root I read about called ipecacuanha. The baby had to throw up the phlegm, you see, and the root mixture caused

the child to vomit. Do girls ... do they truly talk about ... about such things?"

Girls were, to Raistlin's mind, strange creatures, as unreadable as a magic spell from the tome of some highranking

archmagus, and just as unattainable. Yet Caramon, who in some matters was as dense as a fallen log,

talked to girls, danced the round dances popular at festivals with them, did other things with them, things that

Raistlin dreamed about in the dark hours of the night, dreams that left him feeling ashamed and unclean. But then

Caramon, with his brawny build, his curly hair, his big brown eyes and handsome features, was attractive to

women. Raistlin was not.

The frequent illnesses that still afflicted him left him thin and bony, with no appetite for food. He had the

same well-formed nose and chin as Caramon, but on Raistlin the features were more finely planed and pointed,

giving him the sly, crafty appearance of a fox. He disliked round dancing, considered it a waste of time and

energy, besides which it left him breathless, with a pain in his chest. He didn't know how to talk to girls, what to

say. He had the feeling that, although they listened to him politely enough, behind those sparklingeyes,they

were secretly laughing at him.

"I don't think they talk about ipe-ipe-ipecaca-whatever that long-tailed word was," Caramon admitted. "But

one of them, Miranda, said it was wonderful the way you saved that baby's life. It was her little niece, you see.

She wanted me to tellyou."

"Did s he?" Raistlin murmured.

"Yeah. Miranda's wonderful, isn't she?" Caramon gave a gusty sigh. "I've never seen anyone so beautiful.

Oops"-he glanced outdoors, to see the sun starting to rise "I've got to get going myself. We're planting today. I

won't be home until after dark."

Whistling a merry tune, Caramon grabbed his pack and hastened off.

"Yes, my brother, you are right. She is very beautiful!" Raistlin said to the empty house.

Miranda was the daughter of a wealthy clothier, recently arrived to set up business in Solace. Her father's best

advertisement, Miranda dressed in the finest clothes, cut and sewn in the very latest style. Long strawberry blond

hair fell in lazy ringlets to her waist. Graceful and demure, fragile and winsome, innocent and good, she was

utterly captivating, and Raistlin was not the only young man to admire her immensely.

Raistlin had sometimes fancied that Miranda would occasionally glance his way and that her look was

inviting. But he always told himself that this was just wishful thinking. How could she possibly care about him?

Whenever he saw her, his heart raced, nearly suffocating him. His blood burned, his skin grew cold and clammy.

His tongue, normally so glib, could speak only inanities, his brain turned to oatmeal. He could not even look her

in the face. Whenever he came close to her, he had difficulty keeping his hand from reaching out to caress one of

those flame-colored curls.

There was another factor. Would I be as interested in this young woman if she had not won Caramon's

admiration as well? Raistlin asked himself.

The top of Raistlin's mind answered immediately "Yes!" The depths pondered the question uneasily. What

demon in Raistlin led to this constant competition with his own twin? A one-sided competition, at that, for

Caramon was serenely unaware of it.

Raistlin recalled a story Tasslehoff had told them about a dwarf coming upon a slumbering red dragon. The

dwarf attacked the sleeping dragon with ax and sword, hammered at it for hours until he was exhausted. The

dragon never even woke

up. Yawning, the dragon rolled over in its sleep and squashed the dwarf flat.

Raistlin empathized with that dwarf. He felt as if he were constantly battling his twin, only to have Caramon

roll over on him and crush him. Caramon was the better-looking, the better liked, the better trusted. Raistlin was

"deep," as Kit described him, or "subtle," as Tanis had once said of him, or "sly," as his classmates termed him.

Most people tolerated his presence only because they liked his brother.

At least I am gaining some small reputation as a healer, Raistlin thought as he walked along the boardwalk,

trying to avoid breathing in the fragrant spring air, which always made him sneeze.

But the glow of satisfaction no sooner was kindled in him, giving him some small share of warmth, when that

infernal demon of his whispered bitterly, Yes, and perhaps that is all you will ever be-a minor mage, a weedchopping