Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“Do you want to rest, Father?” he asked, stopping and turning around.

“No,” Caramon grunted. “Let’s get this foolishness over with. Then we can go home.”

His voice was gruff, but Palin heard a strange note in it, a note he had never heard before. Turning slowly around to face the door, Palin knew it for what it was—fear. His father was afraid. It wasn’t just the dreadful climb, or the voices whispering of doom and despair. He was afraid of everything within this place.

Palin knew then a secret feeling of joy—one his uncle must have known. His father—Hero of the Lance, the strongest man he knew, who could, even now, wrestle the brawny Tanin to the ground and disarm the skilled swordsman, Sturm—his father was frightened, frightened of the magic.

He is afraid, Palin realized, and I am not! Closing his eyes, Palin leaned back against the chill wall of the tower and, for the first time in his life, gave himself up to the magic. He felt it burn in his blood, caress his skin. The words it whispered were no longer of doom, but of welcome, of invitation. His body trembled with the ecstasy of the magic and, opening his eyes, Palin saw his exultation reflected in the dark elf’s intense, glittering gaze.

“Now you taste the power!” Dalamar whispered. “Go forward, Palin, go forward.”

Smiling to himself, cocooned in the warmth of his euphoria, Palin climbed the stairs rapidly, all fear forgotten. For him, the door would open. He had no doubts. Why or by whose hand, he did not speculate. It did not matter.

Finally, he would be inside the ancient laboratory where some of the greatest magic upon Krynn had been performed. He would see the spellbooks of the legendary Fistandantilus, the spellbooks of his uncle. He would see the great and terrible portal that led from this world into the Abyss. And he would see the famed Staff of Magius....

Palin had long dreamt of his uncie’s staff. Of all Raistlin’s arcane treasures, this intrigued Palin most, perhaps because he had seen it portrayed so often in paintings or because it always figured prominently in legend and song. Palin even owned one such painting (he kept it wrapped in silk, hidden in his bedroom) of Raistlin in his black robes, the Staff of Magius in his hand, battling the Queen of Darkness.

If he had lived to teach me, and I had been worthy of him, perhaps he might have given me the staff, Palin thought wistfully every time he looked at the painting of the wooden staff with its golden dragon claw clutching a shining, faceted, crystal ball.

Now I will at least get to see it, perhaps even get to hold it! Palin shivered in delicious anticipation at the thought. And what else will we find in the laboratory? he wondered. What will we see when we look into the portal?

“AH will be as my father said,” Palin whispered, feeling a momentary pang.

“Raistlin is at rest. It must be! Father would be hurt, so terribly hurt, otherwise.”

If Palin’s heart was whispering other words, the young man ignored them. His uncle was dead. His father had said so. Nothing else was possible; nothing else was to be wished for....

“Stop!” hissed Dalamar, his hand closing about Palin’s arm .

Starting, Palin halted. He had been so lost in his thoughts, he had scarcely noticed where he was. Now he saw that they had come to a large landing, located directly below the laboratory door. Looking up the short flight of stairs that led to it, Palin drew in his breath with a gasp. Two cold, white eyes stared at them out of the darkness—eyes without a body, unless the darkness itself was their flesh and blood and bone. Falling back a step, Palin stumbled into Dalamar.

“Steady, young one,” the dark elf commanded, supporting Palin. “It is the Guardian.”

Behind them, the torchlight wavered. “I remember them,” Caramon said hoarsely. 'They can kill you with a touch ”

“Living beings,” came the specter’s hollow voice, “I smell your warm blood. I hear your hearts beating. Come forward. You awaken my hunger!”

Shoving Palin to one side, Dalamar stepped in front of him. The white eyes glistened for an instant, then lowered in homage.

“Master of the Tower. I did not sense your presence. It has been long since you have visited this place.”

“Your vigil remains undisturbed?” Dalamar asked. “None have tried to enter?”

“Do you see their bones upon these floors? For surely you would, if any had dared disobey your command.”

“Excellent,” Dalamar said. “Now, I give you a new command. Give me the key to the lock. Then stand aside, and let us pass.”

The white eyes flared open, a pale, eager light shining from them.

“That cannot be, Master of the Tower.”

“Why not?” Dalamar asked coolly. His hands folded in the sleeves of his black robes, he glanced at Caramon as he spoke.

“Your command, master, was to Take this key and keep it for all eternity. Give it to no one,' you said, 'not even myself. And from this moment on, your place is to guard this door. No one is to enter. Let death be swift for those who try.' Thus were your words to me, master, and—as you see—I obey them.”

Dalamar nodded his hooded head. “Do you?” he murmured, taking a step forward. Palin caught his breath, seeing the white eyes glow even more brightly. “What will you do if I come up there?”

“Your magic is powerful, master,” said the specter, the disembodied eyes drifting nearer Dalamar, “but it can have no effect on me. There was only one who had that power—”

“Yes,” said Dalamar irritably, hesitating, his foot upon the first stair.

“Do not come closer, master,” the being warned, though Palin could see the eyes shining with a lust that brought sudden visions of cold lips touching his cringing flesh, drinking away his life. Shuddering, he wrapped his arms around his shivering body and sagged back against the wall. The warm feeling was gone, replaced by the chill of this horrible creature, the chill of death and disappointment. He felt nothing inside now, just empty and cold. Perhaps I will give it up. It isn’t worth it. Palin’s head drooped. Then his father’s hand was on his shoulder, his father’s voice echoing his thoughts.

“Come, Palin,” Caramon said wearily. “This has all been for nothing. Let"s go home—”

“Wait!” The gaze of the disembodied eyes shifted from the dark elf to the two figures that huddled behind him. “Who are these? One I recognize—”

“Yes,” said Caramon, his voice low, “you’ve seen me before.”

“His brother,” murmured the specter. “But who is this? The young one? Him I do not know....”

“C’mon, Palin,” Caramon ordered gruffly, casting a fearful glance at the eyes. “We’ve got a long journey—”

Caramon’s arm encircled Palin’s shoulders. The young man felt his father’s gentle urging and tried to turn away, but his gaze was fixed on the specter, which was staring at him strangely.

“Wait!” the specter commanded again, its hollow voice ringing through the darkness. Even the whispers fell silent at its command. “Palin?” it murmured softly, speaking questioningly, it seemed, to itself... or to someone else...

A decision was reached, apparently, because the voice became firm. “Palin. Come forward.”

“No!” Caramon grasped his son.

“Let him go!” Dalamar ordered, glancing around with a furious look. “I told you this might happen! It is our chance!” He gazed coldly at Caramon. “Or are you afraid of what you might find?”

“I am not!” Caramon returned in a choked voice. “Raistlin is dead! I have seen him at peace! I don’t trust you mages! You’re not going to take my son from me!”

Palin could feel his father’s body trembling near his. He could see the anguish in his father’s eyes. Compassion and pity stirred within the young man. There was a brief longing to stay safe within his father’s strong, sheltering arms, but these feelings were burned away by a hot anger that surged up from somewhere inside of him, an anger kindled by the magic.