramon. Her booted foot tapped irritably on the floor. Caramon, uncomfortable beneath her

piercing gaze, ducked his head and whipped the eggs right out of the bowl.

"You could talk to Raistlin," Caramon said, his voice muffled by his shirt collar, into which he was

speaking. "Maybe I spoke out of turn. Maybe he'll want to go."

"I'll do that," Kitiara said, her tone sharp. She was pacing the length of the small room.