The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

  “I thought it might,” the warrior said grimly, slapping another steel piece down on the bar.

  “One of my best,” Slegart remarked, eyeing the warrior.

  The big man grunted, scowling.

  “It’s goin’ to be no fit night for man nor beast,” added the innkeeper and, at that moment, a gust of wind hit the inn, whistling through the cracked windows and puffing flakes of snow into the room. At that moment, too, the red-robed mage began to cough—a wracking, choking cough that doubled the man over the table. It was difficult to tell much about the mage—he was cloaked and hooded against the weather. But Slegart knew he must be young, if he and this giant were, indeed, twins. The innkeeper was considerably startled, therefore, to catch a glimpse of ragged white hair straying out from beneath the hood and to note that the hand holding the staff was thin and wasted.

  “We’ll take it,” the warrior muttered, his worried gaze going to his brother as he laid the coin down.

  “What’s the matter with ’im?” Slegart said, eyeing the mage, his fingers twitching near the coin, though not touching it. “It ain’t catchin’, is it?” He drew back. “Not the plague?”

  “Naw!” The warrior scowled. Leaning nearer the innkeeper, the big man said in a low voice, “We’ve just come from the Tower of High Sorcery. He’s just taken the Test.…”

  “Ah,” the innkeeper said knowingly, his gaze on the young mage not unsympathetic. “I’ve seen many of ’em in my day. And I’ve seen many like yourself”—he looked at the big warrior—“who have come here alone, with only a packet of clothes and a battered spellbook or two as all that remains. Yer lucky, both of you, to have survived.”

  The warrior nodded, though it didn’t appear—from the haunted expression on his pale face and dark, pain-filled eyes—that he considered his luck phenomenal. Returning to the table, the warrior laid his hand on his brother’s heaving shoulder, only to be rebuffed with a bitter snarl.

  “Leave me in peace, Caramon!” Slegart heard the mage gasp as the innkeeper came to the table, bearing the ale and a pot of hot water on a tray. “Your worrying will put me in my grave sooner than this cough!”

  The warrior, Caramon, did not answer, but sat down in the booth opposite his brother, his eyes still shadowed with unhappiness and concern.

  Slegart tried his best to see the face covered by the hood, but the mage was huddled near the fire, the red cowl pulled low over his eyes. The mage did not even look up as the innkeeper laid the table with an unusual amount of clattering of plates and knives and mugs. The young man simply reached into a pouch he wore tied to his belt and, taking a handful of leaves, handed them carefully to his brother.

  “Fix my drink,” the mage ordered in a rasping voice.

  Slegart, watching all this intently, was considerably startled to note that the skin that covered the mage’s slender hand gleamed a bright, metallic gold in the firelight!

  The innkeeper tried for another glimpse of the mage’s face, but the young man drew back even further into the shadows, ducking his head and pulling the cowl even lower over his eyes.

  “If the skin of ’is face be the same as the skin of ’is hand, no wonder he hides himself,” Slegart reflected, and wished he had turned this strange, sick mage away—money or no money.

  The warrior took the leaves from the mage and dropped them in a cup. He then filled it with hot water.

  Curious in spite of himself, the innkeeper leaned over to catch a glimpse of the mixture, hoping it might be a magic potion of some sort. To his disappointment, it appeared to be nothing more than tea with a few leaves floating on the surface. A bitter smell rose to his nostrils. Sniffing, he started to make some comment when the door blew open, admitting more snow, more wind, and another guest. Motioning one of the slatternly barmaids to finish waiting on the mage and his brother, Slegart turned to greet the new arrival.

  It appeared—from its graceful walk and its tall, slender build—to be either a young human male, a human female, or an elf. But so bundled and muffled in clothes was the figure that it was impossible to tell sex or race.

  “We’re full up,” Slegart started to announce, but before he could even open his mouth, the guest had drifted over to him (it was impossible for him to describe its walk any other way) and, reaching out a hand remarkable for its delicate beauty, laid two steel coins in the innkeeper’s hand (remarkable only for its dirt).

  “A place by the fire this night,” said the guest in a low voice.

