Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“What—what are your plans?” Palin asked hoarsely.

“Very simple. As I said, I had long years to consider my mistake. My ambition was too great. I dared become a god-something mortals are not meant to do—as I was painfully reminded every morning when the Dark Queen’s talon ripped my flesh.”

Palin saw the thin lip curl for a moment and the golden eyes glint. The slender hand clenched in anger and remembered agony, its grip tightening painfully around the young man’s arm. “I learned my lesson,” Raistlin said bitterly, drawing a rasping, shuddering breath. “I have trimmed my ambition. No longer will I strive to be a god. I will be content with the world.” Smiling sardonically, he patted Palin’s hand. “We will be content with the world, I should say.”

“I—” The words caught in Palin’s throat. He was dazed with confusion and fear and a wild rush of excitement.

Glancing back at the portal, however, he felt the shadow cover his heart. “But, the queen? Shouldn’t we shut it?”

Raistlin shook his head. “No, apprentice.”

“No?” Palin looked at him in alarm.

“No. This will be my gift to her, to prove my loyalty—admittance to the world. And the world will be her gift to me. Here she will rule and I... I will serve.” Raistlin bit the words with his sharp teeth, his lips parted in a tight, mirthless grin. Sensing the hatred and the anger surging through the frail body, Palin shuddered.

Raistlin glanced at him. “Squeamish, Nephew?” He sneered, letting loose of Palin’s arm. “The squeamish do not rise to power—”

“You told me to speak the truth,” Palin said, shrinking away from Raistlin, relieved that the burning touch was gone, yet longing—somehow—to gain it back. “And I will. I’m frightened! For us both! I know I am weak—” He bowed his head.

“No, Nephew,” said Raistlin softly, “not weak, just young. And you will always be afraid. I will teach you to master your fear, to use its strength. To make it serve you, not the other way around.”

Looking up, Palin saw a gentleness in the archmage’s face, a gentleness few in the world had ever seen. The image of the young man in the black robes faded from the glittering, golden eyes, replaced by a yearning, a hunger for love. Now it was Palin who reached out and clasped hold of Raistlin’s hand. “Close the portal, Uncle!” the young man pleaded. “Come home and live with us! The room my rather built for you is still there, in the inn. My mother has kept the plaque with the wizard’s mark on it! It is hidden in a chest of rosewood, but I’ve seen it. I’ve held it and dreamt of this so often! Come home! Teach me what you know! I would honor you, revere you! We could travel, as you said. Show me the wonders your eyes have seen....”

“Home.” The word lingered on Raistlin’s lips as though he were tasting it. “Home. How often I dreamt of it”—his golden-eyed gaze went to the wall, shining with its ghastly light—“especially with the coming of dawn ”

Then, glancing at Palin from within the shadows of his hood, Raistlin smiled. “Yes, Nephew,” he said softly. “I believe I will come home with you. I need time to rest, to recover my strength, to rid myself of... old dreams.” Palin saw the eyes darken with remembered pain.

Coughing, Raistlin motioned the young man to help him. Carefully, Palin leaned the staff against the wall and assisted Raistlin to the chair. Sinking into it weakly, Raistlin gestured for the young man to pour him another glass of wine. The archmage leaned his head back wearily into the cushions. “I need time...” he continued, moistening his lips with the wine. “Time to train you, my apprentice. Time to train you... and to train your brothers.”

“My brothers?” Palin repeated in astonishment.

“Why, yes, young one.” Amusement tinged Raistlin’s voice as he looked at the young man standing by his chair. “I need generals for my legions. Your brothers will be ideal—”

“Legions!” Palin cried. “No, that's not what I meant! You must come live at home with us in peace. You’ve earned it! You sacrificed yourself for the world—”

“I?” Raistlin interrupted. “I sacrificed myself for the world?” The archmage began to laugh—dreadful, fearful laughter that set the shadows of the laboratory dancing in delight like dervishes. “Is that what they say of me?"

Raistlin laughed until he choked. A coughing fit seized him, this one worse than the others.

Palin watched helplessly as his uncle writhed in pain. The young man could still hear that mocking laughter dinning in his ears. When the spasm passed, and he could breathe, Raistlin lifted his head and, with a weak motion of his hand, beckoned Palin near.

Palin saw blood upon the cloth in his uncle’s hand and upon Raistlin’s ashen lips. Loathing and horror came over the young man, but he drew nearer anyway, compelled by a terrible fascination to kneel beside his uncle.

“Know this, Palin!” Raistlin whispered, speaking with an effort, his words barely audible. “I sacrificed ... myself ... for... myself.” Sinking back into his chair, he gasped for breath. When he could move, he reached out a shaking, bloodstained hand and caught hold of Palin’s white robes. “I saw ... what I must... become ... if I succeeded. Nothing! That... was... all. Dwindle ... to... nothing. The world ... dead.... This way”—his hand gestured feebly at the wall, the gruesome pool beneath it; his eyes gleamed feverishly—“there was... still... a chance ... for me ... to return ....”

“No!” Palin cried, struggling to free himself from Raistlin’s grasp. “I don’t believe you!”

“Why not?” Raistlin shrugged. His voice grew stronger. “You told them yourself. Don’t you remember, Palin? 'A man must put the magic first, the world second....' That's what you said to them in the tower. The world doesn’t matter to you any more than it does to me! Nothing matters—your brothers, your father! The magic! The power! That’s all that means anything to either of us!”

“I don’t know!” Palin cried brokenly, his hands clawing at Raistlin’s. “I can’t think! Let me go! Let me go....” His fingers fell nervelessly from Raistlin’s wrists, his head sank into his hands. Tears filled his eyes.

“Poor young one,” Raistlin said. Laying his hand on Palin’s head, he drew it gently into his lap and stroked the auburn hair soothingly.

Wracking sobs tore at Palin’s body. He was bereft, alone. Lies, all lies! Everyone had lied to him—his father, the mages, the world! What did it matter, after all? The magic. That was all he had. His uncle was right. The burning touch of those slender fingers; the soft black velvet, wet with his tears, beneath his cheek; the smell of rose petals and spice.. . .That would be his life. . . . That and this bitter emptiness within, an emptiness that all the world could not fill. . . .

“Weep, Palin,” Raistlin said softly. “Weep as I wept once, long, long ago. Then you will realize, as I did, that it does no good. No one hears you, sobbing in the night alone.”

Palin lifted his tearstained face suddenly, staring into Raistlin’s eyes.

“At last you understand.” Raistlin smiled. His hand stroked back the wet hair from Palin’s eyes. “Get hold of yourself, young one. It is time for us to go, before the Dark Queen comes. There is much to be done—”

Palin regarded Raistlin calmly, though the young man’s body still shuddered from his sobs, and he could see his uncle only through a blur of tears. “Yes,” he said. “At last I understand. Too late, it seems. But I understand. And you are wrong, Uncle,” he murmured brokenly. “Someone did hear you crying in the night. My father.”