Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

Palin came slowly to consciousness. His first reaction was one of terror.

The fiery jolt that had burned and blasted his body had not killed him! There would be another. Raistlin would not let him live. Moaning, Palin huddled against the cold stone floor, waiting fearfully to hear the sound of magical chanting, to hear the crackle of sparks from those thin fingertips, to feel once again the searing, exploding pain....

All was quiet. Listening intently, holding his breath, his body shivering in fear, Palin heard no sound.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes. He was in darkness, such deep darkness that nothing whatever was visible, not even his own body.

“Raistlin?” Palin whispered, raising his head cautiously from the damp stone floor. “Uncle?”

“Palin!” a voice shouted.

Palin’s heart stilled in fear. He could not breathe.

“Palin!” the voice shouted again, a voice filled with love and anguish.

Palin gasped in relief and, falling back against the stone floor, sobbed in joy.

He heard booted footsteps clambering up stairs. Torchlight lit the darkness. The footsteps halted, and the torchlight wavered as though the hand holding it shook. Then the footsteps were running, the torchlight burned above him.

“Palin! My son!” and Palin was in his father’s arms.

“What have they done to you?” Caramon cried in a choked voice as he lifted his son’s body from the floor and cradled it against his strong breast.

Palin could not speak. He leaned his head against his father’s chest, hearing the heart beating rapidly from the exertion of climbing the tower stairs, smelling the familiar smells of leather and sweat, letting—for one last moment—his father’s arms shelter and protect him. Then, with a soft sigh, Palin raised his head and looked into his father’s pale, anguished face.

“Nothing, Father,” he said softly, gently pushing himself away. “I’m all right. Truly.” Sitting up, he looked around, confused. “But where are we?”

“Out—outside that... that place,” Caramon growled. He let go of his son, but watched him dubiously, anxiously.

“The laboratory,” murmured Palin, puzzled, his gaze going to the closed door and the two, white, disembodied eyes that hovered before it.

The young man started to stand.

“Careful!” said Caramon, putting his arm around his son again.

“I told you, Father. I’m all right,” Palin said firmly, shaking off his father’s help and getting to his feet without assistance. “What happened?” He looked at the sealed laboratory door.

The two eyes of the specter stared back at him unblinking, unmoving.

“You went in . . . there,” Caramon said, his brow creasing into a frown as his gaze shifted to the sealed door as well. “And . . . the door slammed shut! I tried to get in ... Dalamar cast some sort of spell on it, but it wouldn’t open. Then more of those ... those things” —he gestured at the eyes with a scowl—“came and I. . . I don’t remember much after that. When I came to, I was with Dalamar in the study....”

“Which is where we will return now,” said a voice behind them, “if you will honor me by sharing my breakfast.”

“The only place we’re going now,” said Caramon in a stern, low voice as he turned to face the dark elf, who had materialized behind them, “is home. And no more magic!” he snarled, glaring at Dalamar. “We’ll walk, if need be. Neither my son nor I are ever coming back to one of these cursed towers again—”

Without a glance at Caramon, Dalamar walked past the big man to Palin, who was standing silently next to his father, his hands folded in the sleeves of his white robes, his eyes downcast as was proper in the presence of the high-ranking wizard.

Dalamar reached out his hands and clasped the young man by the shoulders.

“ "Quithain, Magus, ” the dark elf said with a smile, leaning forward to kiss Palin on the cheek as was the elven custom.

Palin stared at him in confusion, his face flushed. The words the elf had spoken tumbled about in his mind, making little sense. He spoke some Elvish, learned from his father’s friend, Tanis. But, after all that had happened to him, the language went right out of his head. Frantically, he struggled to remember, for Dalamar was standing in front of him, looking at him, grinning.

“ Quithain...” Palin repeated to himself. “Means . . . congratulations. >Congratulations, Magus... ”

He gasped, staring at Dalamar in disbelief.

“What does it mean?” demanded Caramon, glaring at the dark elf. “I don’t understand—”

“He is one of us now, Caramon,” said Dalamar quietly, taking hold of Palin’s arm and escorting him past his father. “His trials are over. He has completed the Test.”

“We are sorry to have put you through this again, Caramon,” Dalamar said to the big warrior.

Seated opposite the ornately carved desk in the dark elf’s luxuriously appointed study, Caramon flushed, his brow still lined with the signs of his concern and fear and anger.

“But,” Dalamar continued, “it was fast becoming apparent to all of us that you would do your best to prevent your son from taking the Test.”

“Can you blame me?” Caramon asked harshly. Rising to his feet, he walked over to the large window and stared out into the dark shadows of the Shoikan Grove below him.

“No,” said Dalamar, “we could not blame you. And so we devised this way of tricking you into it.”

Scowling angrily, Caramon turned, jabbing his finger at Dalamar.

“You had no right! He’s too young! He might have died!”

“True,” said Dalamar softly, “but that is a risk we all face. It is a risk you take every time you send your older sons to battle..'..”

“This is different.” Caramon turned away, his face dark. Dalamar’s gaze went to Palin, who sat in a chair, a glass of untasted wine in his hand. The young mage was staring dazedly around as though he could still not believe what had occurred.

“Because of Raistlin?” Dalamar smiled. “Palin is truly gifted, Caramon, as gifted as his uncle. For him, as for Raistlin, there could have been only one choice—his magic. But Palin’s love for his family is strong. He would have made the choice, and it would have broken his heart.”

Caramon bowed his head, clasping his hands behind him. Palin, hearing a muffled choke behind him, set his wine glass down and, rising to his feet, walked over to stand beside his father.

Reaching out his hand, Caramon drew his son close. “Dalamar’s right,” the big man said huskily. “I only wanted what was best for you and—and I was afraid .. . afraid I might lose you to the magic as I lost him.... I—I’m sorry, Palin. Forgive me.”

Palin’s answer was to embrace his father, who wrapped both his great arms around the white-robed mage and hugged him tight.

“So you passed! I’m proud of you, Son!” Caramon whispered. “So proud—”

“Thank you, Father!” Palin said brokenly. “There is nothing to forgive. I understand at last—” The rest of the young mage’s words were squeezed from him by his father’s hug. Then, with a clap on the back, Caramon let his boy go and returned to staring out the window, frowning down at the Shoikan Grove.

Turning back to Dalamar, Palin looked at the dark elf, puzzled.

“The Test,” he said hesitantly. “It—it all seems so real! Yet, I’m here Raistlin didn’t kill me ...”

“Raistlin!” Caramon glanced around in alarm, his face pale.

“Be at ease, my friend,” Dalamar said, raising his slender hand. “The Test varies for each person who takes it, Palin. For some, it is very real and can have real and disastrous consequences. Your uncle, for example, barely survived an encounter with one of my kind. Justarius’s test left him crippled in one leg. But, for others, the Test is only in the mind.” Dalamar’s face grew tense, his voice quivered in remembered pain. “That, too, can have its effects, sometimes worse than the others ...”