Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

Rising to his feet, Palin brushed his hand across his eyes, keeping his gaze steadfastly on his uncle. “I am going to close the portal.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Raistlin said with a sneer. “I won’t let you! You know that!”

“I know,” said Palin, drawing a shivering breath. “You will stop me—”

“I will kill you!”

“You will... kill me....” Palin continued, his voice faltering only slightly.

Turning around, he reached out for the Staff of Magius, which stood against the desk beside Raistlin’s chair. The light of the crystal beamed white and cold as his hand closed over it.

“What a waste!” Raistlin hissed, twisting out of his chair. “Why die in such a meaningless gesture? For it will be meaningless, I assure you, my dear nephew. I will do all I planned. The world will be mine! You will be dead—and who will know or care?”

“You will,” said Palin in a low voice.

Turning his back on his uncle, Palin walked with firm, steady steps to stand before the portal. The shadow was deeper and darker, making the wall within the Abyss stand out by hideous contrast. Palin could feel the evil now, feel it seeping through the portal like water flowing into a wrecked ship. He thought of the Dark Queen, able to enter the world at last. Once more, the flames of war would sweep across the land as the forces of good rose to stop her. He saw his father and mother die by his uncle’s hand, his brothers fall victim to their uncle’s magic. He saw them dressed in dragon scale armor, riding evil dragons into battle, leading troops of hideous beings spawned of darkness.

No! With the help of the gods, he would stop this if he could. But, raising the staff, Palin realized helplessly that he hadn’t the vaguest idea how to close the portal. He could sense the power in the staff, but he could not control it. Raistlin was right—what a stupid, meaningless gesture.

Behind him, Palin heard his uncle laugh. It wasn’t mocking laughter this time, however. It was bemused, almost angry.

“This is senseless, Palin! Stop! Don’t make me do this!”

Drawing a deep breath, Palin tried to concentrate his energy and his thoughts upon the staff. “Close the portal,” he whispered, forcing himself to think about nothing else, though his body quivered with fear. It was not a fear of dying, he could tell himself that with quiet pride. He loved life, never so much as now, he realized. But he could leave it without regret, though the thought of the grief that his death would cause those who loved him filled him with sorrow. His mother and father would know what he had done, however. They would understand, no matter what his uncle said.

And they’ll fight you, Palin knew. They will fight you and your Dark Queen as they fought once before. You will not win.

Palin gripped the staff, his hand sweating, his body trembling. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of... of the pain.

Would it hurt... very much ... to die?

Shaking his head angrily, the young man cursed himself for a coward and stared hard at the portal. He had to concentrate! To put death out of his mind.

He must make fear serve him! Not master him. There was a chance, after all, that he might close the portal before his uncle ... before ...

“Paladine, help me,” said Palin, his gaze going to the silvery light gleaming atop the staff with steadfast, unwavering brilliance in the shadowy darkness.

“Palin!” Raistlin shouted harshly. “I warn you—”

Lightning crackled from Raistlin’s fingertips. But Palin kept his eyes upon the staff. Its light grew brighter, shining with a radiance whose beauty and clarity eased Palin’s last fears.

“Paladine,” he murmured.

The name of the god mercifully obliterated the sound of magical chanting Palin heard rising behind him.

The pain was swift, sudden... and soon over.

Raistlin stood alone in the laboratory, leaning upon the Staff of Magius. The light of the staff had gone out. The archmage stood in darkness as thick as the dust that lay, undisturbed, upon the stone floor, upon the spellbooks, upon the chair, upon the drawn, heavy curtain of purple velvet.

Almost as deep as the darkness was the silence of the place.

Raistlin stilled his breathing, listening to the silence. The sound of no living being disturbed it—neither mouse nor bat nor spider—for no living being dared enter the laboratory, guarded by those whose vigilance would last unto the end of the world and beyond. Almost Raistlin thought he could hear one sound—the sound of the dust falling, the sound of time passing....

Sighing wearily, the archmage raised his head and looked into the darkness, broke the ages-long silence. “I have done what you wanted of me,” he cried. “Are you satisfied?”

There was no answer, only the gently sifting dust drifting down into the perpetual night.

“No,” Raistlin murmured. “You cannot hear me. And that is just as well. Little did you think, Dalamar, that when you conjured my illusion for this purpose, you would conjure me! Oh, no, apprentice”—Raistlin smiled bitterly—“do not pride yourself. You are good, but not that good. It was not your magic that woke me from my long sleep. No, it was something else....” He paused, trying to remember. “What did I tell the young man? 'A shadow on my mind'? Yes, that"s what it was.

“Ah, Dalamar, you are lucky.” The archmage shook his hooded head. For a brief moment, the darkness was lit by a fierce glint in the golden eyes, gleaming with their inner flame. “If he had been what I was, you would have found yourself in sad straits, dark elf. Through him, I could have returned. But as his compassion and his love freed me from the darkness into which I cast myself, so it binds me there still.”

The light of the golden eyes faded as the darkness returned.

Raistlin sighed. “But that is all right,” he whispered, leaning his head against the staff that supported him. “I am tired, so very tired. I want to return to my sleep.” Walking across the stone floor, his black robes rustling about his ankles, his soft, unheard footsteps leaving no trail at all in the thick dust, the archmage came to stand before the velvet curtain. Placing his hand on it, he stopped and looked around the laboratory that he could not see except in his memories, in his mind.

“I just want you to know,” Raistlin cried, “that I didn’t do this for you, mages! I didn’t do it for the conclave. I didn’t do it for my brother! I had one more debt to pay in my lifetime. Now I have discharged it. I can sleep in peace.”

In the darkness, Raistlin could not see the staff he leaned upon, but he didn’t need to. He knew every curve of the wood, every tiny imperfection in the grain. Lovingly he caressed it, his delicate fingers touching the golden dragon’s claw, running over each facet of the cold, dark crystal it held.

Raistlin’s eyes stared into the darkness, stared into the future he could glimpse by the light of the black moon.

“He will be great in the Art,” he said with quiet pride. “The greatest that has yet lived. He will bring honor and renown to our profession. Because of him, magic will live and flourish in the world.” The archmage’s voice lowered.

“Whatever happiness and joy was in my life, Palin, came from the magic. “To the magic, I give you ”

Raistlin held the staff an instant longer, pressing the smooth wood against his cheek. Then, with a word of command, he sent it from him. It vanished, swallowed up by the endless night. His head bowed in weariness, Raistlin laid his hand upon the velvet curtain and sank again into sleep, becoming one with the darkness and the silence and the dust.