The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

  “Uncle,” Palin said, “the portal. Shouldn’t we—?”

  “Palin,” said Raistlin softly, “I gave you a command. You will learn to obey my commands, apprentice. Do as I bid.”

  As Palin watched, the shadow grew darker. Like a cloud covering the sun, the wings cast a chill of fear over his soul. He started to speak again, but at that moment glanced back at Raistlin.

  His uncle’s eyes appeared to be closed, but Palin caught a slit of gold gleaming beneath the lids, like the eyes of a lizard. Biting his lower lip, the young man turned hastily away. He took hold of the staff, used its light to search the laboratory for that which his uncle had requested.

  Dressed once more in soft black velvet robes, Raistlin stood before the portal, sipping a glass of elven wine that Palin had discovered in a carafe far back in a corner of the laboratory. The shadow over the land within had now grown so dark that it seemed night had fallen over the Abyss. But no stars shone, no moons lit that dread darkness. The wall was the only object visible, and it glowed with its own horrid light. Raistlin stared at it, his face grim, his eyes haunted by pain.

  “Thus she reminds me of what will happen should she catch me, Palin,” he said. “But, no, I am not going back.” Looking around, the archmage glanced at the young man. Raistlin’s eyes glittered within the depths of his black hood. “I had twenty-five years to consider my mistakes. Twenty-five years of unbearable agony, of endless torment … My only joy, the only thing that gave me strength to meet each morning’s torture was the shadow of you I saw in my mind. Yes, Palin”—smiling, Raistlin reached out and drew the young man nearer—“I have watched you all these years. I have done what I could for you. There is a strength—an inner strength—in you that comes from me! A burning desire, a love for the magic! I knew, one day, you would seek me out to learn how to use it. I knew they would try to stop you. But they could not. Everything they did to prevent your coming must only bring you closer. Once in here, I knew you would hear my voice. You would free me. And so I made my plans …”

  “I am honored that you take this interest in me,” Palin began. His voice broke, and he cleared his throat nervously. “But you must know the truth. I—I didn’t seek you out to … to gain power. I heard your voice, pleading for help, and I—I came because …”

  “You came out of pity and compassion,” Raistlin said with a twisted smile. “There is still much of your father in you. That is a weakness that can be overcome. As I told you, Palin. Speak the truth—to yourself. What did you feel upon entering this place? What did you feel when you first touched the staff?”

  Palin tried to look away from his uncle. Though the laboratory was chill, he was sweating beneath his robes. Raistlin held him tightly, however, forcing the young man to look into the golden, glittering eyes.

  And there see a reflection of himself.… Was what he said true? Palin stared at the image in the archmage’s eyes. He saw a young man, dressed in robes whose color was indeterminate, now white, now red, now darkening.…

  The arm Raistlin held jerked spasmodically within the archmage’s grasp.

  He can feel my fear, Palin realized, trying to control the tremors that shook his body.

  Is it fear? the golden eyes asked. Is it fear? Or exultation?

  Palin saw the staff he held in his hand reflected in those eyes. He stood within the pool of its bright light. The longer he held the staff, the more he could sense the magic within it—and within himself. The golden eyes shifted in their gaze slightly, and Palin followed them. He saw the black-bound spellbooks standing upon the shelf. He felt once again the thrill he had experienced upon entering the laboratory, and he licked his dry, parched lips like a man who had been wandering long in a vast desert and who had, at last, found the cool water to ease his burning thirst. Looking back at Raistlin, he saw himself as in a mirror, standing before the archmage dressed in black robes.

  “What—what are your plans?” Palin asked hoarsely.

  “Very simple. As I said, I had long years to consider my mistake. My ambition was too great. I dared become a god—something mortals are not meant to do—as I was painfully reminded every morning when the Dark Queen’s talon ripped my flesh.”

  Palin saw the thin lip curl for a moment and the golden eyes glint. The slender hand clenched in anger and remembered agony, its grip tightening painfully around the young man’s arm. “I learned my lesson,” Raistlin said bitterly, drawing a rasping, shuddering breath. “I have trimmed my ambition. No longer will I strive to be a god. I will be content with the world.” Smiling sardonically, he patted Palin’s hand. “We will be content with the world, I should say.”

