The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

  In the darkness, Raistlin could not see the staff he leaned upon, but he didn’t need to. He knew every curve of the wood, every tiny imperfection in the grain. Lovingly he caressed it, his delicate fingers touching the golden dragon’s claw, running over each facet of the cold, dark crystal it held. Raistlin’s eyes stared into the darkness, stared into the future he could glimpse by the light of the black moon.

  “He will be great in the Art,” he said with quiet pride. “The greatest that has yet lived. He will bring honor and renown to our profession. Because of him, magic will live and flourish in the world.” The archmage’s voice lowered. “Whatever happiness and joy was in my life, Palin, came from the magic.

  “To the magic, I give you.…”

  Raistlin held the staff an instant longer, pressing the smooth wood against his cheek. Then, with a word of command, he sent it from him. It vanished, swallowed up by the endless night. His head bowed in weariness, Raistlin laid his hand upon the velvet curtain and sank again into sleep, becoming one with the darkness and the silence and the dust.

  Chapter Eleven

  Palin came slowly to consciousness. His first reaction was one of terror. The fiery jolt that had burned and blasted his body had not killed him! There would be another. Raistlin would not let him live. Moaning, Palin huddled against the cold stone floor, waiting fearfully to hear the sound of magical chanting, to hear the crackle of sparks from those thin fingertips, to feel once again the searing, exploding pain.…

  All was quiet. Listening intently, holding his breath, his body shivering in fear, Palin heard no sound.

  Cautiously, he opened his eyes. He was in darkness, such deep darkness that nothing whatever was visible, not even his own body.

  “Raistlin?” Palin whispered, raising his head cautiously from the damp stone floor. “Uncle?”

  “Palin!” a voice shouted.

  Palin’s heart stilled in fear. He could not breathe.

  “Palin!” the voice shouted again, a voice filled with love and anguish.

  Palin gasped in relief and, falling back against the stone floor, sobbed in joy.

  He heard booted footsteps clambering up stairs. Torchlight lit the darkness. The footsteps halted, and the torchlight wavered as though the hand holding it shook. Then the footsteps were running, the torchlight burned above him.

  “Palin! My son!” and Palin was in his father’s arms.

  “What have they done to you?” Caramon cried in a choked voice as he lifted his son’s body from the floor and cradled it against his strong breast.

  Palin could not speak. He leaned his head against his father’s chest, hearing the heart beating rapidly from the exertion of climbing the tower stairs, smelling the familiar smells of leather and sweat, letting—for one last moment—his father’s arms shelter and protect him. Then, with a soft sigh, Palin raised his head and looked into his father’s pale, anguished face.

  “Nothing, Father,” he said softly, gently pushing himself away. “I’m all right. Truly.” Sitting up, he looked around, confused. “But where are we?”

  “Out—outside that … that place,” Caramon growled. He let go of his son, but watched him dubiously, anxiously.

  “The laboratory,” murmured Palin, puzzled, his gaze going to the closed door and the two, white, disembodied eyes that hovered before it.

  The young man started to stand.

  “Careful!” said Caramon, putting his arm around his son again.

  “I told you, Father. I’m all right,” Palin said firmly, shaking off his father’s help and getting to his feet without assistance. “What happened?” He looked at the sealed laboratory door.

  The two eyes of the specter stared back at him unblinking, unmoving.

  “You went in … there,” Caramon said, his brow creasing into a frown as his gaze shifted to the sealed door as well. “And … the door slammed shut! I tried to get in … Dalamar cast some sort of spell on it, but it wouldn’t open. Then more of those … those things”—he gestured at the eyes with a scowl—“came and I … I don’t remember much after that. When I came to, I was with Dalamar in the study.…”

  “Which is where we will return now,” said a voice behind them, “if you will honor me by sharing my breakfast.”

