Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“There is no easy way to say this, so I will be blunt and direct.” Justarius drew a deep breath; his face became grave and sorrowful, touched with a shadow of fear. “We have reason to believe that the young man’s uncle—your twin brother, Raistlin—is not dead."

“This place shivers my skin!” Tanin muttered, with a sideways glance at his youngest brother.

Slowly sipping a cup of tarbean tea, Palin stared into the flames of the fire, pretending not to have heard Tanin’s remark, which he knew was addressed to him.

“Oh, in the name of the Abyss, would you sit down!” Sturm said, tossing pieces of bread at his brother. “You’re going to walk yourself right through the floor, and the gods only know what’s beneath us.”

Tanin merely frowned, shook his head, and continued his pacing.

“Reorx’s beard, Brother!” Sturm continued almost incomprehensibly, his mouth full of cheese. “You’d think we were in a draconian dungeon instead of what might pass for a room in one of the finest inns in Palanthas itself! Good food, great ale—” he took a long pull to wash down the cheese —“and there’d be pleasant company if you weren’t acting like such a doorknob!”

“Well, we aren’t in one of the finest inns in Palanthas,” said Tanin sarcastically, stopping in his pacing to catch a hunk of thrown bread. Grinding it to bits in his hand, he tossed it on the floor. “We’re in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. We’ve been spirited into this room. The damn doors are locked, and we can’t get out. We have no idea what these wizards have done with Father, and all you can think of is cheese and ale!”

“That's not all I’m thinking of,” Sturm said quietly with a nod of his head and a worried glance at their little brother, who was still staring into the fire.

“Yeah,” Tanin snapped gloomily, his gaze following Sturm’s. “I’m thinking of him, too! If s his fault we’re here in the first place!” Moodily kicking a table leg as he walked past, Tanin resumed his pacing. Seeing his little brother flinch at his older brother’s words, Sturm sighed and returned to his sport of trying to hit Tanin between the shoulder blades with the bread.

Anyone observing the older two young men (as some one was at this very moment) might have taken them for twins, though they were—in reality—a year apart in age. Twenty-four and twenty-three respectfully, Tanin and Sturm (named for Caramon’s best friend, Tanis Half-Elven, and the heroic Knight of Solamnia, Sturm Brightblade) looked, acted, and even thought alike. Indeed, they often played the part of twins and enjoyed nothing so much as when people mistook one for the other.

Big and brawny, each young man had Caramon’s splendid physique and his genial, honest face. But the bright red curls and dancing green eyes that wreaked such havoc among the women the young men met came directly from their mother, who had broken her share of hearts in her youth. One of the beauties of Krynn as well as a renowned warrior, Tika Waylan had grown a little plumper since the days when she bashed draconians over the head with her skillet. But heads still turned when Tika waited tables in her fluffy, low-necked white blouse, and there were few men who left the Inn of the Last Home without shaking their heads and swearing that Caramon was a lucky fellow.

The green eyes of young Sturm were not dancing now, however. Instead, they glinted mischievously as, with a wink at his younger brother—who wasn’t watching—Sturm rose silently to his feet and, positioning himself behind the preoccupied Tanin, quietly drew his sword. Just as Tanin turned around, Sturm stuck the sword blade between his brother’s legs, tripping him and sending him to the floor with a crash that seemed to shake the very foundation of the tower.

“Damn you for a lame-brained gully dwarf!” roared Tanin. Clambering to his feet, he leapt after his brother, who was scrambling to get out of the way.

Tanin caught him and, grabbing hold of the grinning Sturm by the collar of his tunic, sent him sprawling backward into the table, smashing it to the floor. Tanin jumped on top of his brother, and the two were engaged in their usual rough-and-tumble antics, which had left several barrooms in Ansalon in shambles, when a quiet voice brought the tussle to a halt.

“Stop it,” said Palin tensely, rising from his chair by the fire. “Stop it, both of you! Remember where you are!”

“I remember where I am,” Tanin said sulkily, gazing up at his youngest brother.

As tall as the older two young men, Palin was well-built. Given to study rather than swordplay, however, he lacked the heavy musculature of the two warriors. He had his mother’s red hair, but it was not fiery red, being nearer a dark auburn. He wore his hair long—it flowed to his shoulders in soft waves from a central part on his forehead. But it was the young man’s face—his face and his hands—that sometimes haunted the dreams of his mother and father. Fine-boned, with penetrating, intelligent eyes that always seemed to be seeing right through one, Palin’s face had the look of his uncle, if not his features. Palin’s hands were Raistlin’s, however. Slender, delicate, the fingers quick and deft, the young man handled the fragile spell components with such skill that his father was often torn between watching with pride and looking away in sadness.

Just now, the hands were clenched into fists as Palin glared grimly at his two older brothers lying on the floor amid spilled ale, pieces of bread, crockery, a half-eaten cheese, and shards of broken table.

“Then try to behave with some dignity, at least!” Palin snapped.

“I remember where I am,” Tanin repeated angrily. Getting to his feet, he walked over to stand in front of Palin, staring at him accusingly. “And I remember who brought us here! Riding through that accursed wood that damn near got us killed—”

“Nothing in Wayreth Forest will hurt you,” Palin returned, looking at the mess on the floor in disgust. “As I’d have told you if you’d only listened. This forest is controlled by the wizards in the tower. It protects them from unwanted intruders. We have been invited here. The trees let us pass without harm. The voices you heard whispered only the fears in your own heart. If s magic—”

“You listen, Palin,” Tanin interrupted in what Sturm always referred to as his Elder Brother voice. “Why don’t you just drop all this magic business? You’re hurting Father and Mother—Father most of all. You saw his face when we rode up to this place! The gods know what it must have cost him to come back here.”

Flushing, Palin turned away, biting his lip.

“Oh, lay off the kid, will you, Tanin?” Sturm said, seeing the pain on his younger brother’s face. Wiping ale from his pants, he somewhat shamefacedly began trying to put the table back together—a hopeless task, considering most of it was in splinters.

“You had the makings of a good swordsman once, Little Brother,” Tanin said persuasively, ignoring Sturm and putting his hand on Palin’s shoulder.

“C’mon, kid. Tell whoever’s out there”—Tanin waved his hand somewhat vaguely—“that you’ve changed your mind. We can leave this cursed place, then, and go home—”

“We have no idea why they asked us to come here,” Palin retorted, shaking off his brother’s hand. “It probably has nothing to do with me! Why should it?” he asked bitterly. “I’m still a student. It will be years before I am ready to take my test... thanks to Father and Mother,” he muttered beneath his breath.

Tanin did not hear it, but the unseen observer did.

“Yeah? And I’m a half-ogre,” retorted Tanin angrily. “Look at me when I’m talking, Palin—”