The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

  “Saw who?” Justarius asked, exchanging quick glances with Dalamar. “Raistlin?”

  “Yes.”

  The faces of the two wizards grew grim.

  “I saw him,” said Caramon gently, “lying beside me, asleep, just like when … when we were young. He had terrible dreams sometimes. He’d wake, weeping, from them. I’d comfort him and … and make him laugh. Then he’d sigh, lay his head on my arm, and fall asleep. That’s how I saw him—”

  “A dream!” Dalamar scoffed.

  “No.” Caramon shook his head resolutely. “It was too real. I saw his face as I see yours. I saw his face as I had seen it last, in the Abyss. Only now the terrible lines of pain, the twisted marks of greed and evil were gone, leaving it smooth and … at rest—like Crysania said. It was the face of my brother, my twin … not the stranger he’d become.” Caramon wiped his eyes again. “The next day, I was able to go home, knowing that everything was all right.… For the first time in my life, I believed in Paladine. I knew that he understood Raistlin and judged him mercifully, accepting his sacrifice.”

  “He has you there, Justarius,” boomed a voice from out of the shadows. “What do you say to faith like that?”

  Looking around quickly, Caramon saw four figures materialize out of the shadows of the vast chamber. Three he recognized and, even in this grim place, with its storehouse of memories, his eyes blurred again, only these were tears of pride as he looked upon his sons. The older two, armor clanking and swords rattling, appeared somewhat subdued, he noticed. Not unusual, he thought grimly, considering all they had heard about the tower, both in legend and family history. Then, too, they felt about magic the way he himself felt—both disliked and distrusted it. The two stood protectively, as usual, one on each side of Caramon’s third son, their younger brother.

  It was this youngest son that Caramon looked at anxiously as they entered. Dressed in his white robes, Palin approached the head of the conclave with his head bowed, his eyes on the floor, as was proper for one of his low rank and station. Having just turned twenty, he wasn’t even an apprentice yet and probably wouldn’t be until he was twenty-five at least. That is the age when magic-users in Krynn may choose to take the Test—the grueling examination of their skills and talents in the Art, which all must pass before they can acquire more advanced and dangerous knowledge. Because magicians wield such great power, the Test is designed to weed out those who are unskilled or who do not take their art seriously. It does this very effectively—failure means death. There is no turning back. Once a young man or woman of any race—elven, human, ogre—decides to enter the Tower of High Sorcery with the intent of taking the Test—he or she commits body and soul to the magic.

  Palin seemed unusually troubled and serious, just as he had on their journey to the tower—almost as if he were about to take the Test himself. But that’s ridiculous, Caramon reminded himself sternly. The boy is too young. Granted, Raistlin took the Test at this age, but that was because the conclave needed him. Raistlin was strong in his magic, excelling in the Art, and—even so—the Test had nearly killed him. Caramon could still see his twin lying on the bloodstained stone floor of the tower.… He clenched his fist. No! Palin is intelligent, he is skilled, but he’s not ready. He’s too young.

  “Besides,” Caramon muttered beneath his breath, “give him a few more years, and he may decide to drop this notion.…”

  As if aware of his father’s worried scrutiny, Palin raised his head slightly and gave him a reassuring smile. Caramon smiled back, feeling better. Maybe this weird place had opened his son’s eyes.

  As the four approached the semicircle of chairs where Justarius and Dalamar sat, Caramon kept a sharp eye on them. Seeing that his boys were well and acting as they were supposed to act (his oldest two tended to be a bit boisterous on occasion), the big man finally relaxed and studied the fourth figure, the one who had spoken to Justarius about faith.

  He was an unusual sight. Caramon couldn’t remember having seen anything stranger, and he’d traveled most of the continent of Ansalon. This man was from Northern Ergoth, that much Caramon could tell by the black skin—the mark of that seafaring race. He was dressed like a sailor, too, except for the pouches on his belt and the white sash around his waist. His voice was that of one accustomed to shouting commands over the crashing of waves and the roaring of wind. So strong was this impression that Caramon glanced around somewhat uncertainly. He wouldn’t have been the least surprised to see a ship under full sail materialize behind him.