  “The only place we’re going now,” said Caramon in a stern, low voice as he turned to face the dark elf, who had materialized behind them, “is home. And no more magic!” he snarled, glaring at Dalamar. “We’ll walk, if need be. Neither my son nor I are ever coming back to one of these cursed towers again—”

  Without a glance at Caramon, Dalamar walked past the big man to Palin, who was standing silently next to his father, his hands folded in the sleeves of his white robes, his eyes downcast as was proper in the presence of the high-ranking wizard.

  Dalamar reached out his hands and clasped the young man by the shoulders.

  “Quithain, Magus,” the dark elf said with a smile, leaning forward to kiss Palin on the cheek as was the elven custom.

  Palin stared at him in confusion, his face flushed. The words the elf had spoken tumbled about in his mind, making little sense. He spoke some Elvish, learned from his father’s friend, Tanis. But, after all that had happened to him, the language went right out of his head. Frantically, he struggled to remember, for Dalamar was standing in front of him, looking at him, grinning.

  “Quithain …” Palin repeated to himself. “Means … congratulations. Congratulations, Magus …”

  He gasped, staring at Dalamar in disbelief.

  “What does it mean?” demanded Caramon, glaring at the dark elf. “I don’t understand—”

  “He is one of us now, Caramon,” said Dalamar quietly, taking hold of Palin’s arm and escorting him past his father. “His trials are over. He has completed the Test”

  “We are sorry to have put you through this again, Caramon,” Dalamar said to the big warrior.

  Seated opposite the ornately carved desk in the dark elf’s luxuriously appointed study, Caramon flushed, his brow still lined with the signs of his concern and fear and anger.

  “But,” Dalamar continued, “it was fast becoming apparent to all of us that you would do your best to prevent your son from taking the Test”

  “Can you blame me?” Caramon asked harshly. Rising to his feet, he walked over to the large window and stared out into the dark shadows of the Shoikan Grove below him.

  “No,” said Dalamar, “we could not blame you. And so we devised this way of tricking you into it.”

  Scowling angrily, Caramon turned, jabbing his fìnger at Dalamar. “You had no right! He’s too young! He might have died!”

  “True,” said Dalamar softly, “but that is a risk we all face. It is a risk you take every time you send your older sons to battle.…”

  “This is different” Caramon turned away, his face dark.

  Dalamar’s gaze went to Palin, who sat in a chair, a glass of untasted wine in his hand. The young mage was staring dazedly around as though he could still not believe what had occurred.

  “Because of Raistlin?” Dalamar smiled. “Palin is truly gifted, Caramon, as gifted as his uncle. For him, as for Raistlin, there could have been only one choice—his magic. But Palin’s love for his family is strong. He would have made the choice, and it would have broken his heart.”

  Caramon bowed his head, clasping his hands behind him.

  Palin, hearing a muffled choke behind him, set his wine glass down and, rising to his feet, walked over to stand beside his father.

  Reaching out his hand, Caramon drew his son close. “Dalamar’s right,” the big man said huskily. “I only wanted what was best for you and—and I was afraid … afraid I might lose you to the magic as I lost him.… I—I’m sorry, Palin. Forgive me.”

  Palin’s answer was to embrace his father, who wrapped both his great arms around the white-robed mage and hugged him tight.

  “So you passed! I’m proud of you, Son!” Caramon whispered. “So proud—”


  “Thank you, Father!” Palin said brokenly. “There is nothing to forgive. I understand at last—” The rest of the young mage’s words were squeezed from him by his father’s hug. Then, with a clap on the back, Caramon let his boy go and returned to staring out the window, frowning down at the Shoikan Grove.

  Turning back to Dalamar, Palin looked at the dark elf, puzzled.

  “The Test,” he said hesitantly. “It—it all seems so real! Yet, I’m here.… Raistlin didn’t kill me …”

  “Raistlin!” Caramon glanced around in alarm, his face pale.

  “Be at ease, my friend,” Dalamar said, raising his slender hand. “The Test varies for each person who takes it, Palin. For some, it is very real and can have real and disastrous consequences. Your uncle, for example, barely survived an encounter with one of my kind. Justarius’s test left him crippled in one leg. But, for others, the Test is only in the mind.” Dalamar’s face grew tense, his voice quivered in remembered pain. “That, too, can have its effects, sometimes worse than the others …”

  “So—it was all in my mind. I didn’t go into the Abyss? My uncle wasn’t really there?”

  “No, Palin,” Dalamar said, regaining his composure. “Raistlin is dead. We have no reason to believe otherwise, despite what we told you. We do not know for certain, of course, but we believe that the vision your father described is a true one, given to him by Paladine to ease his grief. When we told you we had signs that Raistlin was still alive, that was all part of the ruse to bring you here. There have been no such signs. If Raistlin lives today, it is only in our legends.…”

  “And our memories,” Caramon muttered from the window.

  “But he seemed so real!” Palin protested. He could feel the soft black velvet beneath his fingertips; the burning touch of the golden-skinned hands; the cool, smooth wood of the Staff of Magius. He could hear the whispering voice, see the golden, hourglass eyes, smell the rose petals, the spice, the blood.…

  Lowering his head, he shivered.

  “I know,” said Dalamar with a soft sigh. “But it was only illusion. The Guardian stands before the door, which is still sealed. It will be, for all eternity. You never even went inside the laboratory, much less the Abyss.”

  “But I saw him enter—” Caramon protested.

  “All part of the illusion. I alone saw through it. I helped create it, in fact. It was designed to be very real to you, Palin. You will never forget it. The Test is meant not only to judge your skill as a magic-user but, more importantly, to teach you something about yourself. You had two things to discover—the truth about your uncle, and the truth about yourself.”

  Know the truth about yourself … Raistlin’s voice echoed.

  Palin smoothed the fabric of his white robes with his hands. “I know now where my loyalties lie,” he said softly, remembering that bitter moment standing before the portal. “As the sea wizard said, I will serve the world and, in so doing, serve myself.”

  Smiling, Dalamar rose to his feet. “And now, I know you are eager to return to your home and your family, young mage. I will detain you no longer. I almost regret that you did not make another choice, Palin,” the dark elf said with a shrug. “I would have enjoyed having you as my apprentice. But you will make a worthy adversary. I am honored to have been a part of your success.” Dalamar extended his hand.

  “Thank you,” said Palin, flushing. Taking Dalamar’s hand in his, he clasped it gratefully. “Thank you … for everything.”

  “Yeah,” mumbled Caramon, leaving the window to come stand beside his son. He, too, gripped Dalamar’s hand in his, the elf’s slender fingers completely engulfed in the big man’s grip. “I—I guess I will let you use … that magic of yours … to send us back to Solace. Tika’ll be worried sick—”

  “Very well,” Dalamar said, exchanging smiles with Palin. “Stand close together. Farewell, Palin. I will see you at the Tower of Wayreth.”

  There came a soft knock upon the door.

  Dalamar frowned. “What is it?” he asked irritably. “I gave instructions that we were not to be disturbed!”

  The door opened by itself, apparently. Two white eyes gleamed from out of the darkness. “Forgive me, master,” said the specter, “but I have been instructed to give the young mage a parting gift.”

  “Instructed? By whom?” Dalamar’s eyes flashed. “Justarius? Has he dared set foot in my tower without my permission—”

  “No, master,” said the specter, floating into the room. The chill gaze went to Palin. Slowly the specter approached the young mage, its fleshless hand outstretched. Caramon moved swiftly to stand in front of his son.

  “No, Father,” said Palin firmly, putting a restraining hand on his father’s sword arm. “Stand aside. It means me no harm. What is it you have for me?” the young mage asked the specter, who came to a halt only inches from him.

  In answer, the fleshless hand traced an arcane symbol in the air. The Staff of Magius appeared, held fast in the skeletal fingers.