  “I do believe a room’s opened up,” announced Slegart to the delight of the goblinish humans, who greeted this remark with coarse laughs and guffaws. Even the warrior grinned ruefully and shook his head, reaching across the table to nudge his brother. The mage said nothing, only gestured irritably for his drink.

  “I’ll take the room,” the guest said, reaching into its purse and handing two more coins to the grinning innkeeper.

  “Very good.…” Noticing the guest’s fine clothes, made of rich material, Slegart thought it wise to bow. “Uh, what name …?”

  “Do the room and I need an introduction?” the guest asked sharply.

  The warrior chuckled appreciatively at this, and it seemed as if even the mage responded, for the hooded head moved slightly as he sipped his steaming, foul-smelling drink.

  Somewhat at a loss for words, Slegart was fumbling about in his mind, trying to think of another way to determine his mysterious guest’s identity, when the guest turned from him and headed for a table located in a shadowed corner as far from the fire as possible. “Meat and drink.” It tossed the words over its shoulder in an imperious tone.

  “What would Your … Your Lordship like?” Slegart asked, hurrying after the guest, an ear cocked attentively. Though the guest spoke Common, the accent was strange, and the innkeeper still couldn’t tell if his guest was male or female.

  “Anything,” the guest said wearily, turning its back on Slegart as it walked over to the shadowy booth. On its way, it cast a glance at the table where the warrior, Caramon, and his brother sat. “That. Whatever they’re having.” The guest gestured to where the barmaid was heaping a wooden bowl full of some gray, coagulating mass and rubbing her body up against Caramon’s at the same time.

  Now, perhaps it was the way the mysterious guest walked or perhaps it was the way the person gestured or even perhaps the subtle sneer in the guest’s voice when it noticed Caramon’s hand reaching around to pat the barmaid on a rounded portion of her anatomy, but Slegart guessed instantly that the muffled guest was female.

  It was dangerous journeying through Ansalon in those days some five years before the war. There were few who traveled alone, and it was unusual for women to travel at all. Those women who did were either mercenaries—skilled with sword and shield—or wealthy women with a horde of escorts, armed to the teeth. This woman—if such she was—carried no weapon that Slegart could see and if she had escorts, they must enjoy sleeping in the open in what boded to be one of the worst blizzards ever to hit this part of the country.

  Slegart wasn’t particularly bright or observant, and he arrived at the conclusion that his guest was a lone, unprotected female about two minutes after everyone else in the place. This was apparent from the warrior’s slightly darkening face and the questioning glance he cast at his brother, who shook his head. This was also apparent from the sudden silence that fell over the “hunting” party gathered near the bar and the quick whispers and muffled snickers that followed.

  Hearing this, Caramon scowled and glanced around behind him. But a touch on the hand and a softly spoken word from the mage made the big warrior sigh and stolidly resume eating the food in his bowl, though he kept his eyes on the guest, to the disappointment of the barmaid.

  Slegart made his way back of the bar again and began wiping out mugs with a filthy rag, his back half-turned but his sharp eyes watching everything. One of the ruffians rose slowly to his feet, stretched, and called for another pint of ale. Taking it from the barmaid, he sauntered
over to the guest’s table.

  “Mind if I sit down?” he said, suiting his action to his words.

  “Yes,” said the guest sharply.

  “Aw, c’mon.” Grinning, the ruffian settled himself comfortably in the booth across from the guest, who sat eating the gray gunk in her bowl. “It’s a custom in this part of the country for innfellows to make merry on a night like this. Join our little party …”

  The guest ignored him, steadily eating her food. Caramon shifted slightly in his seat, but, after a pleading glance at his brother, which was answered with an abrupt shake of the hooded head, the warrior continued his dinner with a sigh.

  The ruffian leaned forward, reaching out his hand to touch the scarf the guest had wound tightly about her face. “You must be awful hot—” the man began.

  He didn’t complete his sentence, finding it difficult to speak through the bowl of hot stew dripping down his face.

  “I’ve lost my appetite,” the guest said. Calmly rising to her feet, she wiped stew from her hands on a greasy napkin and headed for the stairs. “I’ll go to my room now, innkeeper. What number?”