  “Caramon Majere, I take it,” the man said, coming over to Caramon, who had risen awkwardly to his feet. Gripping Caramon’s hand with a firmness that made the big man open his eyes wide, the man grinned and introduced himself. “Dunbar Mastersmate of Northern Ergoth, head of the Order of White Robes.”

  Caramon gaped. “A mage?” he said wonderingly, shaking hands.

  Dunbar laughed. “Exactly your sons’ reaction. Yes, I’ve been visiting with your boys instead of doing my duty here, I’m afraid. Fine lads. The oldest two have been with the knights, I understand, fighting minotaurs near Kalaman. We came close to meeting there. That’s what kept me so long.” He glanced in apology at Justarius. “My ship was in Palanthas for repairs to damage taken fighting those same pirates. I am a sea wizard,” Dunbar added by way of explanation, noticing Caramon’s slightly puzzled look. “By the gods, but your boys take after you!” He laughed, and, reaching out, shook Caramon’s hand again.

  Caramon grinned back. Everything would be all right, now that these wizards understood about Raistlin. He could take his boys and go home.

  Caramon suddenly became aware that Dunbar was regarding him intently, almost as if he could see the thoughts in his mind. The wizard’s face grew serious. Shaking his head slightly, Dunbar turned and walked across the chamber with rapid, rolling strides, as though on the deck of his ship, to take his seat to the right of Justarius.

  “Well,” said Caramon, fumbling with the hilt of his sword, his confidence shaken by the look on the wizard’s face. All three were staring at him now, their expressions solemn. Caramon’s face hardened in resolve. “I guess that’s that. You’ve heard what I’ve had to say about … about Raistlin.…”

  “Yes,” said Dunbar. “We all heard, some of us—I believe—for the first time.” The sea wizard glanced meaningfully at Palin, who was staring at the floor.

  Clearing his throat nervously, Caramon continued. “I guess we’ll be on our way.”

  The wizards exchanged looks. Justarius appeared uncomfortable, Dalamar stern, Dunbar sad. But none of them said anything. Bowing, Caramon turned to leave and was just motioning to his sons when Dalamar, with an irritated gesture, rose to his feet.

  “You cannot go, Caramon,” the dark elf said. “There is still much to discuss.”

  “Then say what you have to say!” Caramon stated angrily, turning back around to face the wizards.

  “I will say it since these two”—he cast a scathing glance at his fellow wizards—“are squeamish about challenging such devoted faith as you have proclaimed. Perhaps they have forgotten the grave danger we faced twenty-five years ago. I haven’t.” His hand strayed to the torn robes. “I never can. My fears cannot be dispelled by a ‘vision,’ no matter how touching.” His lip curled derisively. “Sit down, Caramon. Sit down and hear the truth these two fear to speak.”

  “I do not fear to speak it, Dalamar.” Justarius spoke in rebuking tones. “I was thinking about the story Caramon related, its bearing upon the matter—”

  The dark elf snorted, but—at a piercing look from his superior—he sat back down, wrapping his black robes around him. Caramon remained standing, however, frowning and glancing from one wizard to the other. Behind him, he heard the jingle of armor as his two older boys shifted uncomfortably. This place made them nervous, just as it did him. He wanted to turn on his heel and walk out, never returning to the tower that had been the scene of so much pain and heartbreak.

  By the gods,
he’d do it! Let them try to stop him! Caramon clasped the hilt of his sword and took a step backward, glancing around at his sons. The two older boys moved to leave. Only Palin remained standing still, a grave, thoughtful expression on his face that Caramon could not read. It reminded him of someone, though. Caramon could almost hear Raistlin’s whispering voice, “Go if you want to, my dear brother. Lose yourself in the magical Forest of Wayreth, as you most surely will without me. I intend to remain …”

  No. He would not hear his son say those words. Flushing, his heart constricting painfully, Caramon seated himself heavily in the chair. “Say what you have to say,” he repeated.

  “Almost thirty years ago, Raistlin Majere came to this tower to take his test,” Justarius began. “Once inside the tower, taking his test, he was contacted by—”

  “We know that,” Caramon growled.

