He muttered and mumbled and panted, tugged at the collar of his nightshirt. His skin was clammy, his hair

damp with sweat. He looked so ill that Raistlin, concerned, placed his hand o n his brother's forehead to feel if he

were running a fever.

Caramon's skin was cool. Whatever troubled him was of the mind, not the body. He shuddered at Raistlin's

touch and

begged, "Don't make me go there, Raist! Don't make me go there!"

Raistlin brushed aside a lock of the curly, tousled hair that was falling into his brother's eyes and wondered if

he should wake him. His brother must have been awake many long nights and he needed his rest, but this was

more like torture than sleep. Raistlin put his hand on his twin's broad shoulder, shook it.

"Caramon!" he called peremptorily.

Caramon's eyes flared wide. He stared at Raistlin and cringed. "Don't leave me! Don't! Don't leave me!

Please!" He whimpered and flung himself about on the bed with such violence that he nearly fell on the floor.

This was not dreaming. It was vaguely familiar to Raistlin, then suddenly frighteningly familiar.

Rosamun. She had been much like this.

Perhaps this wasn't sleep. Perhaps this was a trance, similar to the trances into which Rosamun had stumbled,

never to find her way back out.

Caramon had not previously evinced any signs that he had inherited his mother's fey talent. He was her son,

however, and her blood-with all its strange fancies -ran in his veins. His body was weakened by nights of wakeful

watching, tending his sick brother. His mind was upset by the tragic loss of his beloved father, then he had been

forced to stand by helplessly and watch his mother dwindle away. With the body's defenses lowered, the mind's

defenses confused and overwhelmed, his soul was laid bare and vulnerable. It might well retreat into dark regions

never known to exist, there to find refuge from the battering armies of life.

What if I lose Caramon?

I would be alone. Alone without family or friend, for Raistlin could not count on Kitiara as family, nor did he

want to. Her crudeness and her untamed animal nature disgusted him. That's what he told himself. In reality, he

feared her. He foresaw that someday there would be a power struggle between them, and, alone, he was not

certain that he was strong enough to withstand her. As for friends, on this point he could not delude himself. He

had none. His friends were not his friends at all, they were Caramon's.

Caramon was often irritating, often annoying. His slow thought processes frustrated his quicker thinking twin,

who was at times tempted to grab hold of Caramon and shake him on the faint hope that a sensible thought might

accidentally

tumble out. But now, faced with the possibility of losing his brother, Raistlin looked into the void where Caramon

had been and realized how much he would miss him, and not for just companionship, or to have someone strong on

which to lean. Mentally speaking, Caramon was not a brilliant swordsman, but he made a good fencing partner.

Besides, Caramon was the only person Raistlin had ever known who could come close to making him laugh.

Shadow puppets on the wall, ridiculous rabbits ...

"Caramon!" Raistlin shook his brother again.

Caramon only moaned and raised his hands, as if warding off some blow. "No, Raist! I don't have it! I swear I don't

have it!"

Frightened, Raistlin wondered what to do. He left the bedroom, went in search of his sister, with some idea of

sending Kit out to fetch Weird Meggin.

But Kitiara was gone. Her pack was gone; she must have left during the night.

Raistlin stood in the parlor of the silent house, the too-silent house. Kitiara had packed all Rosamun's clothes and

possessions away in a wooden chest, stowed it under the bed. His mother's rocking chair remained, however, the

only one of her possessions that Kit had not removed, mainly because there was a shortage of chairs in the house as

it was. Rosamun's presence lingered like the fragrance of faded rose petals. The very emptiness, the lack of her,

recalled his mother vividly to his mind.

Too vividly. Rosamun sat in the chair, rocking. She rocked leisurely back and forth, her dress rustling. The toes of

her small feet, encased in soft leather shoes, lightly touched the floor and then slid beneath her dress when the chair

rocked backward. Her head and her gaze remained level, her lips smiling at Raistlin.