  “Number sixteen. You can bolt lock it from the inside to keep out the riff-raff,” Slegart said, his mug-polishing slowing. Trouble was bad for business, cut into profits. “Serving girl’ll be along to turn down the bed.”

  The “riffraff,” stew dripping off his nose, might have been content to let the mysterious person go her way. There had been a coolness in the voice and the quick, self-possessed movement indicating that the guest had some experience caring for herself. But the big warrior laughed appreciatively at the innkeeper’s remark, and so did the “hunting” party by the fire. Their laughter was the laughter of derision, however.

  Casting his comrades an angry glance, the man wiped stew from his eyes and leapt to his feet. Overturning the table, he followed the woman, who was halfway up the stairs.

  “I’ll show you to yer room!” He leered, grabbed hold of her, and jerked her backward.

  Caught off balance, the guest fell into the ruffian’s arms with a cry that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was, indeed, a female.

  “Raistlin?” pleaded Caramon, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Very well, my brother,” the mage said with a sigh. Reaching out his hand for the staff he had leaned against the wall, he used it to pull himself to his feet.

  Caramon was starting to stand up when he saw his brother’s eyes shift to a point just behind him. Catching the look, Caramon nodded slightly just as a heavy hand closed over his shoulder.

  “Good stew, ain’t it?” said one of the “hunting” party. “Shame to interrupt yer dinner over somethin’ that ain’t none of yer business. Unless, of course, you want to share some of the fun. If so, we’ll let you know when it’s your tur—”

  Caramon’s fist thudded into the man’s jaw. “Thanks,” the warrior said coolly, drawing his sword and twisting around to face the other thugs behind him. “I think I’ll take my turn now.”

  A chair flung from the back of the crowd caught Caramon on the shoulder of his sword arm. Two men in front jumped him, one grabbing his wrist and trying to knock the sword free, the other flailing away with his fists. The mob—seeing the warrior apparently falling—surged forward.

  “Get the girl, Raist! I’ll take care of these!” Caramon shouted in muffled tones from beneath a sea of bodies. “Everything’s … under … contr—”

  “As usual, my brother,” said the mage wryly. Ignoring the grunts and yells, the cracking of furniture and bone, Raistlin leaned on his staff and began climbing the stairs.

  Though the girl was fighting her attacker with her fists, she apparently had no other weapon, and it was easy to see she must soon lose. The man’s attention was fixed on dragging his struggling victim up the stairs, so he never noticed the red-robed mage moving swiftly behind him. There was a flash of silver, a quick thrust of the mage’s hand, and the ruffian, letting loose of the girl, clutched his ribs. Blood welled out from between his fingers. For an instant he stared at Raistlin in astonishment, then tumbled past him, falling headlong down the stairs, the mage’s dagger protruding from his side.

  “Raist! Help!” Caramon shouted from below. Though he had laid three opponents low, he was locked in a vicious battle with a fourth, his movements decidedly hampered by a gully dwarf, who had crawled up his back and was beating him over the head with a pan.

  But Raistlin was not able to go to his brother’s rescue. The girl, weak and dizzy from her struggles, missed her step upon the stairs.

  Letting go of his staff—which remained perfectly upright, standing next to him as though he were holding it—Raistlin caught the girl before she fell.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her head down. Her scarf had come undone in her struggles and she tried to wrap it around her face again. But Raistlin, with a sardonic smile and a deft movement of his skilled hands, snatched the scarf from the girl’s head.

  “You dropped this,” he said coolly, holding the scarf out to her, all the while his keen eyes looking to see why this young woman hid her face from the sun. He gasped.

  The girl kept her head down, even after losing the scarf, but, hearing the man’s swift intake of breath, she knew it was too late. He had seen her. She checked the movement, therefore, looking up at the mage with a small sigh. What she saw in his face shocked her almost as much as what he saw in hers.

  “Who … what kind of human are you?” she cried, shrinking away from him.

  “What kind are you?” the mage demanded, holding on to the girl with his slender hands that were, nevertheless, unbelievably strong.