  “I—” The words caught in Palin’s throat. He was dazed with confusion and fear and a wild rush of excitement. Glancing back at the portal, however, he felt the shadow cover his heart. “But, the queen? Shouldn’t we shut it?”

  Raistlin shook his head. “No, apprentice.”

  “No?” Palin looked at him in alarm.

  “No. This will be my gift to her, to prove my loyalty—admittance to the world. And the world will be her gift to me. Here she will rule and I … I will serve.” Raistlin bit the words with his sharp teeth, his lips parted in a tight, mirthless grin. Sensing the hatred and the anger surging through the frail body, Palin shuddered.

  Raistlin glanced at him. “Squeamish, Nephew?” He sneered, letting loose of Palin’s arm. “The squeamish do not rise to power—”

  “You told me to speak the truth,” Palin said, shrinking away from Raistlin, relieved that the burning touch was gone, yet longing—somehow—to gain it back. “And I will. I’m frightened! For us both! I know I am weak—” He bowed his head.

  “No, Nephew,” said Raistlin softly, “not weak, just young. And you will always be afraid. I will teach you to master your fear, to use its strength. To make it serve you, not the other way around.”

  Looking up, Palin saw a gentleness in the archmage’s face, a gentleness few in the world had ever seen. The image of the young man in the black robes faded from the glittering, golden eyes, replaced by a yearning, a hunger for love. Now it was Palin who reached out and clasped hold of Raistlin’s hand. “Close the portal, Uncle!” the young man pleaded. “Come home and live with us! The room my father built for you is still there, in the inn. My mother has kept the plaque with the wizard’s mark on it! It is hidden in a chest of rosewood, but I’ve seen it. I’ve held it and dreamt of this so often! Come home! Teach me what you know! I would honor you, revere you! We could travel, as you said. Show me the wonders your eyes have seen.…”

  “Home.” The word lingered on Raistlin’s lips as though he were tasting it. “Home. How often I dreamt of it”—his golden-eyed gaze went to the wall, shining with its ghastly light—“especially with the coming of dawn.…”

  Then, glancing at Palin from within the shadows of his hood, Raistlin smiled. “Yes, Nephew,” he said softly. “I believe I will come home with you. I need time to rest, to recover my strength, to rid myself of … old dreams.” Palin saw the eyes darken with remembered pain.

  Coughing, Raistlin motioned the young man to help him. Carefully, Palin leaned the staff against the wall and assisted Raistlin to the chair. Sinking into it weakly, Raistlin gestured for the young man to pour him another glass of wine. The archmage leaned his head back wearily into the cushions. “I need time …” he continued, moistening his lips with the wine. “Time to train you, my apprentice. Time to train you … and to train your brothers.”

  “My brothers?” Palin repeated in astonishment.

  “Why, yes, young one.” Amusement tinged Raistlin’s voice as he looked at the young man standing by his chair. “I need generals for my legions. Your brothers will be ideal—”

  “Legions!” Palin cried. “No, that’s not what I meant! You must come live at home with us in peace. You’ve earned it! You sacrificed yourself for the world—”

  “I?” Raistlin interrupted. “I sacrificed myself for the world?” The archmage bega
n to laugh—dreadful, fearful laughter that set the shadows of the laboratory dancing in delight like dervishes. “Is that what they say of me?” Raistlin laughed until he choked. A coughing fit seized him, this one worse than the others.

  Palin watched helplessly as his uncle writhed in pain. The young man could still hear that mocking laughter dinning in his ears. When the spasm passed, and he could breathe, Raistlin lifted his head and, with a weak motion of his hand, beckoned Palin near.

  Palin saw blood upon the cloth in his uncle’s hand and upon Raistlin’s ashen lips. Loathing and horror came over the young man, but he drew nearer anyway, compelled by a terrible fascination to kneel beside his uncle.

