Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“Feeling better?” Dalamar asked as Palin raised himself dizzily from the couch on which he lay. “Here, a sip of wine. It is elven, a fine vintage. I have it 'shipped' to me from Silvanesti, unknown to the Silvanesti elves, of course. This was the first wine made following the land’s destruction. It has a dark, faintly bitter taste—as of tears. Some of my people, I am told, cannot drink it without weeping.” Pouring a glassful, Dalamar held the deep purple-hued liquid out to Palin. “I find, in fact, that even when I drink it, a feeling of sadness comes over me.”

“Homesick,” suggested Caramon, shaking his head as Dalamar offered him a glass. Palin knew by the tone of his father’s voice that he was upset and unhappy, frightened for his son. He sat stolidly in his chair, however, trying to appear unconcerned. Palin cast him a grateful glance as he drank the wine, feeling its warming influence banish the strange chill.

Oddly enough, the wine was making him think about his home. “Homesick,"

Caramon had said. Palin expected Dalamar to scoff or sneer at this statement. Dark elves are, after all, “cast from the light” of elven society, banned from entering the ancient homelands. Dalamar’s sin had been to take the Black Robes, to seek power in dark magic. Bound hand and foot, his eyes blindfolded, he had been driven in a cart to the borders of his homeland and there thrown out, never more to be admitted. To the elves, whose centuries-long lives are bound up in their beloved woods and gardens, to be dismissed from the ancestral lands is worse than death.

Dalamar appeared so cool and unfeeling about everything, however, that Palin was surprised to see a look of wistful longing and swift sorrow pass over the dark elf’s face. It was gone as quickly as a ripple over quiet water, but he had seen it nonetheless. He felt less in awe of the dark elf. So something could touch him, after all.

Sipping the wine, tasting the faint bitterness, Palin’s thought went to his home, the splendid house his father had built with his own hands, the inn that was his parents' pride and joy. He thought about the town of Solace, nestled among the leaves of the great vallenwood trees, a town he had left only to attend school, as must all young, aspiring magic-users. He thought of his mother, of the two little sisters who were the bane of his existence—stealing his pouches, trying to peek under his robes, hiding his spell-books.

... What would it be like—never seeing them again?

... never seeing them again ...

Palin’s hand began to tremble. Carefully, he set the fragile glass down upon the table near his chair, fearing he might drop it or spill his wine. He looked around hurriedly to see if either his father or Dalamar had noticed.

Neither had, both being engaged in a quiet discussion near the window overlooking the city of Palanthas.

“You have never been back to the laboratory since?” Caramon was asking, his voice low.

Dalamar shook his head. He had removed the hood of his robes, and his long, silky hair brushed his shoulders. “I went back the week you left,” he replied, “to make certain all was in order. And then I sealed it shut.”

“So everything is still there,” Caramon murmured. Palin saw his father’s shrewd gaze turn to the dark elf, who was staring out the window, his face cold and expressionless. “It must contain objects that would grant tremendous power to a wizard, or so I would guess. What is in there?”

Almost holding his breath, Palin rose from his chair and crept silently across the beautiful, luxurious carpet to hear the dark elf’s answer.

“The spellbooks of Fistandantilus, Raistlin’s own spell-books, his notes on herb lore and, of course, his staff—”

“His staff?” Palin asked suddenly.

Both men turned to look at the young man, Caramon’s face grave, Dalamar’s faintly amused.

“You told me my uncle’s staff was lost!” Palin said to his father accusingly.

“And so it is, young one,” Dalamar answered. “The spell I put upon that chamber is such that even the rats do not come anywhere near it. None may enter on pain of death. If the famed Staff of Magius were at the bottom of the Blood Sea, it could not be more effectively lost to this world than it is now.”

“There’s one other thing in that laboratory,” Caramon said slowly in sudden realization. “The Portal to the Abyss. If we can’t get in the laboratory, how are we supposed to look inside the portal or whatever fool thing you wizards want me to do to prove to you my twin is dead?”

Dalamar was silent, twirling the thin-stemmed wineglass in his hand thoughtfully, his gaze abstracted. Watching him, Caramon’s face flushed red in anger. “This was a ruse! You never meant it, any of you! What do mean, bringing us here? What do you want of me?”

“Nothing of you, Caramon,” Dalamar answered coolly.

Caramon blenched. “No!” he cried in a choked voice. “Not my son! Damn you, wizards! I won’t allow it!” Taking a step forward, he grabbed hold of Dalamar ... and gasped in pain. Yanking his hand back, Caramon flexed it, rubbing his arm, which felt as though he had touched lightning.

“Father, please! Don’t interfere!” murmured Palin, going to his father’s side.

The young man glanced angrily at Dalamar. “There was no need for that!”

“I warned him,” Dalamar said, shrugging. “You see, Caramon, my friend, we cannot open the door from the outside.” The dark elf’s gaze went to Palin.

“But there is one here for whom the door may open from the inside!”

For me, the gates will open....

Palin whispered the words to himself as he climbed the dark and winding stairs. Night had stolen upon Palanthas, sealing the city in darkness, deepening the perpetual gloom that hung about the Tower of High Sorcery.

Solinari, the silver moon beloved of Paladine, shone in the sky, but its white rays did not touch the tower. Those inside gazed upon another moon, a dark moon, a moon only their eyes could see.

The stone stairs were pitch black. Though Caramon carried a torch, its feeble, wavering flame was overwhelmed by the darkness. He might have been holding a burning wisp of straw for all the light the torch shed. Groping his way up the stairs, Palin stumbled more than once. Each time, his heart pulsed painfully, and he pressed himself close against the chill, damp wall, dosing his eyes. The core of the tower was a hollow shaft. The stairs ascended it in a dizzying spiral, protruding from the wall like the bones of some dead animal.

“You are safe, young one,” Dalamar said, his hand on Palin’s arm. “This was designed to discourage unwelcome intruders. The magic protects us. Don’t look down. It will be easier.”

“Why did we have to walk?” Palin asked, stopping to catching his breath.

As young as he was, the steep climb had taken its toll. His legs ached; his lungs burned. He could only imagine what his father must be feeling. Even the dark elf appeared to be at a loss for breath, though Dalamar’s face in the dim light was as cold and impassive as ever. “Couldn’t we have used magic?”

“I will not waste my energies,” Dalamar replied, “not on this night of all nights.”

Seeing the slanted eyes observing him coolly, Palin said nothing, but began climbing again, keeping his eyes staring straight ahead and upward.

“There is our destination.” Dalamar pointed. Looking up at the top of the stairs, Palin saw a small doorway.

For me, the gates will open....

Raistlin’s words. Palin’s fear began to subside, and excitement surged through his blood. His steps quickened. Behind him, he heard Dalamar’s light tread and his father’s heavier, booted one. He could also hear Caramon’s labored breathing, and felt a twinge of remorse.