  “Some of us do,” Justarius replied. “Some of us do not.” His gaze went to Palin. “Or at least, they do not know the entire story. The Test was difficult for Raistlin—it is difficult for all of us who take it, isn’t it?”

  Dalamar did not speak, but his pale face went a shade paler, and the slanted eyes were clouded. All traces of laughter had vanished from Dunbar’s face. His gaze went to Palin, and he almost imperceptibly shook his head.

  “Yes,” Justarius continued softly, absently rubbing his leg with his hand as though it pained him. “The Test is difficult, but it is not impossible. Par-Salian and the heads of the orders would not have granted Raistlin permission to take it—as young as he was—if they had not deemed it likely that he would succeed. And he would have! Yes, Caramon! There is not a doubt in my mind or in the minds of any who were present that day and witnessed it. Your twin had the strength and the skill to succeed on his own. But he chose the easy way, the sure way—he accepted the help of an evil wizard, the greatest of our orders who ever lived—Fistandantilus.

  “Fistandantilus,” Justarius repeated, his eyes on Palin. “His magic having gone awry, he died at Skullcap Mountain. But he was powerful enough to defeat death itself. His spirit survived on another plane, waiting to find a body it could inhabit. And it found that body.…”

  Caramon sat silently, his eyes fixed on Justarius, his face red, his jaw muscles stiff. He felt a hand on his shoulder and, glancing up, saw Palin, who had come to stand behind him. Leaning down, Palin whispered, “We can go, Father. I’m sorry. I was wrong to make you come. We don’t have to listen …”

  Justarius sighed. “Yes, young mage, you do have to listen, I am afraid. You must hear the truth!”

  Palin started, flushing at hearing his words repeated. Reaching up, Caramon gripped his son’s hand reassuringly. “We know the truth,” he growled. “That evil wizard took my brother’s soul! And you mages let him!”

  “No, Caramon!” Justarius’s fist clenched, and his gray brows drew together. “Raistlin made a deliberate choice to turn his back upon the light and embrace the darkness. Fistandantilus gave him the power to pass the Test and, in exchange, Raistlin gave Fistandantilus part of his life-force in order to help the lich’s spirit survive. That is what shattered his body—not the Test. Raistlin said it himself, Caramon! This is the sacrifice I made for my magic!’ How many times have you heard him say those words!”

  “Enough!” Scowling, Caramon stood up. “It was Par-Salian’s fault. No matter what evil my twin did after that, you mages started him down the path he eventually walked.” Motioning to his sons, Caramon turned upon his heel and walked rapidly from the chamber, heading for what he hoped (in this strange place) was the way out.

  “No!” Justarius rose unsteadily to his feet, unable to put his full weight upon his crippled left leg. But his voice was powerful, thundering through the chamber. “Listen and understand, Caramon Majere! You must, or you will regret it bitterly!”

  Caramon stopped. Slowly, he turned around, but only halfway. “Is this a threat?” he asked, glaring at Justarius over his shoulder.

  “No threat, at least not one we make,” Justarius said. “Think, Caramon! Don’t you see the danger? It happened once. It can happen again!”

  “I don’t understand,” Caramon said stubbornly, his hand on his sword, still considering.

  Like a snake uncoiling to strike, Dalamar leaned forward in his chair. “Yes, you do!” His voice was soft and lethal. “You understand. Don’t ask for us to tell you details, for we cannot. But know this—by certain signs we have seen and certain contacts we have made in realms beyond this one, we have reason to believe that Raistlin lives—much as did Fistandantilus. He seeks a way back into this world. He needs a body to inhabit. And you, his beloved twin, have thoughtfully provided him with one—young, strong, and already trained in magic.”

  Dalamar’s words sank into Caramon’s flesh like poisoned fangs. “Your son …”

  Chapter Four

  Justarius resumed his seat, easing himself into the great stone chair carefully. Smoothing the folds of his red robes about him with hands that looked remarkably young for his age, he spoke to Caramon, though his eyes were on the white-robed young man standing at his father’s side. “Thus you see, Caramon Majere, that we cannot possibly let your son—Raistlin’s nephew—continue to study magic and take the Test without first making certain that his uncle cannot use this young man to gain entry back into the world.”

