The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

  Turning his head, Palin glanced from the folds of his white hood at the grove’s tall trees. They stood unmoving, though he could feel the wind from the sea blowing strong upon his face. It was said that even the terrible hurricanes of the Cataclysm had not caused a leaf to flutter in the Shoikan Grove, though no other tree in the city remained standing. A chill darkness flowed among the trunks of the oaks, reaching out with snaking tendrils of icy fog that slithered along the paved courtyard before the gates and writhed about the ankles of those who stood there.

  Shivering with cold and a fear he could not control, a fear fed by the trees, Palin looked at his father with new respect. Driven by love for his twin, Caramon had dared enter the Shoikan Grove, and had very nearly paid for his love with his life.

  He must be thinking of that, Palin thought, for his father’s face was pale and grim. Beads of sweat stood upon his forehead. “Let’s get out of here,” Caramon said harshly, his eyes carefully avoiding the sight of the cursed trees. “Go inside, or something.…”

  “Very well,” replied Dalamar. Though his face was hidden once again by the shadows of his hood, Palin had the impression the dark elf was smiling. “Although there is no hurry. We must wait until nightfall, when the silver moon, Solinari, beloved of Paladine, the black moon, Nuitari, favored by the Dark Queen, and Lunitari, the red moon of Gilean, are in the sky together. Raistlin will draw upon the black moon for his power. Others—who might need it—may draw upon Solinari—if they choose.…” He did not look at Palin as he spoke, but the young man felt himself flush.

  “What do mean—draw upon its power?” Caramon demanded angrily, grabbing hold of Dalamar. “Palin’s not a mage, not yet. You said you would deal with everything—”

  “I am aware of my words,” Dalamar interrupted. He neither moved nor spoke, but suddenly Caramon snatched his hand back with a gasp of pain. “And I will deal with … what must be dealt with. But things strange and unexpected may happen this night. It is well to be prepared.” Dalamar regarded Caramon coolly. “And do not interfere with me again. Come, Palin. You may need my assistance to enter these gates.”

  Dalamar held out his hand. Glancing back at his father, Palin saw his eyes fixed on him. Don’t go in there, his anguished gaze pleaded. If you do, I will lose you.…

  Lowering his own eyes in confusion, pretending he hadn’t read the message that had been as dear as the very first words his father taught him, Palin turned away and laid his hand hesitantly upon the dark elf’s arm. The black robes were soft and velvety to the touch. He could feel the hard muscles and, beneath, the fine, delicate bone structure of the elf, almost fragile to the touch, yet strong and steady and supportive.

  An unseen hand opened the gates that had once, long ago, been made of fluted silver and gold but were now black and twisted, guarded by shadowy beings. Drawing Palin with him, Dalamar stepped through them.

  Searing pain pierced the young man. Clutching his heart, Palin doubled over with a cry.

  Dalamar stopped Caramon’s advance with a look. “You cannot aid him,” the dark elf said. “Thus the Dark Queen punishes those not loyal to her who tread upon this sacred ground. Hold on to me, Palin. Hold on to me tightly and keep walking. Once we are inside, this will subside.”

  Gritting his teeth, Palin did as he was told, moving forward with halting footsteps, both hands gripping Dalamar’s arm.

  It was well the dark elf led him on for, left on his own, Palin would have fled this place of darkness. Through the haze of pain, he heard soft words whisper, “Why enter? Death alone awaits you! Are you anxious to look upon his grinning face? Turn back, foolish one! Turn back. Nothing is worth this.…” Palin moaned. How could he have been so blind? Dalamar had been right … the price was too high.…

  “Courage, Palin!” Dalamar’s voice blended with the whispering words.

  The tower was crushing Palin beneath the weight of its dark, magical power, pressing the life from his body. Still he kept walking, though he could barely see the stones beneath his feet through a blood-red film blurring his eyes. Was this how he felt when he first came? Palin asked himself in agony. But no, of course not. Raistlin had worn the Black Robes when he first entered the tower. He came in the fullness of his power, Master of Past and Present. For him, the gates had opened.… All dark and shadowy things bowed in homage. Thus went the legend.…

  For him, the gates had opened.…

  With a sob, Palin collapsed upon the threshold of the tower.