  “I—I am … ordinary,” the girl faltered, staring at Raistlin with wide eyes.

  “Ordinary!” Raistlin gripped her more tightly as she made a halfhearted attempt to break free. His eyes gazed in disbelief at the fine-boned, delicate face; the mass of hair that was the brilliance and color of silver starlight; the eyes that were as dark and soft and velvet-black as the night sky. “Ordinary! In my hands I hold the most beautiful woman I have seen in all my twenty-one years. What is more, I hold in my hands a woman who does not age!” He laughed mirthlessly. “And she calls herself ‘ordinary!’ ”

  “What about you?” Trembling, the girl’s hand reached up to touch Raistlin’s golden-skinned face. “And what do you mean—I do not age?”

  The mage saw fear in the girl’s eyes as she asked this question, and his own eyes narrowed, studying her intently. “My golden skin is my sacrifice for my magic, as is my shattered body. As for you not aging, I mean you do not age in my sight. You see, my eyes are different from the eyes of other men …” He paused, staring at the girl, who began to shiver beneath the unwavering scrutiny. “My eyes see time as it passes, they see the death of all living things. In my vision, human flesh wastes and withers, spring trees lose their leaves, rocks crumble to dust. Only the young among the long-lived elves would appear normal to me and even then I would see them as flowers about to lose their bloom. But you—”

  “Raist!” Caramon boomed from below. There was a crash. Endeavoring to shake off the gully dwarf—who was holding his hands firmly over the big man’s eyes, blinding him—Caramon landed headlong on a table, smashing it to splinters.

  The mage did not move, nor did the girl. “You do not age at all! You are not elven,” Raistlin said.

  “No,” the girl murmured. Her eyes still fixed on the mage, she tried unsuccessfully to free herself from his grasp. “You—you’re hurting me …”

  “What are you?” he demanded.

  She shrugged, squirming and pushing at his hands. “Human, like yourself,” she protested, looking up into the strange eyes. “And I thank you for saving me, but—”

  Suddenly she froze, her efforts to free herself ceased. Her gaze was locked with Raistlin’s, the mage’s gaze fixed on hers. “No!” she moaned helplessly. “No!” Her moan became a shriek, echoing above the howling of the storm winds outside
the inn.

  Raistlin reeled backward, slamming into the wall as though she had driven a sword into his body. Yet she had not harmed him, she had done nothing but look at him. With a wild cry, the girl scrambled to her feet and ran up the stairs, leaving the mage slumped against the wall, staring with stunned, unseeing eyes at where she had crouched before him on the staircase.

  “Well, I took care of the scum, small thanks to you,” Caramon announced, coming up beside his brother. Wiping blood from a cut on the mouth, the big warrior looked over the railing in satisfaction. Four men lay on the floor, not counting the one his brother had stabbed, whose inert body huddled at the foot of the staircase. The gully dwarf was sticking out of a barrel, upside down, his feet waving pathetically in the air, his ear-splitting screams likely to cause serious breakage of the glassware.

  “What about damages?” Slegart demanded, coming over to survey the ruin.

  “Collect it from them,” Caramon growled, gesturing to the groaning members of the “hunting” party. “Here’s your dagger, Raist,” the warrior said, holding out a small silver knife. “I cleaned it as best I could. Guess you didn’t want to waste your magic on those wretches, huh? Anyway—hey, Raist—you all right?”

  “I’m … not injured.…” Raistlin said softly, reaching out his hand to catch hold of his brother.

  “Then what’s the matter?” Caramon asked, puzzled. “You look like you’ve seen a spirit. Say, where’s the girl?” He glanced around. “Didn’t she even stay to thank us?”

  “I—I sent her to her room,” Raistlin said, blinking in confusion and looking at Caramon as though wondering who he was. After a moment, he seemed more himself. Taking the dagger from his brother’s hand, the mage replaced it on the cunningly made thong he had attached around his wrist. “And we should be going to our rooms, my brother,” he said firmly, seeing Caramon’s gaze drift longingly to the pitcher of ale still on their table. “Lend me your arm,” the mage added, taking hold of his staff. “My exertions have exhausted me.”