  “Especially,” added Dunbar gravely, “since the young man’s loyalties to one particular order have yet to be established.”

  “What do you mean?” Caramon frowned. “Take the Test? He’s a long way from taking the Test. And as for his loyalties, he chose to wear the White Robes—”

  “You and Mother chose that I wear the White Robes,” Palin said evenly, his eyes staring straight ahead, avoiding his father. When only hurt silence answered him, Palin made an irritated gesture. “Oh, come now, Father. You know as well as I do that you wouldn’t have considered letting me study magic under any other conditions. I knew better than to even ask!”

  “But the young man must declare the allegiance that is in his heart. Only then can he use the true power of his magic. And he must do this during his test,” Dunbar said gently.

  “Test! What is this talk of the Test! I tell you, he hasn’t even made up his mind whether or not to take the damn thing. And if I have anything to say about it—” Caramon stopped speaking abruptly, his gaze going to his son’s face. Palin stared at the ground, his cheeks flushed, his lips pressed tightly together.

  “Well, never mind that,” Caramon muttered, drawing a deep breath. Behind him, he could hear his other two sons shuffling nervously, the rattle of Tanin’s sword, Sturm’s soft cough. He was acutely aware, too, of the wizards watching him, especially of Dalamar’s cynical smile. If only he and Palin could be alone! He’d have a chance to explain. Caramon sighed. It was something they should have talked about before this, he supposed. But he kept hoping.…

  Turning his back on the wizards, he faced his son. “What other loyalty would you choose, Palin?” he asked belatedly, trying to make amends. “You’re a good person, Son! You enjoy helping people, serving others! White seems obvious.…”

  “I don’t know whether I enjoy serving others or not,” Palin cried impatiently, losing control. “You thrust me into this role, and look where it has gotten me! You admit yourself that I am not as strong or skilled in magic as my uncle was at my age. That was because he devoted his life to study! He let nothing interfere with it. It seems to me a man must put the magic first, the world second.…”

  Closing his eyes in pain, Caramon listened to his son’s words, but he heard them spoken by another voice—a soft, whispering voice, a shattered voice: a man must put the magic first, the world second. By doing anything else, he limits himself and his potential—

  He felt a hand grasp his arm. “Father, I’m sorry,” Palin said softly. “I would have discussed it with you, but I knew how much it would hurt you. And then there’s Mother.” The young man sighed. “You know Mother.…”
<
br />   “Yes,” said Caramon in a choked voice, reaching out and grasping his son in his big arms, “I know your mother.” Clearing his throat, he tried to smile. “She might have thrown something at you—she did me once—most of my armor, as I recall. But her aim is terrible, especially when it’s someone she loves.”

  Caramon couldn’t go on for a moment, but stood holding his son. Looking over his shoulder at the wizards, he asked harshly, “Is this necessary right now? Let us go home and talk about it Why can’t we wait—”

  “Because this night there is a rare occurrence,” Justarius answered. “The silver moon, the black, and the red are all three in the sky at the same time. The power of magic is stronger this night than it has been in a century. If Raistlin has the ability to call upon the magic and escape the Abyss—it could be on a night like this.”

  Caramon bowed his head, his hand stroking his son’s auburn hair. Then, his arm around Palin’s shoulder, he turned to face the wizards, his face grim.

  “Very well,” he said huskily, “what do you want us to do?”

  “You must return with me to the tower in Palanthas,” said Dalamar. “And there, we will attempt to enter the portal.”

  “Let us ride as far as the Shoikan Grove with you, Father,” Tanin pleaded.

  “Yes!” added Sturm eagerly. “You’ll need us, you know you will. The road between here and Palanthas is open—the knights see to that—but we’ve had reports from Porthios of draconian parties lying in ambush—”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, warriors,” said Dalamar, a slight smile upon his lips, “but we will not be using the roads between here and Palanthas. Conventional roads, that is,” he amended.

  Both the young men looked confused. Glancing warily at the dark elf, Tanin frowned as though he suspected a trick.