The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

  Coming as close to Dalamar as the senator could without actually touching him, the Qualinesti elf spoke in a low and urgent voice.

  Dalamar listened, smiled, and shook his head. “You know, of course, that there will be a problem with the parents.”

  “That is where you can be of inestimable help to us,” the senator said.

  “You being his father’s friend,” the general added.

  Dalamar considered the matter. His gaze shifted from one elf to the other, measuring their determination, their resolve. Both bore his gaze stolidly.

  “Very well.” Dalamar agreed. “I will deal with my friend, see to it that neither he nor his wife interfere. But my help will cost you.”

  The senator waved a deprecating hand. “Our coffers are well filled. Name your price—”

  Dalamar scoffed. “What do I need with more wealth than I already possess? I could probably buy and sell Qualinesti itself! No, this is my price.”

  He paused, let them sweat, then said softly, “A month in my homeland.”

  The senator was startled at first; then, thinking about it, he was relieved. Dalamar was Silvanesti, after all. He would be spending a month in Silvanost.

  The general had the same thought. His jaw worked. He was almost gibbering with fury.

  “Out of the question!” he managed to snarl. “Impossible! You are mad to ask such a thing!”

  Dalamar turned away. “Then, gentlemen, our business is at an end.”

  The senator rose swiftly, took hold of the other elf’s shoulder. The two began a heated discussion.

  Dalamar, smiling, walked back to the fire. He was seeing, in his memory, the beautiful trees of his homeland. He heard the birds singing, walked among the wondrous flowers. He lay in the fragrant grass, felt the sun warm on his face. He breathed fresh air, ran through lush meadows. He was young, innocent, without stain or shadow.…

  “A month only,” the senator said. “No longer.”

  “I swear by Nuitari,” Dalamar vowed, and enjoyed watching the two wince at his naming of the god of dark magic.

  “You will come and go in secret,” the senator continued. “No one must know. No one must see you. You will speak to no one.”

  “I agree.”

  The senator looked at the general.

  “I suppose there’s no help for it,” the general muttered ungraciously.

  “Excellent,” Dalamar said briskly. “Our business is concluded satisfactorily. Let us seal it, as custom demands.”

  Walking over, he took hold of each elf and kissed each of them on the cheek. The general could barely contain himself. He went rigid at the touch of the cool, dry lips. The senator flinched as though a snake had bitten him. But neither drew back. They had asked for this alliance. They didn’t dare offend.

  “Now, my brothers,” said Dalamar pleasantly, “tell me the plan.”

  Chapter Three

  Tanis Half-Elven had been searching throughout his house for his wife. He finally discovered her in the library on the second floor. She was seated near the window, in order to catch the last rays of the afternoon sun. He heard the scratching of her pen across parchment before he saw her, and he smiled to himself.

  He had caught her this time.

  Soft-footed, he padded up to the door and peered inside. She sat in a pool of sunlight, her head bowed, working with such concentration that he knew he could have stomped up the stairs and she would not have heard him. He paused a moment to admire her, to realize—awed and wondering—that she loved him as he loved her, a love their years of marriage had strengthened, not diminished.

  Her long, golden hair was brushed loose and tumbled over her shoulders, down her back. Usually, these days, she wore her hair pulled back, the shining strands twisted in a chignon at the base of her neck. The severe style suited her; gave her an air of dignity and stature quite useful in negotiations with the humans, who (those who did not know her) sometimes tended to treat the youthful-looking elven woman like a child—well-meaning but interfering in adult affairs.

  That generally lasted for only about fifteen minutes, by which time Laurana had them sitting up and taking notice. How could they have forgotten she’d been a general during the War of the Lance? That she had led men to war? Well, twenty-some years had passed, and humans had short memories. When they left her presence, they had remembered.

  She was the diplomat of the family; her husband was the planner. They worked well together as a team, for Laurana was quick to glide in smoothly where Tanis would have trampled roughshod. And he could offer her insight into the human mind and heart—two areas she sometimes found baffling.