  “Feeling better?” Dalamar asked as Palin raised himself dizzily from the couch on which he lay. “Here, a sip of wine. It is elven, a fine vintage. I have it ‘shipped’ to me from Silvanesti, unknown to the Silvanesti elves, of course. This was the first wine made following the land’s destruction. It has a dark, faintly bitter taste—as of tears. Some of my people, I am told, cannot drink it without weeping.” Pouring a glassful, Dalamar held the deep purple-hued liquid out to Palin. “I find, in fact, that even when I drink it, a feeling of sadness comes over me.”

  “Homesick,” suggested Caramon, shaking his head as Dalamar offered him a glass. Palin knew by the tone of his father’s voice that he was upset and unhappy, frightened for his son. He sat stolidly in his chair, however, trying to appear unconcerned. Palin cast him a grateful glance as he drank the wine, feeling its warming influence banish the strange chill.

  Oddly enough, the wine was making him think about his home. “Homesick,” Caramon had said. Palin expected Dalamar to scoff or sneer at this statement. Dark elves are, after all, “cast from the light” of elven society, banned from entering the ancient homelands. Dalamar’s sin had been to take the Black Robes, to seek power in dark magic. Bound hand and foot, his eyes blindfolded, he had been driven in a cart to the borders of his homeland and there thrown out, never more to be admitted. To the elves, whose centuries-long lives are bound up in their beloved woods and gardens, to be dismissed from the ancestral lands is worse than death.

  Dalamar appeared so cool and unfeeling about everything, however, that Palin was surprised to see a look of wistful longing and swift sorrow pass over the dark elf’s face. It was gone as quickly as a ripple over quiet water, but he had seen it nonetheless. He felt less in awe of the dark elf. So something could touch him, after all.

  Sipping the wine, tasting the faint bitterness, Palin’s thought went to his home, the splendid house his father had built with his own hands, the inn that was his parents’ pride and joy. He thought about the town of Solace, nestled among the leaves of the great vallenwood trees, a town he had left only to attend school, as must all young, aspiring magic-users. He thought of his mother, of the two little sisters who were the bane of his existence—stealing his pouches, trying to peek under his robes, hiding his spellbooks.… What would it be like—never seeing them again?

  … never seeing them again …

  Palin’s hand began to tremble. Carefully, he set the fragile glass down upon the table near his chair, fearing he might drop it or spill his wine. He looked around hurriedly to see if either his father or Dalamar had noticed. Neither had, both being engaged in a quiet discussion near the window overlooking the city of Palanthas.

  “You have never been back to the laboratory since?” Caramon was asking, his voice low.

  Dalamar shook his head. He had removed the hood of his robes, and his long, silky hair brushed his shoulders. “I went back the week you left,” he replied, “to make certain all was in order. And then I sealed it shut.”

  “So everything is still there,” Caramon murmured. Palin saw his father’s shrewd gaze turn to the dark elf, who was staring out the window, his face cold and expressionless. “It must contain objects that would grant tremendous power to a wizard, or so I would guess. What is in there?”

  Almost holding his breath, Palin rose from his chair and crept silently across the beautiful, luxurious carpet to hear the dark elf’s answer.

  “The spellbooks of Fistandantilus, Raistlin’s own spellbooks, his notes on herb
lore and, of course, his staff—”

  “His staff?” Palin asked suddenly.

  Both men turned to look at the young man, Caramon’s face grave, Dalamar’s faintly amused.

  “You told me my uncle’s staff was lost!” Palin said to his father accusingly.

  “And so it is, young one,” Dalamar answered. “The spell I put upon that chamber is such that even the rats do not come anywhere near it. None may enter on pain of death. If the famed Staff of Magius were at the bottom of the Blood Sea, it could not be more effectively lost to this world than it is now.”

  “There’s one other thing in that laboratory,” Caramon said slowly in sudden realization. “The Portal to the Abyss. If we can’t get in the laboratory, how are we supposed to look inside the portal or whatever fool thing you wizards want me to do to prove to you my twin is dead?”

