Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“Sleeping potion,” she whispered. Tanis nodded in understanding. He was about to say — something more, but Sara shook her head warningly and drew the curtains shut with a snap. The two men, left in semi-darkness, backed up against a wall and stood opposite each other. In case the young man happened to thrust the curtain aside, all he would see at first glance was an empty room.

Caramon discovered a tear in the fabric, which permitted him to see what was going on. Tanis found his own peephole. Both looked and listened in wary, tense silence.

Sara stood near the pot. She held the vial—unstoppered—in her hand.

But she didn’t pour it.

Her face was pale. She bit her lip. Her hand shook.

Tanis cast a look of alarm at Caramon.

She’s not going to go through with it! the half-elf’s eyes conveyed warningly.

Caramon’s hand closed over his sword hilt. The two braced themselves, though neither had any very clear idea what they would do if she didn’t.

Suddenly, with a mutter that might have been a prayer, Sara poured the contents of the vial into the stew pot.

A thundering knock sounded on the door. She poured the vial into the heart of the blaze and wiped her hand hastily across her eyes.

“Come in,” she called.

Grabbing a broom, she began to sweep up water and mud that had been tracked across the floor.

The door opened. A young man entered. Caramon nearly fell through the curtain in an attempt to see. Tanis waved at the big man, urged him back, but the half-elf himself had his eye plastered to the hole.

The young man had his back to them. Taking off his wet cloak, he unbuckled his sword belt from around his waist. He leaned the sword, sheathed in its black scabbard—decorated with an axe, a skull, and the black lily—against the wall. He took off his breastplate, then removed his helm with a quick, impatient gesture that made Tanis’s heart constrict with painful memories.

He’d seen Kitiara remove her helm with that very gesture.

Leaning over Sara, the young man kissed her cheek and placed a hand on her shoulder. “How are you, Mother? You don’t look well. Have you been ill?”

Sara had trouble answering. She shook her head. “No, just busy. I’ll tell you later. You’re wet to the bone, Steel. Go warm yourself. You’ll catch your death.”

Steel untied a leather thong and shook out a quantity of dark hair. Both the hidden watchers recognized those darkcurls. Kitiara had worn her hair short; her son wore it long, tumbling over his broad shoulders. As he stepped over to the fire and held his hands out to the blaze, the flames lit his face.... His face ...

Caramon gave a great, wheezing gasp.

“What was that noise?” Steel glanced around sharply.

Caramon clapped his hand over his mouth and moved away from the curtain. Tanis, hardly daring to breathe, held perfectly still.

“It’s the wind, rattling that broken window,” Sara re sponded.

“I fixed it the last time I was here,” Steel said, frowning. He took a step toward the curtain.

“Well, the latch is loose again,” Sara said. “Come, eat your dinner before it gets cold. You can’t do anything to mend the latch while this storm lasts.”

Steel cast a last glance at the curtained room, then turned and walked back to the fireplace. Shifting his position slightly, Tanis could continue to see what was happening.

Steel took a bowl and ladled out broth and meat. A puzzled look crossed his face. He sniffed at the bowl.

Tanis shook his head and gestured toward the living room, warning Caramon to make himself ready. The two of them, catching the younger man off guard, might stand a chance.

Lifting a spoon, Steel tasted the broth, grimaced, and tossed the bowl’s contents back into the pot.

Sara, stricken, stared at him. “What—what's the matter?”

“ 'Eat it before it gets cold,' ” Steel repeated. He was fondly teasing, mimicking her voice. “Mother, I’d have to set that stew out in the storm for it to get much colder. It’s not cooked yet!”

“I... I’m sorry, dear.”

Sara was limp with relief, and so was Tanis. But he was worried about her.

She was trembling, her face ashen. Steel couldn’t help but notice.

“What is it, Mother?” he asked, once again serious. “What’s wrong? I heard you were out this night What were you doing?”

“I . . . I was ferrying a couple of spies . . . from the continent—”

“The continent!” Steel’s dark brows came together in a frown. “Spies! This is not safe, Mother. You take too great a risk. I’ll speak to Lord Ariakan—”

“If s all right, Steel,” Sara said, regaining her composure. “He didn’t send me. I took the task upon myself. It was either that or let some stranger ride Flare. I couldn’t permit that. You know how temperamental she can be.”

Turning her back on the young man, Sara picked up the poker and stirred the fire.

Steel watched her, his countenance dark and thoughtful. “I find this talk of ferrying spies odd, Mother. I didn’t think you were that committed to our cause.”

Sara paused in her work. “It’s not the cause, Steel,” she said in a low voice, her eyes on the flames. “You know that well. I do this for you.”

Steel’s lip curled. His expression was suddenly hard and cold. Tanis, watching, knew that look. So did Caramon. The big man tensed to jump.

“You ferry spies for me, Mother?” Steel’s tone was mocking, suspicious.

Flinging the poker down on the stones, Sara stood up and faced her son.

“Someday, Steel, you will ride to war. Whether I approve or not, I will do my part to keep you safe.” She clasped her hands. “Oh, my son! Reconsider! Do not take these vows! Do not give up your soul—”

The young man was exasperated. “We’ve gone over this before, Mother—”

Sara flung herself at him, caught hold of him. “You don’t mean it, Steel! I know you don’t! You can’t give your soul to Her Dark Majesty....”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mother.” Steel returned. He wrenched himself loose from his mother’s grip.

“Yes, you do. You have doubts.” Her voice dropped low, and she glanced somewhat nervously out the window into the rain-lashed dawn. “I know you do. That’s why you’ve waited this long to take the vows. Don’t let Ariakan pressure you—”

“The decision is mine, Mother!” Steel’s voice had a knife’s edge. “War is coming, as you say. Do you think I want to go into battle on foot, leading a party of hobgoblins, while men with half my ability fight on dragons, attain honor and glory? I will take the vows, and I will serve the Dark Queen to the best of my ability. As for my soul, it is my own. And it will stay that way. It belongs to no man, to no goddess.”

“Not yet,” Sara said.

Steel did not respond. Thrusting her aside, he stalked across the room, stood staring into the stew pot.

“Is that edible yet? I’m starving.”

“Yes,” said Sara, with a sigh, “it is hot. Sit down.”

At her sorrowful tone, he looked around, grudgingly remorseful. “You sit down, Mother. You look exhausted.”

Respectful, attentive, he led Sara to a chair and held it for her. Sara sank into the chair, then gazed at him with wistful eyes. The young man obviously found her silent pleading disturbing. He turned from her abruptly.

Ladling out two bowls of soup, he placed one in front of each of them.

Sara stared at hers.

Steel began to eat his with a healthy appetite. Tanis let out a relieved breath and heard Caramon do the same. How long would it take the potion to act?

“You’re not eating,” Steel observed.

Sara was watching him. Her hands, beneath the table, were curled into fists in her lap. “Steel,” she said, in a strange voice, “why have you never asked me about your father?”