  She was beautiful, so beautiful that Tanis’s heart ached to look at her. And they were together. Not for long. The human blood in his veins was burning up the elven. He had already lived far more years than any human, but he would not enjoy the long life span of the elves. Some already mistook Laurana for his daughter. The day would come when they would mistake her for his granddaughter. He would age and die while she remained a relatively young woman. Such a shadow might have darkened their relationship. For them, it deepened it.

  And, then, there was Gil. Their son—new life, created from love.

  “Got you!” Tanis shouted triumphantly and bounded into the room.

  Laurana gasped, jumped. A guilty flush spread over her face. Hastily, in considerable confusion, she attempted to hide the writing by covering the paper with another blank sheet.

  “What is that?” Tanis demanded, glaring at her in mock severity.

  “Only a list,” Laurana ventured, shuffling more papers on the desk. “A list … of things I have to do while we’re home—No! Tanis, stop it!”

  He made a deft grab and snatched the paper out from beneath her hand. Laughing, she tried to recapture it by capturing him, but he backed out of her reach.

  “ ‘My dear Sir Thomas,’ ” he read, “ ‘I would once again urge you to reconsider your stance against the Unified Nations of the Three Races treaty—’ ” Tanis shook the paper accusingly at his wife. “You were working!”

  “Just a letter to Sir Thomas,” Laurana protested, her flush deepening. “He’s wavering. He’s nearly ready to come over to our side. I thought perhaps a nudge—”

  “No nudging,” Tanis intoned. He hid the letter behind his back. “You promised. You made me promise! No work. We’re home at last, after a month on the road. This is to be our time—yours and mine and Gil’s.”

  “I know.” As Laurana hung her head, her hair drifted about her in a radiant cloud. “I’m sorry.” She sidled near him, put her hands on his chest, and playfully smoothed his shirt collar. “I promise. I won’t do it again.”

  She kissed his bearded cheek. He started to kiss her, but at that moment she reached around him, caught hold of the letter, and snatched it from his grasp. Of course, he couldn’t refuse such a challenge. He caught hold of her and the letter.

  The letter eventually fluttered to the floor, forgotten.

  The two stood by the window, warm and comfortable in each other’s arms.

  “Damn and blast it all!” Tanis swore, nuzzling his chin in his wife’s golden hair. “Look—there’s a stranger riding up the road.”

  “Oh, not a guest!” Laurana sighed.

  “A knight, by the horse’s trappings. We’ll have to entertain him. I should go down—”

  “No, don’t!” Laurana clasped her husband tighter. “If you go, you’ll be courtesy-bound to invite him in and this knight will consider himself courtesy-bound to stay. There goes Gil up to meet him. Gil can handle him.”

  “Are you sure?” Tanis was doubtful. “Will he know how to act, what to say? The boy’s only sixteen—”

  “Give him a chance,” Laurana said, smiling.

  “We can’t afford to insult the knights now, of all times …” Tanis gently put aside his wife’s arms. “I think I’d better go—”

  “Too late. He’s riding away,” Laurana reported.

  “Th
ere, what did I tell you?” Tanis was grim.

  “He doesn’t look insulted. Gil’s coming into the house. Oh, Tanis, we can’t let him think we’ve been spying on him. You know how touchy he is these days. Quick! Do something!”

  Laurana hastily sat back down in her chair. Grabbing up a sheet of paper, she began writing furiously. Tanis, feeling foolish, walked across the room and stared at a map of Ansalon, spread out on the table.

  He was startled and discomfited to see the word Qualinesti leap out at him.

  Only logical, he supposed. Whenever he looked at his son these days, Tanis was drawn back to his own childhood. And that brought memories of Qualinesti, the land of his birth—his ignominious birth.

  All these years, hundreds of years, and the memories still had the power to hurt him. Once again he was sixteen and living in his mother’s brother’s house, an orphan, a bastard orphan.

  “Touchy” Laurana had described their son.

  Tanis had been “touchy” himself at that age. Or, rather, he’d been more like some infernal gnomish mechanical device, the human blood boiling in him, building up steam that either had to find an outlet or explode.

