Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“Just leave me alone!”

“Hey, you two—” Sturm the peacemaker started to intervene when the three young men suddenly realized they were not alone in the room.

All quarrels forgotten, the brothers acted instantly. Sturm rose to his feet with the quickness of a cat. His hand on the hilt of his sword, he joined Tanin, who had already moved to stand protectively in front of the unarmed Palin. Like all magic-users, the young man carried neither sword nor shield nor wore armor. But his hand went to the dagger he wore concealed beneath his robes, his mind already forming the words of the few defensive spells he had been allowed to learn.

“Who are you?” Tanin asked harshly, staring at the man standing in the center of the locked room. “How did you get in here?”

“As to how I got here”—the man smiled expansively—“there are no walls in the Tower of High Sorcery for those who walk with magic. As for who I am, my name is Dunbar Mastersmate, of Northern Ergoth.”

“What do you want?” Sturm asked quietly.

“Want? Why—to make certain you are comfortable, that is all,” Dunbar answered. “I am your host—”

“You? A magic-user?” Tanin gaped, and even Palin seemed slightly startled.

In a world where wizards are noted for having more brains than brawn, this man was obviously the exception. Standing as tall as Tanin, he had a barrel of a chest that Caramon might well have envied. Muscles rippled beneath the shining black skin of his bare chest. His arms looked as though he could have picked up the stalwart Sturm and carried him about the room as easily as if he had been a child. He was not dressed in robes, but wore bright-colored, loose-fitting trousers. The only hint that he might have been a wizard at all came from the pouches that hung at his waist and a white sash that girdled his broad middle.

Dunbar laughed, booming laughter that set the dishes rattling.

“Aye,” he said, “I am a magic-user.” With that, he spoke a word of command, and the broken table, leaping to its legs, put itself back together with incredible speed. The ale vanished from the floor, and the cracked pitcher mended and floated up to rest on the table, where it was soon foaming with brew again. A roasted haunch of venison appeared, as did a loaf of fragrant bread, along with sundry other delicacies that caused Sturm’s mouth to water and cooled even Tanin’s ardor, though they did not allay his suspicions.

“Seat yourselves,” said Dunbar, “and let us eat. Do not worry about your father,” he added, as Tanin was about to speak. “He is in conference about important matters with the heads of the other two orders. Sit down! Sit down!” He grinned, white teeth flashing against his black skin. “Or shall I make you sit down... ?”

At this, Tanin let loose the hilt of his sword and pulled up a chair, though he did not eat but sat watching Dunbar warily. Sturm fell to with a good appetite, however. Only Palin remained standing, his hands folded in the sleeves of his white robes.

“Please, Palin,” said Dunbar more gently, looking at the young man, “be seated. Soon we will join your father, and you will discover the reason you have been brought here. In the meanwhile, I ask you to share bread and meat with me.”

“Thank you, master,” Palin said, bowing respectfully.

“Dunbar, Dunbar .. .” The man waved his hand. “You are my guests. We will not stand on formalities.”

Palin sat down and began to eat, but it was obvious he did so out of courtesy only. Dunbar and Sturm more than made up for him, however, and soon even Tanin was lured from his self-imposed role of protector by the delicious smells and the sight of the others enjoying themselves.

“You ... you said the heads of the other orders, mast—Dunbar,” Palin ventured. “Are you—”

“Head of the Order of White Robes. Yes.” Dunbar tore off a hunk of bread with his strong teeth and washed it down with a draft of ale, which he drank at one long swallow. “I took over when Par-Salian retired.”

“Head of the order?” Sturm looked at the big man in awe. “But—what kind of wizard are you? What do you do?”

“I’ll wager it’s more than pulling the wings off bats,” Tanin mumbled through a mouthful of meat.

Palin appeared shocked, and frowned at his older brother. But Dunbar only laughed again. “You’re right there!” he said with an oath. “I am a sea wizard. My father was a ship’s captain and his father before him. I had no use for captaining vessels. My skills lay in magic, but my heart was with the sea, and there I returned. Now I sail the waves and use my art to summon the wind or quell the storm. I can leave the enemy becalmed so that we may outrun him, or I can cast bursting flame onto his decks if we attack. And, when necessary”—Dunbar grinned—“I can take my turn at the bilge pump or turn the capstan with the best of them. Keeps me fit.” He pounded himself on his broad chest. “I understand you two”—he looked at Sturm and Tanin—“have returned from fighting the minotaurs who have been raiding the coast up north. I, too, have been involved in trying to stop those pirates. Tell me, did you—?”

The three were soon deeply involved in discussion. Even Tanin warmed to the subject, and was soon describing in vivid detail the ambush that had stopped the minotaurs from leveling the city of Kalaman. Dunbar listened attentively, asking intelligent questions, making comments, and appearing to enjoy himself very much.

But though the wizard’s shrewd gaze was concentrated on the warrior brothers, his attention was in truth on the youngest.

Seeing the three deep in conversation and himself apparently forgotten, Palin thankfully gave up all pretense of eating and went back to staring into the fire, never noticing Dunbar watching him.

The young man’s face was pale and thoughtful, the slender hands twisted together in his lap. So lost in his thoughts was he that his lips moved and, though he did not speak aloud, one other person in the room heard the words.

“Why have they brought me here? Can they read the secrets of my heart? Will they tell my father?”

And, finally, “How can I hurt him, who has suffered so much already?”

Nodding to himself as if he had found the answer to some unasked question, Dunbar sighed and turned his complete attention back to fighting minotaurs.

“You’re wrong,” said Caramon calmly. “My brother is dead.”

Raising his eyebrows, Justarius glanced at Dalamar, who shrugged. Of all the reactions they had been prepared for, this calm refutal had not been one of them, apparently. His expression grave, seeming uncertain what to say, Justarius looked back at Caramon.

“You talk as though you have proof.”

“I have,” said Caramon.

“May I ask what?” Dalamar inquired sarcastically. “The Portal to the Abyss dosed, after all-dosed with your brother’s help —leaving him trapped on the other side.” The dark elf’s voice dropped. “Her Dark Majesty would not kill him. Raistlin prevented her entry into this world. Her rage would know no bounds. She would take delight in tormenting him eternally. Death would have been Raistlin’s salvation.”

“And so it was,” said Caramon softly.

“Sentimental drivel—” Dalamar began impatiently, but Justarius once again laid his hand upon the dark elf’s arm, and the black-robed mage lapsed into seething silence.

“I hear certainty in your voice, Caramon,” Justarius said earnestly. “You have knowledge, obviously, that we do not. Share this with us. I know this is painful for you, but we face a decision of grave importance, and this may influence our actions.”

Caramon hesitated, frowning. “Does this have something to do with my son?”