Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“Did you give Tanin a sword then bid him break it?” Palin demanded, pulling free of his father’s grip. “Did you give Sturm a shield and tell him to hide behind it? Oh, I know!” Palin snapped, seeing Caramon, his face flushed, about to speak. “ That is different. That is something you understand. You’ve never understood me, have you, Father? How many years was it before I persuaded you to let me go to school, to study with the master who had taught my uncle? When you finally relented, I was the oldest beginning student there! For years, I was behind the others, working to catch up. And all the time, I could sense you and mother watching me anxiously. I could hear you talking at night, saying that maybe I’d outgrown this 'fancy.' Fancy! ” Palin’s voice grew agonized. “Can’t you see? The magic is my life! My love! ”

“No, Palin, don’t say that!” Caramon cried, his voice breaking.

“Why not? Because I sound like my uncle? You never understood him, either! You aren’t intending to let me take the Test, are you, Father?”

Caramon stood without moving, refusing to answer, staring grimly into the darkness.

“No,” said Palin softly. “You aren’t. You’re going to do everything in your power to stop me. Maybe even this!” The young man turned to look at Dalamar suspiciously. “Maybe this is some foul stew you and your friends here have cooked up to feed to me so that I’ll quit! It gives you all the perfect excuse! Well, it won’t work.” Palin’s cold gaze went from Dalamar to his father. “I hope you choke on it!”

Stepping past the dark elf, Palin put his foot upon the first step, his eyes on the specter, which floated above him.

“Come, Palin”—a pallid hand appeared from nowhere, beckoning—“come closer.”

“No!” Caramon screamed in rage, jumping forward.

“I will do this, Father!” Palin took another step.

Caramon reached out to grasp his son. There came a spoken word of magic, and the big man was frozen to the stone floor. “You must not interfere,"

Dalamar said sternly.

Glancing back, Palin saw his father—tears streaming down his face—still struggling in impotent fury to break free of the spell that bound him. For a moment, Palin’s heart misgave him. His father loved him.... No. Palin’s lips tightened in resolution. All the more reason for letting me go. I will prove to him I am as strong as Tanin and Sturm. I will make him proud of me as he is proud of them. I will show him I am not a child, needing his protection.

Palin saw Dalamar start to ascend the stairs behind him. But then the dark elf himself came to a halt as two more pairs of disembodied eyes suddenly materialized out of the darkness and ranked themselves around him.

“What is this?” Dalamar demanded furiously. “Do you dare stop me—the Master of the Tower?”

“There is only one true Master of the Tower,” the Guardian said softly. “He who came to us long ago. For him, the gates opened.”

As the Guardian spoke, it held out its pallid hand. A silver key lay within its skeletal palm.

“Palin!” Dalamar shouted, fear and anger tightening his voice. “Don’t enter alone! You know nothing of the Art! You have not taken the Test! You cannot fight him! You could destroy us all!”

“Palin!” Caramon begged in agony. “Palin, come home! Can’t you understand? I love you so much, my son! I can’t lose you—not like I lost him”

The voices dinned in his ears, but Palin didn’t hear them. He heard another voice, a soft, shattered voice whispering in his heart. Come to me, Palin! I need you! I need your help ...

A thrill tingled in his blood. Reaching out, Palin took the key from the specter and, his hand shaking with fear and excitement, finally managed to insert the silver key into the ornate silver lock.

There was a sharp click. Placing the tips of his five fingers on the oaken panel, Palin gave a gentle push.

For him, the door opened.

Palin entered the dark laboratory, slowly, exultantly, his body shaking in excitement. He glanced back to see if Dalamar was behind him (to gloat a little, if the truth must be told) when the door slammed shut. There was a click, a snap. Sudden fear assailed Palin, trapped alone in the dark ness. Frantically, he groped for the silver door handle, his fingers trying desperately to fit the key in the lock—a key that vanished in his hand.

“Palin!” On the other side of the door, he heard his father’s frantic shout, but it sounded muffled and far away. There was a scuffling sound outside the door, muttered words of chanting, and then a thud, as though something heavy had smote it.

The thick oaken door shivered, and light flared from beneath it.

“Dalamar’s cast a spell,” Palin said to himself, backing up. The thud was probably his father’s broad shoulder. Nothing happened. From somewhere behind him, Palin noticed a faint light beginning to glow in the laboratory. His fear diminished. Shrugging, the young man turned away. Nothing they did could open that door. He knew that, somehow, and he smiled. For the first time in his life, he was doing something on his own, without father or brothers or master around to “help.” The thought was exhilarating. Sighing with pleasure, Palin relaxed and looked around, a tingle of joy surging through his body.

He had heard this chamber described to him only twice—once by Caramon and once by Tanis Half-Elven. Caramon never spoke about what had happened that day in this laboratory, the day his twin had died. It had been only after much pleading on Palin’s part that his father had told him the story at all—and then only in brief, halting words. Caramon’s best friend, Tanis, had been more elaborate, though there were parts of the bittersweet tale of ambition, love, and self-sacrifice about which not even Tanis could talk. Their descriptions had been accurate, however. The laboratory looked just as Palin had pictured it in his dreams.

Walking slowly inside, examining every detail, Palin held his breath in reverent awe.

Nothing and no one had disturbed the great chamber in twenty-five years. As Dalamar had said, no living being had dared enter it. Gray dust lay thick on the floor—no skittering mice feet had disturbed its drifted surface—as smooth and trackless as new fallen snow. The dust sifted from the window ledges where no spider spun its web, no bat flapped its leathery wings in anger at being awakened.

The size of the chamber was difficult to determine. At first, Palin had thought it small, logic telling him it couldn’t be very large, located as it was at the top of the tower. But the longer he stayed, the larger the chamber seemed to grow.

“Or is it me that grows smaller?” Palin whispered. “I am not even a mage. I don’t belong here,” said his mind. But his heart answered, You never really belonged anywhere else....

The air was heavy with the odors of mildew and dust. There lingered still a faint spicy smell, familiar to the young man. Palin saw the light glint off rows of jars filled with dried leaves, rose petals, and other herbs and spices lining one wall—spell components. There was another smell, too, this one not so pleasant—the smell of decay, of death. The skeletons of strange and unfamiliar creatures lay curled at the bottoms of several large jars on the floor or the huge, stone table. Remembering rumors of his uncle’s experiments in creating life, Palin gave them a glance and looked hurriedly away.

He examined the stone table, with its runes and polished surface. Had it really been dragged from the bottom of the sea as legend told? Palin wondered, running his fingers lovingly over the smooth top, leaving behind a spidery trail in the dust. His hand touched the high stool next to the table.