  “Know this, Palin!” Raistlin whispered, speaking with an effort, his words barely audible. “I sacrificed … myself … for … myself!” Sinking back into his chair, he gasped for breath. When he could move, he reached out a shaking, bloodstained hand and caught hold of Palin’s white robes. “I saw … what I must … become … if I succeeded. Nothing! That … was … all. Dwindle … to … nothing. The world … dead.… This way”—his hand gestured feebly at the wall, the gruesome pool beneath it; his eyes gleamed feverishly—“there was … still … a chance … for me … to return.…”

  “No!” Palin cried, struggling to free himself from Raistlin’s grasp. “I don’t believe you!”

  “Why not?” Raistlin shrugged. His voice grew stronger. “You told them yourself. Don’t you remember, Palin? ‘A man must put the magic first, the world second.…’ That’s what you said to them in the tower. The world doesn’t matter to you any more than it does to me! Nothing matters—your brothers, your father! The magic! The power! That’s all that means anything to either of us!”

  “I don’t know!” Palin cried brokenly, his hands clawing at Raistlin’s. “I can’t think! Let me go! Let me go.…” His fingers fell nervelessly from Raistlin’s wrists, his head sank into his hands. Tears filled his eyes.

  “Poor young one,” Raistlin said. Laying his hand on Palin’s head, he drew it gently into his lap and stroked the auburn hair soothingly.

  Wracking sobs tore at Palin’s body. He was bereft, alone. Lies, all lies! Everyone had lied to him—his father, the mages, the world! What did it matter, after all? The magic That was all he had. His uncle was right. The burning touch of those slender fingers; the soft black velvet, wet with his tears, beneath his cheek; the smell of rose petals and spice.… That would be his life.… That and this bitter emptiness within, an emptiness that all the world could not fill.…

  “Weep, Palin,” Raistlin said softly. “Weep as I wept once, long, long ago. Then you will realize, as I did, that it does no good. No one hears you, sobbing in the night alone.”

  Palin lifted his tearstained face suddenly, staring into Raistlin’s eyes.

  “At last you understand.” Raistlin smiled. His hand stroked back the wet hair from Palin’s eyes. “Get hold of yourself, young one. It is time for us to go, before the Dark Queen comes. There is much to be done—”

  Palin regarded Raistlin calmly, though the young man’s body still shuddered from his sobs, and he could see his uncle only through a blur of tears. “Yes,” he said. “At last I understand. Too late, it seems. But I understand. And you are wrong, Uncle,” he murmured brokenly. “Someone did hear you crying in the night My father.”

  Rising to his feet, Palin brushed his hand across his eyes, keeping his gaze steadfastly on his uncle. “I am going to close the portal.”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Raistlin said with a sneer. “I won’t let you! You know that!”

  “I know,” said Palin, drawing a shivering breath. “You will stop me—”

  “I will kill you!”

  “You will … kill me.…” Palin continued, his voice faltering only slightly. Turning around, he reached out for the Staff of Magius, which stood against the desk beside Raistlin’s chair. The light of the crystal beamed white and cold as his hand closed over it.

  “What a waste!” Raistlin hissed, twisting out of his chair. “Why die in such a meaningless gesture? For it will be meaningless, I assure you, my dear nephew. I will do all I planned. The world will be mine! You will be dead—and who will know or care?”

  “You will,” said Palin in a low voice.

  Turning his back on his uncle, Palin walked with firm, steady steps to stand before the portal. The shadow was deeper and darker, making the wall within the Abyss stand out by hideous contrast. Palin could feel the evil now, feel it seeping through the portal like water flowing into a wrecked ship. He thought of the Dark Queen, able to enter the world at last. Once more, the flames of war would sweep across the land as the forces of good rose to stop her. He saw his father and mother die by his uncle’s hand, his brothers fall victim to their uncle’s magic. He saw them dressed in dragon scale armor, riding evil dragons into battle, leading troops of hideous beings spawned of darkness.

  No! With the help of the gods, he would stop this if he could. But, raising the staff, Palin realized helplessly that he hadn’t the vaguest idea how to close the portal. He could sense the power in the staff, but he could not control it. Raistlin was right—what a stupid, meaningless gesture.

