Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

Steel didn’t believe him. “You’re not some sort of mage, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” Tanis answered testily. They weren’t out of this yet, not by a long shot. “I don’t know what happened, except I could suppose that you got your sign!”

Steel was pale. The awe—and the fear—was plain on his face. Tanis relented toward the young man. Oddly enough, he found himself liking him.

“I know how you feel,” Tanis told him, speaking softly. The knights had come to the iron doors and were handing out torches to light the way down the dark staircase. “I once confronted Her Dark Majesty. Do you know what I wanted to do? I wanted to fall down on my knees and worship her.”

Tanis shivered at the memory, though it had happened years ago. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Queen Takhisis is not my god, but she is a god. I’m just a poor, puny mortal. How could I help but revere her?”

Steel made no answer. He was thoughtful, stern, withdrawn to some inner core of himself. Paladine had given the young knight the sign he’d mockingly demanded. What meaning did it hold for him—if any?

The iron doors swung open. The knights, marching with solemn tread, began to descend the stairs.

The half-elf’s explanation made sense to Steel. Paladine was a god—a weak and sniveling god, compared to his opposite, the Dark Queen,, but a god nonetheless. It was right and proper for Steel to feel awed in Paladine’s presence—if that’s what had truly happened back there at the gate.

Steel even tried to laugh at the incident—it was too funny, these pompous knights leading their most feared enemy around by the hand.

The laughter died on his lips.

They had begun to descend the steps that led into the sepulcher—a place of awful majesty, holy and sacred. Here lay the bodies of many brave men, among them Sturm Brightblade.

Est Sularus oth Mithas. My Honor is My Life.

Steel heard a voice, deep and resonant, repeat those words. He looked quickly around, to see who had spoken.

No one had. All walked silently down the stairs, voices muted in respect and reverence.

Steel knew who had spoken. He knew himself to be in the presence of the god, and the young man was daunted.

Steel’s challenge to Tanis had been made out of sheer bravado, made in order to quell the sudden aching longing that seared Steel’s soul, the longing to know himself. Part of Steel wanted desperately to believe that Sturm Brightblade—noble, heroic, tragic knight—was truly his father. Another part was appalled.

A curse if you find out, Ariakan had warned him.

Yes, so it would be, but... to know the truth!

And therefore, Steel had challenged the god, dared Paladine to tell him.

It seemed the god had taken the young man’s dare.

His heart subdued, Steel’s soul bowed down in worship.

The Chamber of Paladine was a large rectangular room lined with stone coffins that held the heroes of the ancient past and the more recent dead of the War of the Lance.

Following the entombment of the bodies of Sturm Brightblade and the other knights who had fallen defending the tower, the iron doors to the chamber were shut and sealed. If the tower fell into enemy hands, the bodies of the dead would not be desecrated.

A year after the war had ended, the knights broke the seals, opened the chamber, and made it a place of pilgrimage, as they had done with Huma’s Tomb. The Chamber of Paladine had been rededicated; Sturm Brightblade was made a national hero. Tanis had been present that day, as had his wife, Laurana; Caramon and Tika; Porthios and Alhana—rulers of Silvanesti and Qualinesti, the elven nations; and the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot.

Raistlin Majere, Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas and already turned to darkness, had not come, but he had sent a message of respect for his old comrade and friend.

The bodies of the dead had been laid unceremoniously on the floor during the dark days of the war. At this ceremony, they were given proper and seemly burial. A special catafalque had been built to hold Sturm’s body.

Made of marble and carved with images of the knight’s heroic exploits, the catafalque stood in the very center of the chamber. Sturm’s body lay on it, not entombed.

Some sort of magic had kept the body from decay these twenty-some years. No one was certain, but most believed the magic emanated from the elven jewel, given to him in love by Alhana Starbreeze. The jewel was a token exchanged between lovers; it was not supposed to have any such powerful arcane properties. But, then, love works its own magic.

Tanis had not visited the chamber since that day. That solemn occasion had been far too painful and blessed for him to repeat. Now he had returned, but he didn’t feel either solemn or blessed. Looking around the room, with its ancient coffins, covered with dust, the catafalque standing in the center, Tanis felt trapped. If anything went wrong, they were a long way from the stairs, the iron doors, and escape.

“Nothing will go wrong,” Tanis said to himself. “Steel will look on the body of his father, and he’ll either be affected by it or he won’t. Personally, I don’t expect this to have any effect on him. As near as I can judge, that young man is well on his way to the Abyss. But, then, what do I know? I never expected us to get this far.”

Sir Wilhelm, looking as sorrowful as if he were burying his own kin, led the way to the catafalque. The six knights formed ranks around it—three on either side. Sir Wilhelm stood at stiff attention at the head of the bier.

Tanis approached the catafalque. He looked on the face of his friend—the face that seemed as one with the carved marble, yet held the remembrance of life; a thing the coldstone could never emulate. Tanis forgot Steel; he felt peace surround him. He no longer grieved for his friend; Sturm had died as he had lived—with honor and courage.

It did Tanis good to see the knight’s untroubled sleep. Tanis’s fretful worries over his own son, over the hectic political situations, the brooding threat of war, all vanished. Life was good, sweet; but there was a greater good waiting.

Sturm Brightblade lay on his marble bier, his hands folded over the hilt of an antique sword—his father’s sword. He was clad in his father’s armor. The star jewel, shining with the light of love, gleamed on his breast.

A dragonlance lay alongside him. Next to it was a wooden rose, carved by the hands of a grieving old dwarf, now sleeping his own restful sleep.

Beside the rose, encapsulated in crystal, was a white feather, a final gift of a loving kender.

Tanis knelt on one knee beside the body. His head level with the knight’s, Tanis spoke to his friend softly in Elvish. “Sturm, honorable, gentle, noble heart. I know you have forgiven Kitiara for what she did to you, for her treachery, her deceit—more painful for you than the spear she finally used to slay you. This young man is her son, far too much her son, I fear.

“Yet, there is, I think, something of you in him, my friend. Now that I stand here, I believe that you truly are his father. I see the resemblance in your features, but, stronger than physical evidence, I see you in this young man’s spirit, in his dauntless courage, in his nobility of character, in the compassion for others that he counts as a mark against himself.

“Your son is in danger, Sturm. The Dark Queen draws him near, whispering her words of seduction, promising him glory that must surely end in ultimate defeat. He needs your help, my friend, if such help is possible for you to grant. I regret disturbing your peaceful slumber, but I am asking you, Sturm, to do whatever you can to draw your son away from the dark path he now walks.”