  Tanis didn’t see himself in his son physically. Tanis hadn’t been frail, like his son. Tanis had been strong, robust, far too strong and robust to suit elven tastes and style. Tanis’s broad shoulders and strong arms were an insult to most elves, a constant reminder of human parentage. He flaunted his human side; he could admit that much now. He’d goaded them into driving him away, then he was hurt when they did so.

  It was in more subtle ways that Tanis saw himself in his boy. Inner turmoil, not knowing who he was, where he belonged. Although Gil had said nothing to him—the two rarely talked—Tanis guessed that was how Gil was feeling these days. Tanis had prayed for his son to be spared such doubt and self-questioning. Apparently, his prayers had not been answered.

  Gilthas of the House of Solostaran2, was Tanis’s son, but he was Laurana’s child—a child of the elves. Gilthas was named for Gilthanas, Laurana’s brother (whose strange and tragic fate was never spoken of aloud). Gil was tall, slender, with delicate bone structure, fine-spun, fair hair, and almond-shaped eyes. He was only one-quarter human—his father being half-human—and even that alien blood had been further diluted, it seemed, by the unbroken line of royal elven ancestors bequeathed to him from both sides.

  Tanis had hoped—for his son’s own peace of mind—that the boy would grow up elven, that the human blood in him would be too weak to trouble him. He saw that hope dwindle. At sixteen, Gil was not the typical docile, respectful elven child. He was moody, irritable, rebellious.

  And Tanis—remembering how he himself had bolted—was keeping an extra tight grip on the reins that held his son in check.

  Staring hard at the map, Tanis pretended not to notice when Gil came into the room. He didn’t look up, because he knew what he would see. He would see himself standing there. And because he knew himself, knew what he had been, he feared seeing that likeness in his son.

  And because he feared it, he couldn’t speak of it, couldn’t admit it.

  And so he kept silent. He kept his head down, stared at the map, at a place marked Qualinesti.

  Gilthas knew the moment he entered the room that his parents had been watching him from the window. He knew it by the faint flush of self-consciousness on his mother’s face, by the fact that his father was intensely interested in a map Tanis himself had termed outdated—by the fact that neither looked up at him.

  Gil said nothing, waited to let his parents give themselves away. At length, his mother looked up and smiled at him.

  “Who were you talking to outside, mapete?” Laurana asked.

  The aching, familiar knot of irritation tightened Gil’s stomach. Mapete! An elven term of endearment, used for a child!

  On not receiving an answer, Laurana looked even more self-conscious and realized she had made an error. “Um … were you talking to someone outside? I heard the dogs barking …”

  “It was a knight, Sir Something-or-other,” Gil replied. “I can’t remember his name. He said—”

  Laurana laid down her pen. Her manner was calm, and so was her voice. “Did you invite him inside?”

  “Of course, he did,” Tanis said sharply. “Gil knows better than to treat a Knight of Solamnia with discourtesy. Where is he, Son?”

  Admit it. You watched the knight ride off, Gil told them silently. Do you take me for a complete fool?

  “Father, please!” Gil was losing control. “Let me finish what I was saying. Of course, I invited the knight in. I’m not a dolt. I know the proper forms of etiquette. He said he couldn’t stay. He was on his way to his home. He stopped by to give you and Mother this.”

  Gil held out a scroll case. “It’s from Caramon Majere. The knight was a guest at the Inn of the Last Home. When Caramon found that Sir William was riding this direction, he asked him to bring this message.”

  Coldly, Gil handed the scroll case to his father.

  Tanis gave his son a troubled look, then glanced at Laurana, who shrugged and smiled patiently, as much as to say, We’ve hurt his feelings. Again.

  Gil was being “touchy,” as his mother would say. Well, he had a right to be “touchy.”

  A frail and sickly child, whose birth was much wanted and long in coming, Gil had been in ill health most of his life. When he was six, he had very nearly died. After that, his anxious, adoring parents kept him “wrapped in silk,” as the saying went. Cocooned.