  Dalamar was silent, twirling the thin-stemmed wineglass in his hand thoughtfully, his gaze abstracted. Watching him, Caramon’s face flushed red in anger. “This was a ruse! You never meant it, any of you! What do mean, bringing us here? What do you want of me?”

  “Nothing of you, Caramon,” Dalamar answered coolly.

  Caramon blenched. “No!” he cried in a choked voice. “Not my son! Damn you, wizards! I won’t allow it!” Taking a step forward, he grabbed hold of Dalamar … and gasped in pain. Yanking his hand back, Caramon flexed it, rubbing his arm, which felt as though he had touched lightning.

  “Father, please! Don’t interfere!” murmured Palin, going to his father’s side. The young man glanced angrily at Dalamar. “There was no need for that!”

  “I warned him,” Dalamar said, shrugging. “You see, Caramon, my friend, we cannot open the door from the outside.” The dark elf’s gaze went to Palin. “But there is one here for whom the door may open from the inside!”

  Chapter Six

  For me, the gates will open.…

  Palin whispered the words to himself as he climbed the dark and winding stairs. Night had stolen upon Palanthas, sealing the city in darkness, deepening the perpetual gloom that hung about the Tower of High Sorcery. Solinari, the silver moon beloved of Paladine, shone in the sky, but its white rays did not touch the tower. Those inside gazed upon another moon, a dark moon, a moon only their eyes could see.

  The stone stairs were pitch black. Though Caramon carried a torch, its feeble, wavering flame was overwhelmed by the darkness. He might have been holding a burning wisp of straw for all the light the torch shed. Groping his way up the stairs, Palin stumbled more than once. Each time, his heart pulsed painfully, and he pressed himself close against the chill, damp wall, closing his eyes. The core of the tower was a hollow shaft. The stairs ascended it in a dizzying spiral, protruding from the wall like the bones of some dead animal.

  “You are safe, young one,” Dalamar said, his hand on Palin’s arm. “This was designed to discourage unwelcome intruders. The magic protects us. Don’t look down. It will be easier.”

  “Why did we have to walk?” Palin asked, stopping to catching his breath. As young as he was, the steep climb had taken its toll. His legs ached; his lungs burned. He could only imagine what his father must be feeling. Even the dark elf appeared to be at a loss for breath, though Dalamar’s face in the dim light was as cold and impassive as ever. “Couldn’t we have used magic?”

  “I will not waste my energies,” Dalamar replied, “not on this night of all nights.”

  Seeing the slanted eyes observing him coolly, Palin said nothing, but began climbing again, keeping his eyes staring straight ahead and upward.

  “There is our destination.” Dalamar pointed. Looking up at the top of the stairs, Palin saw a small doorway.

  For me, the gates will open.…

  Raistlin’s words. Palin’s fear began to subside, and excitement surged through his blood. His steps quickened. Behind him, he heard Dalamar’s light tread and his father’s heavier, booted one. He could also hear Caramon’s labored breathing, and felt a twinge of remorse.

  “Do you want to rest, Father?” he asked, stopping and turning around.

  “No,” Caramon grunted. “Let’s get this foolishness over with. Then we can go home.”

  His voice was gruff, but Palin heard a strange note in it, a note he had never heard before. Turning slowly around to face the door, Palin knew it for what it was—fear. His father was afraid. It wasn’t just the dreadful climb, or the voices whispering of doom and despair. He was afraid of everything within this place. Palin knew then a secret feeling of joy—one his uncle must have known. His father—Hero of the Lance, the strongest man he knew, who could, even now, wrestle the brawny Tanin to the ground and disarm the skilled swordsman, Sturm—his father was frightened, frightened of the magic.

  He is afraid, Palin realized, and I am not! Closing his eyes, Palin leaned back against the chill wall of the tower and, for the first time in his life, gave himself up to the magic. He felt it burn in his blood, caress his skin. The words it whispered were no longer of doom, but of welcome, of invitation. His body trembled with the ecstasy of the magic and, opening his eyes, Palin saw his exultation reflected in the dark elf’s intense, glittering gaze.