  Caramon gasped and took a step backward. Dalamar regarded the specter coldly. “You have failed in your duties!” The dark elf’s voice rose in anger. “By our Dark Queen, I will send you to the eternal torment of the Abyss for this!”

  “I have not failed in my duty,” the Guardian replied, its hollow tone reminding Palin fearfully of the realm he had entered—if only in illusion. “The door to the laboratory remains locked and spellbound. The key is here, as you can see.” The Guardian held out its other hand, showing a silver key lying in the bony palm. “All is as it was, undisturbed. No living being has entered.”

  “Then who—” Dalamar began in fury. Suddenly, his voice dropped, and his face went ashen. “No living being …” Shaken, the dark elf sank back into his seat, staring at the staff with wide eyes.

  “This is yours, Palin, as was promised,” the specter said, handing the staff to the young mage.

  Reaching out, Palin took hold of the staff with a shaking hand. At his touch, the crystal on the top flared into light, blazing with a cool, clear radiance, filling the dark room with a bright, silvery light.

  “A gift from the true Master of the Tower. With it,” the specter added in its chill tones, “goes his blessing.”

  The white eyes lowered in reverence, then they were gone.

  Holding the staff in his hand, Palin looked wonderingly at his father.

  Blinking rapidly, Caramon smiled through his tears. “Let’s go home,” he said quietly, putting his arm around his son.

  III

  The mythologists tell you

  how the journey takes place

  in a landscape of spirit.

  But there is also a highway,

  dusty and palpable,

  and washed-out bridges

  that harbor a navy of trolls,

  overpriced inns full of vermin,

  and signposts half twisted

  by vandals and travelers

  searching for something to do.

  This is the road

  out of which the myth rises

  when suddenly bridges

  most suspect and ramshackle

  waver and gable with light.

  It is then you are saying

  this must be the answer

  the crossroad is more than a crossroad

  the wayside numinous

  littered with symbols.

  That is the story

  when the bridge collapses,

  when your abstracted ankle

  twists in the rutted road.

  It is the tale

  that the trolls choose always,

  for the danger of myth

  is in too much meaning.

  Sometimes the stars

  or the steepled cloud

  is sufficient in gas or vapor,

  the road is dust

  leading out of belief

  and the markers are stone upon stone.

  It is then, in the fundamental time,

  your travel lies waiting before
you.

  It is the long house

  of all mythology,

  what they cannot explain

  nor explain away.

  It is where journeys begin.

  “Wanna Bet?”

  Foreword

  (Or Afterword, As The Case May Be)

  “A fine mage you are,” muttered Tanin, standing on the dock, watching the ship sail away. “You should have known all along there was something strange about that dwarf!”

  “Me?” Palin retorted. “You were the one that got us mixed up in the whole thing to begin with! ‘Adventures always start in such places as this,’ ” the young magic-user said, mimicking his older brother’s voice.

  “Hey, guys,” began Sturm in mollifying tones.

  “Oh, shut up!” Both brothers turned to face him. “It was you who took that stupid bet!”

  The three brothers stood glaring at each other, the salt breeze blowing the red curling hair of the two eldest into their eyes and whipping the white robes of the youngest about his thin legs.

  A ringing shout, sounding over the dancing waters, interrupted them.

  “Farewell, lads! Farewell! It was a nice try. Perhaps we’ll do it again someday!”

  “Over my dead body!” All three brothers muttered fervently, raising their hands and waving halfheartedly, sickly grins on their faces.

  “That’s one thing we can all agree on,” said Sturm, beginning to chuckle. “And I know another.” The brothers turned thankfully away from the sight of the sailing vessel lumbering through the waters.

  “And that is …?”

  “That we never tell another living soul about this, as long as we live!” Sturm’s voice was low. The other two brothers glanced about at the spectators standing on the docks. They were looking at the ship, laughing. Several, glancing at the brothers, pointed at them with stifled giggles.