  Behind him, Palin heard his uncle laugh. It wasn’t mocking laughter this time, however. It was bemused, almost angry.

  “This is senseless, Palin! Stop! Don’t make me do this!”

  Drawing a deep breath, Palin tried to concentrate his energy and his thoughts upon the staff. “Close the portal,” he whispered, forcing himself to think about nothing else, though his body quivered with fear. It was not a fear of dying, he could tell himself that with quiet pride. He loved life, never so much as now, he realized. But he could leave it without regret, though the thought of the grief that his death would cause those who loved him filled him with sorrow. His mother and father would know what he had done, however. They would understand, no matter what his uncle said.

  And they’ll fight you, Palin knew. They will fight you and your Dark Queen as they fought once before. You will not win.

  Palin gripped the staff, his hand sweating, his body trembling. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of … of the pain.

  Would it hurt … very much … to die?

  Shaking his head angrily, the young man cursed himself for a coward and stared hard at the portal. He had to concentrate! To put death out of his mind. He must make fear serve him! Not master him. There was a chance, after all, that he might close the portal before his uncle … before …

  “Paladine, help me,” said Palin, his gaze going to the silvery light gleaming atop the staff with steadfast, unwavering brilliance in the shadowy darkness.

  “Palin!” Raistlin shouted harshly. “I warn you—”

  Lightning crackled from Raistlin’s fingertips. But Palin kept his eyes upon the staff. Its light grew brighter, shining with a radiance whose beauty and clarity eased Palin’s last fears.

  “Paladine,” he murmured.

  The name of the god mercifully obliterated the sound of magical chanting Palin heard rising behind him.

  The pain was swift, sudden … and soon over.

  Chapter Ten

  Raistlin stood alone in the laboratory, leaning upon the Staff of Magius. The light of the staff had gone out. The archmage stood in darkness as thick as the dust that lay, undisturbed, upon the stone floor, upon the spellbooks, upon the chair, upon the drawn, heavy curtain of purple velvet.

  Almost as deep as the darkness was the silence of the place.

  Raistlin stilled his breathing, listening to the silence. The sound of no living being disturbed it—neither mouse nor bat nor spider—for no living being dared enter the laboratory, guarded by those whose vigilance would last unto the end of the world and beyond. Almost Raistlin thought he could hear one sound—the sound of the dust falling, the sound of time passing.…

  Sighing wearily, the archmage raised his head and looked into the darkness, broke the ages-long silence. “I have done what you w
anted of me,” he cried. “Are you satisfied?”

  There was no answer, only the gently sifting dust drifting down into the perpetual night.

  “No,” Raistlin murmured. “You cannot hear me. And that is just as well. Little did you think, Dalamar, that when you conjured my illusion for this purpose, you would conjure me! Oh, no, apprentice”—Raistlin smiled bitterly—“do not pride yourself. You are good, but not that good. It was not your magic that woke me from my long sleep. No, it was something else.…” He paused, trying to remember. “What did I tell the young man? ‘A shadow on my mind’? Yes, that’s what it was.

  “Ah, Dalamar, you are lucky.” The archmage shook his hooded head. For a brief moment, the darkness was lit by a fierce glint in the golden eyes, gleaming with their inner flame. “If he had been what I was, you would have found yourself in sad straits, dark elf. Through him, I could have returned. But as his compassion and his love freed me from the darkness into which I cast myself, so it binds me there still.”

  The light of the golden eyes faded as the darkness returned.

  Raistlin sighed. “But that is all right,” he whispered, leaning his head against the staff that supported him. “I am tired, so very tired. I want to return to my sleep.” Walking across the stone floor, his black robes rustling about his ankles, his soft, unheard footsteps leaving no trail at all in the thick dust, the archmage came to stand before the velvet curtain. Placing his hand on it, he stopped and looked around the laboratory that he could not see except in his memories, in his mind.

  “I just want you to know,” Raistlin cried, “that I didn’t do this for you, mages! I didn’t do it for the conclave. I didn’t do it for my brother! I had one more debt to pay in my lifetime. Now I have discharged it I can sleep in peace.”