  “Now you taste the power!” Dalamar whispered. “Go forward, Palin, go forward.”

  Smiling to himself, cocooned in the warmth of his euphoria, Palin climbed the stairs rapidly, all fear forgotten. For him, the door would open. He had no doubts. Why or by whose hand, he did not speculate. It did not matter. Finally, he would be inside the ancient laboratory where some of the greatest magic upon Krynn had been performed. He would see the spellbooks of the legendary Fistandantilus, the spellbooks of his uncle. He would see the great and terrible portal that led from this world into the Abyss. And he would see the famed Staff of Magius.…

  Palin had long dreamt of his uncle’s staff. Of all Raistlin’s arcane treasures, this intrigued Palin most, perhaps because he had seen it portrayed so often in paintings or because it always figured prominently in legend and song. Palin even owned one such painting (he kept it wrapped in silk, hidden in his bedroom) of Raistlin in his black robes, the Staff of Magius in his hand, battling the Queen of Darkness.

  If he had lived to teach me, and I had been worthy of him, perhaps he might have given me the staff, Palin thought wistfully every time he looked at the painting of the wooden staff with its golden dragon claw clutching a shining, faceted, crystal ball.

  Now I will at least get to see it, perhaps even get to hold it! Palin shivered in delicious anticipation at the thought. And what else will we find in the laboratory? he wondered. What will we see when we look into the portal?

  “All will be as my father said,” Palin whispered, feeling a momentary pang. “Raistlin is at rest. It must be! Father would be hurt, so terribly hurt, otherwise.”

  If Palin’s heart was whispering other words, the young man ignored them. His uncle was dead. His father had said so. Nothing else was possible; nothing else was to be wished for.…

  “Stop!” hissed Dalamar, his hand closing about Palin’s arm.

  Starting, Palin halted. He had been so lost in his thoughts, he had scarcely noticed where he was. Now he saw that they had come to a large landing, located directly below the laboratory door. Looking up the short flight of stairs that led to it, Palin drew in his breath with a gasp. Two cold, white eyes stared at them out of the darkness—eyes without a body, unless the darkness itself was their flesh and blood and bone. Falling back a step, Palin stumbled into Dalamar.

  “Steady, young one,” the dark elf commanded, supporting Palin. “It is the Guardian.”

  Behind them, the torchlight wavered. “I remember them,” Caramon said hoarsely. “They can kill you with a touch.…”

  “Living beings,” came the specter’s hollow voice, “I smell your warm blood. I hear your hearts beating. Come forward. You awaken my hunger!”

  Shoving Palin to one side, Dalamar stepped in front of him. The white eyes glistened for an instant, then lowered in homage
.

  “Master of the Tower. I did not sense your presence. It has been long since you have visited this place.”

  “Your vigil remains undisturbed?” Dalamar asked. “None have tried to enter?”

  “Do you see their bones upon these floors? For surely you would, if any had dared disobey your command.”

  “Excellent,” Dalamar said. “Now, I give you a new command. Give me the key to the lock. Then stand aside, and let us pass.”

  The white eyes flared open, a pale, eager light shining from them.

  “That cannot be, Master of the Tower.”

  “Why not?” Dalamar asked coolly. His hands folded in the sleeves of his black robes, he glanced at Caramon as he spoke.

  “Your command, master, was to ‘Take this key and keep it for all eternity. Give it to no one,’ you said, ‘not even myself. And from this moment on, your place is to guard this door. No one is to enter. Let death be swift for those who try.’ Thus were your words to me, master, and—as you see—I obey them.”

  Dalamar nodded his hooded head. “Do you?” he murmured, taking a step forward. Palin caught his breath, seeing the white eyes glow even more brightly. “What will you do if I come up mere?”

  “Your magic is powerful, master,” said the specter, the disembodied eyes drifting nearer Dalamar, “but it can have no effect on me. There was only one who had that power—”

  “Yes,” said Dalamar irritably, hesitating, his foot upon the first stair.