  He had outgrown his illnesses, but now suffered from painful, debilitating headaches. These would begin with flashes of light before his eyes and end in terrible agony, often causing him to lapse into a state of near unconsciousness. Nothing could be done for the malady; the clerics of Mishakal had tried and failed.

  Tanis and Laurana were both away from home a great deal of the time, both working hard to preserve the slender threads of alliances which held the various races and nations together after the War of the Lance.

  Too weak to travel, Gil was left in the care of a doting housekeeper, who adored him only slightly more than did his parents. To them all, Gil was still that frail little boy who had nearly burned up with fever.

  Due to his illness, Gil was not permitted to play with other children, supposing there had been any other children living near them, which there weren’t. Tanis Half-Elven liked his privacy, had deliberately built his house far from those of his neighbors. Often alone, left to his own thoughts, Gil had developed many strange fancies. One of these was that his headaches were caused by the human blood in his veins. He had the nightmarish impression, brought on by the horrible pain, that if he could cut his veins open and drain out this alien blood, the pain would end. He never spoke of such fancies to anyone.

  Laurana was not ashamed of having married a half-human. She often teased Tanis about the beard he wore, a beard no elf male could grow. Tanis wasn’t ashamed of being half-human.

  His son was.

  Gil dreamt of the elven homeland he had never seen, probably would never see. The trees of Qualinesti were more real to him than the trees in his father’s garden. Gil couldn’t understand why his parents rarely visited Qualinesti, why they never took him with them when they did. But he knew (or believed he knew) that this alienation was his father’s fault. And so the young man came to resent Tanis with a passion that sometimes frightened him.

  “There is nothing of my father in me!” Gil would say to himself reassuringly every day, as he peered anxiously into the mirror, fearful that unsightly human hair might start sprouting on his chin.

  “Nothing!” he would repeat in satisfaction, surveying his clear, smooth skin.

  Nothing except blood. Human blood.

  And because Gil feared it, he couldn’t speak of it, couldn’t admit it.

  And so he kept silent.

  The silence between father and son had been built brick by brick over the years. It was now a wall not easily scaled.

&nbs
p; “Well, aren’t you going to read the letter, Father?” Gil demanded.

  Tanis frowned, not liking his son’s insolent tone.

  Gil waited for his father to reprimand him. The young man wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to goad his father into losing his temper. Things would be said … things that needed to be said …

  But Tanis put on the patient smile he had taken to wearing around his son and removed the scroll from its case.

  Gil turned his back. Stalking over to the window, he stared unseeing down on the lush and elaborately laid out garden below. He had half a mind to walk out of the room, but he wanted to hear what Caramon Majere had to say.

  Gil had no use for most of the humans he’d met, those who came to visit his parents. He considered them loud, clumsy, and oafish. But Gil liked the big, jovial Caramon, liked his wide, generous smile, his boisterous laugh. Gil enjoyed hearing about Caramon’s sons, particularly the exploits of the two elder boys, Sturm and Tanin, who had traveled all over most of Ansalon in search of adventure. They were now attempting to become the first men born outside of Solamnia to enter the knighthood.

  Gil had never met Caramon’s sons. A few years ago, after returning from some secret mission with Tanis, Caramon had offered to take Gil to visit the inn. Tanis and Laurana had refused to even consider it. Gil had been so furious that he had moped about his room for a week.

  Tanis unrolled the scroll and was rapidly scanning through it.

  “I hope all is well with Caramon,” Laurana said. She sounded anxious. She had not returned to her writing, but was watching Tanis’s face as he read the message.

  Gil turned. Tanis did look worried, but when he reached the end, he smiled. Then he shook his head and sighed.

  “Caramon’s youngest boy, Palin, has just taken and passed the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery. He is a white-robed mage now.”

  “Paladine save us!” Laurana exclaimed in astonishment. “I knew the young man was studying magic, but I never thought he was serious. Caramon always said it was a passing fancy.”

  “He always hoped it was a passing fancy,” Tanis amended.