Margaret Weis: The Second Generation

“You big doorknob,” she said fondly. “I was only teasing. Of course, we’ll go to bed and 'talk,' but you just remember that 'talking' was what got us the boys and the girls in the first place! Come on.” She tugged playfully at his apron. “Douse the lights and bolt the door. We’ll leave the rest of the work until morning.”

Caramon, grinning, slammed shut the door. He was just about to slide the heavy wooden bar across it when there came a faint knock from outside.

“Oh, blast!” Tika frowned. “Who could that be at this time of night?"

Hastily, she blew out the candle in her hand. “Pretend we didn’t hear it. Maybe they’ll go away.”

“I don’t know,” the soft-hearted Caramon began. “It’s going to frost tonight—”

“Oh, Caramon!” Tika said, exasperated. “There are other inns—”

The knocking was repeated, louder this time, and a voice called, “Innkeep? I’m sorry if s late, but I am alone and in desperate need.”

“It"s a woman,” said Caramon, and Tika knew she’d lost. Her husband might—just might—be persuaded to allow a man to go in search of another inn on a cold night, but a woman, especially one traveling alone—never.

It didn’t hurt to argue a bit anyway. “And what’s a lone female doing wandering about at this time of night? Up to no good, I’ll wager.”

“Oh, now, Tika,” began Caramon, in the wheedling tone she knew so well, “you can’t say that. Maybe she’s going to visit a sick relative and darkness caught her on the road or—”

Tika lit the candle. “Go ahead. Open up.”

“I’m coming,” the big man roared. Heading for the door, he paused, glanced back at his wife. “You should toss a log onto the kitchen fire. She might be hungry.”

“Then she can eat cold meat and cheese,” Tika snapped, slamming the candle down on the table.

Tika had red hair and, though its color had grayed and softened with age, her temper had not. Caramon dropped the subject of hot food.

“She’s probably real tired,” he said, hoping to pacify his wife. “Likely she’ll go straight to her room.”

“Humpf!” Tika snorted. “Are you going to open the door or let her freeze out there?” Arms akimbo, she glared at her husband.

Caramon, flushing and ducking his head, hastened to open the door.

A woman stood framed in the doorway. She was not what either had expected, however, and even the soft-hearted Caramon, at the sight of her, appeared to have second thoughts about letting her in.

She was heavily cloaked and booted and wore the helm and leather gloves indicative of a dragon rider. That in itself was not unusual; many dragon riders passed through Solace these days. But the helm and cloak and gloves were a deep blue, trimmed in black. The light caught a glint of blue scales, glistening on her leather breeches and black boots. A blue dragon rider.

Such a person had not been seen in Solace since the days of the war, for good reason. Had she been discovered in daylight, she would have been stoned. Or, at the very least, arrested and made prisoner. Even these days, twenty-five years after the end of the war, the people of Solace remembered clearly the blue dragons that had burned and leveled their town, killed many of their kin. And there were veterans who’d fought in the War of the Lance—Caramon and Tika among them—who recalled with hatred the blue dragons and their riders, servants of the Queen of Darkness.

The eyes in the shadow of the blue helm met Caramon’s steadily. “Do you have a room for the night, Innkeep? I have ridden far, and I am very tired.”

The voice that came from behind the mask sounded wistful, weary... and nervous. The woman kept to the shadows that had gathered around the door. Awaiting Caramon’s answer, she glanced over her shoulder twice, looking not at the ground, but at the skies.

Caramon turned to his wife. Tika was a shrewd judge of character—an easy skill to acquire, if you like people, which Tika did. She gave a quick, abrupt nod.

Caramon backed up and motioned for the dragon rider to enter. She took one final look over her shoulder, then hastily slid inside, keeping out of the direct light. Caramon himself took a look out the door before he shut it.

The sky was brightly lit; the red and the silver moons were up and close together, though not as close as they’d be in a few days' time. The black moon was out there, too, somewhere, the moon only those who worshipped the Dark Queen could see. These celestial bodies held sway over three forces: good, evil, and the balance between.

Caramon slammed the door shut and dropped the heavy bar across it.

The woman flinched at the sound of the bar thudding into place. She’d been trying to unlatch the clasp of the pin that held her cloak together—a large brooch wrought of mother-of-pearl that gave off a faint and eerie glow in the dimness of the candlelit inn. Her hands shook, and she dropped the brooch to the floor. Caramon bent and started to pick it up. The woman moved quickly to forestall him, attempted to hide it.

Caramon stopped her, frowning. “An odd adornment,” he said, forcing open the woman’s hand for Tika to view the pin. He found, now that he studied it, that he was loath to touch it.

Tika peered at the brooch. Her lips tightened. Perhaps she was thinking her infallible judge of character had failed her at last. “A black lily.”

A black, waxen flower with four pointed petals and a blood-red center, the black lily is reputed by elven legend to spring up from the graves of those who have met their deaths by violence. The black lily is said to grow from the heart of the murdered victim and, if plucked, the broken stem will bleed.

The dragon rider snatched her hand away, slid the brooch back into the black fur that trimmed her cloak.

“Where’ve you left your dragon?” Caramon asked grimly.

“Hidden in a valley near here. You needn’t worry, Inn-keep. She’s under my control and completely loyal to me. She won’t harm anyone.” The woman withdrew the blue leather helm she wore to protect her face during flight. “I give you my word.”

Once the helm was removed, the frightening, formidable dragon rider disappeared. In its place stood a woman of perhaps middle age; it was hard to tell how old she was by looking. Her face was lined, but with sorrow more than years. Her braided hair was gray, prematurely gray, it seemed. Her eyes were not the cruel, hard, merciless eyes of those who serve Takhisis, but were gentle and sad and... frightened.

“And we believe you, my lady,” said Tika, with a defiant glance at the silent Caramon—a glance that, to be honest, the big man didn’t deserve.

was always slow to react, not because he was thick-witted (as even his best friends had once thought, in his youth), but because he always considered each new or unusual occurrence from every conceivable angle.

Such rumination gave him the appearance of slowness, and frequently drove the quick-thinking among his comrades (including his wife) to distraction. But Caramon refused to be hurried and often came up with some astonishingly insightful conclusions in consequence.

“You’re shivering, my lady,” Tika added, while her husband stood flat-footed, staring at nothing. Tika left him be. She knew the signs of her husband’s mind at work. She drew the woman close to the fire pit. “Sit here. I’ll stir up the blaze. Would you like some hot food? It will take me only a minute to whip up the kitchen fire—”

“No, thank you. Don’t bother about the fire. It’s not the cold that makes me shiver.” The woman said the last in a low voice. She fell more than sat on a bench.

Tika dropped the poker she was using to stoke the fire. “What is wrong, my lady? You’ve escaped some dreadful prison, haven’t you? And you’re being pursued.”