Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

Tanis’s skin burned. It’s over and done, past and gone, he reminded himself. Kitiara’s been dead these many years. I love Laurana. I do, with all my heart and soul. I haven’t thought of Kit in all these years, and now a flash of the eye, a turn of the head, her crooked grin, and it all comes back to me. My shame, my indiscretion. Our youth... our joy ...

“So you two are here to save me from myself,” Steel was saying, with bitter sarcasm.

“We only want to give you another option,” said Tanis, shoulders hunched against the raw and biting wind, against the equally biting memories. “As Sara says, the final decision will be yours.”

“That’s why we fought the war, Nephew,” Caramon added. “To ensure that people had choices.”

“Nephew.” Steel smiled, and it was meant to be a sneering and arrogant smile. But his lips trembled before he could tighten them, and there was, for the space of a faltering heartbeat, a glimpse of the face of an unhappy, lonely child.

It was then, in that moment, that Tanis came to truly believe that this young man was Sturm’s son. In that expression of bleak pride and anguish, Tanis saw again the young knight who had grown up during a time when the Knights of Solamnia were themselves hated and reviled, when he’d been despised, made to feel ashamed of his birthright.

Sturm had known what it was to be different from others. He had used his pride as a shield against hatred and prejudice. That shield of pride had been heavy to carry in the beginning, but Sturm had learned to ease pride’s weight with forbearance and compassion. This dark paladin bore the shield’s weight eagerly, willingly, and it had left cruel marks on him.

Tanis opened his mouth, almost spoke his thoughts aloud, then he reconsidered. No poor words of mine will penetrate that shield, that dark, cruel armor. He is Sturm’s son, yes, but Kitiara’s son, too, a child of unholy darkness and hallowed light.

“You owe both these gentlemen an apology, Steel,” Sara was sternly berating the young man. “They have proven their mettle in battle, something you have yet to do. It is not for you to speak to them with disrespect.”

Steel’s handsome face flushed at his mother’s chiding, but he had been raised in a strict school. “I do apologize, sirs,” he said stiffly. “I have heard of your exploits during the war. You may find this difficult to believe,” he added with a grim smile, “but we who serve Queen Takhisis have been taught to honor you.”

Tanis did indeed find this hard to believe, didn’t like to consider the implications. “Then you have been taught to honor your father’s deeds—”

“If Sturm Brightblade is my father,” Steel countered. “I have been taught to admire his heroic death—one who stood alone against many enemies. And I have also been taught to honor the memory of my mother, Kitiara, the Dragon Highlord who slew him.”

That remark effectively silenced everyone. Caramon shuffled his big feet, coughed, and stared down at the ground. Tanis heaved an exasperated sigh and ran his hand through his hair. A curse if Steel found out who his father was—so Ariakan had told the young paladin. Tanis was beginning to believe it. He couldn’t for the life of him see how anything good could come out of this unhappy situation.

Steel turned his back on them all. Walking over to the cliff’s edge, he gazed down with interest on the High Clerist's Tower.

“I’m sorry, Sara,” Tanis said in an undertone. “I’ll say this for the last time. Your scheme isn’t going to work. Nothing we say or do is going to make any difference to him. Steel is right. The two of you should leave now. Go back to your home.”

The woman’s shoulders slumped. She closed her eyes and put a trembling hand to her lips. Tears slid down the careworn face. She couldn’t speak, but nodded her head.

“C’mon, Caramon,” Tanis said. “We’ve got to get off this mountain before dark—”

“Wait a minute,” Steel said abruptly. He turned around, then stalked over to stand in front of Sara. Putting his hand on her chin, he turned her face to the sunlight. “You’re crying,” he said softly, and there was wonder in his voice. “All these years, I’ve never seen you cry.”

He would have known how to defend himself against a battalion of knights, but his mother’s tears disarmed him completely.

“Do you truly want me to go through with this... folly?” he asked, frustrated, helpless, bewildered.

Sara’s face brightened. Eagerly, she clung to him. “Oh, yes, Steel. Please! Do this for me.”

Tanis and Caramon stood silently by, waiting. Steel gazed at her, his face a battlefield, revealing the struggle waging within. Then, with a dark, sidelong glance at the two older men, he said coldly, “I will accompany you, sirs—for her sake.”

Turning on his heel, he walked to the edge of the ledge, leapt lightly onto another rock ledge below it, and started down the mountainside, picking his way among the tangle of rocks with the nimble dexterity and strength of youth.

Caught flat-footed by the unexpected move, Tanis hurried after, but his elegant and expensive boots—meant for walking his estate, not climbing mountains—slipped on a patch of gravel. He lost his balance and might have tumbled down the cliff had not a strong hand grasped the collar of his tunic and dragged him back.

“Take it slow, my friend,” said Caramon. “We’ve a long way to go, and this isn’t going to be easy on either our boots or our bones.” He nodded down at Steel, whose dark curls could barely be seen among the boulders. “Let our young friend go it alone awhile. He needs time to think. His mind must feel about like that creek there.”

Water, white-frothed and bubbling, swirled and eddied among the rocks, occasionally finding itself stranded in dark pools, then freeing itself to plunge on in a headlong rush to its final destination, the eternal sea.

“He’ll be cooler when he reaches the bottom,” Caramon finished.

“We won’t,” Tanis grumbled. The sun was hot on the cliff face. He was already sweating beneath his leather armor. Resting his hand on Caramon’s arm, he smiled at the big warrior. “You’re a wise man, my friend.”

Caramon, looking embarrassed, shrugged. “I dunno. I’ve got three boys of my own, that's all.”

Tanis heard words unspoken.

“Let's go,” he said abruptly. He looked back at Sara.

“I’ll wait for you here,” she said, standing in front of the cave. “Flare’s upset. It would never do to leave her alone. She might follow Steel.”

Tanis nodded and started down the mountainside again, this time moving more slowly, taking more care.

“The gods bless you for this,” Sara called fervently.

“Yes, well, one of the gods is likely going to bless us,” Tanis muttered.

He didn’t care to think which one.

“The fortress, known as the High Clerist’s Tower, was built by Vinas Solamnus, founder of the Knights of Solamnia, during the Age of Might. The fortress guards the West-gate Pass, leading into and out of one of the major cities of Ansalon, the city of Palanthas.

“After the Cataclysm, which many people mistakenly blamed on the Knights of Solamnia, the High Clerist’s Tower was practically deserted, abandoned by the knights, who were in hiding for their lives. During the War of the Lance, the tower was reoccupied and was crucial to the defense of Palanthas and the surrounding countryside. Astinus has recorded the heroic deeds of those who fought and held the tower. You can find the record in the great Library of Palanthas, under the title Dragons of Winter Night.

“In that book, you will read of Sturm Brightblade, who died, facing alone the terror of the dragons. Thus it runs: