Margaret Weis: The Second Generation

In fact, she despised him.

“She achieved her goal. She saw him crushed, shamed, as she had hoped. She taunted him, tormented him. And then she left him.

“She told me how he looked,” Sara said. ” 'Like I’d driven a spear through his heart. The next time he’s as white as that, they’ll bury him!' ”

“Damn Kit,” Caramon swore softly. He beat his fist into the brick fireplace wall. “Damn her.”

“Hush, Caramon!” Tika said swiftly. “She is dead. Who knows what dread retribution she now faces?”

“I wonder if her suffering is enough,” Sara said quietly. “I was young and idealistic myself. I could only imagine how the poor man must have felt. I tried to say as much to Kitiara, but she grew angry. 'He deserved it,' she claimed. And, after all, he’d had his revenge on her. That was how she viewed her pregnancy—his revenge. And that was why she made me promise not to tell anyone that he was the father.”

Caramon stirred. “Then why are you telling me? What does it matter now? If it’s true, it’s best forgotten. Sturm Brightblade was a good man. He lived and died for his ideals and those of the knighthood. My own son’s named after him. I won’t have that name dishonored.” His face darkened. “What is it you’re after? Money? We don’t have much, but—”

Sara rose to her feet. Her face was livid; she looked as if he’d struck her. “I don’t want your money! If that was what I was after, I could have come to you years ago! I came to seek your help, because I heard you were a good man. I obviously heard wrong.”

She started toward the door.

“Caramon, you lummox!” Ilka ran after Sara and caught hold of her, just as she was putting on her cloak. “Please, forgive him, my lady. He didn’t mean it. He’s hurt and upset, that"s all. This is a shock to both of us. You ... you’ve lived with this knowledge for years, but this has hit us right between the eyes. Come back, sit down.” Tika drew Sara back to the bench.

Caramon’s face was red and hot as the embers. “I’m sorry, Sara Dunstan. Tika’s right. I feel like an ox that"s been felled by an axe. I don’t know what I’m saying. How can we help you?”

“You must hear the rest of my story,” said Sara. But she staggered as she tried to sit down and would have fallen but for Tika’s hold on her. “Forgive me. I’m so tired.”

“Shouldn’t you rest first?” Tika suggested. “Surely there would be time in the morning ...”

“No!” Sara sat up straight. “Time is what we lack. And this weariness is not of the body, but of the spirit.

“Kitiara’s son was six weeks old when she left him. Neither he nor I ever saw her again. I can’t say I was sorry. I loved the baby as much as if he were my own. Maybe more, for, as I said, he seemed to have been given to me as a gift from the gods to heal my loneliness. Kitiara kept her promise. She sent money to me and gifts to Steel. I could keep track of Kitiara’s rise in fortune over the years, because the sums of money increased and the gifts were more costly. The presents were all warlike in nature: small swords and shields, a small knife with a silver hilt carved with a dragon for his birthday. Steel adored them. As she had foreseen, he was a born warrior.

“When he was four, the war broke out. The money and gifts stopped coming. Kitiara had more important matters on her mind. I heard stories of the Dark Lady. I heard how she had risen in favor with Highlord Ariakas, the general of the armies of evil. I remembered what she’d said to me—how, when the boy was old enough to ride to battle, she would return for him. I looked at Steel. He was only four, but he was stronger and taller, more intelligent, than most children his age.

“If I ever missed him, I was sure to find him in the tavern, listening with open mouth and eager eyes to the stories of battle. The soldiers were mercenaries—a bad lot. They made fun of the Knights of Solamnia, called them weak men who hid inside their armor. I didn’t like what Steel was learning. Our town was small and unprotected except for this rabble, and I feared that they were in league with the Dark Queen’s forces. And so I left.

“My son”—Sara cast Caramon a fierce look, daring him to defy her—“and I moved to Palanthas. I thought we would be safe there, and I wanted the boy to grow up among the Knights of Solamnia, to learn the truth about honor and the Oath and the Measure. I thought this might... might...”

Sara paused and drew a shivering breath before she continued. “I hoped it might counteract the darkness I saw in him.”

“In a child?” Tika was disbelieving.

“Even as a child. Perhaps you think it’s because I knew the disparity of the two strains of blood that ran in him, but I swear to you, by the gods of good, whose names I can no longer say in innocence, that I could literally see the battle being fought for his soul. Every good quality in him was tainted with evil; every evil quality gilded with good. I saw this then! I see it more now.”

She lowered her head. Two tears slid down her pale cheeks. Tika put an arm around her. Caramon left his place by the fire and stood protectively near her as she continued her tale.

“It was in Palanthas that I first heard about Sturm Brightblade. I heard the other knights talk about him—not in particularly approving tones. He was said to associate with outlandish folk—an elf maid, a kender, and a dwarf. And he was defying authority. But the ordinary people of the city liked and trusted Sturm, when they didn’t like or trust many of the other knights. I talked about Sturm with Steel, took every opportunity to make Steel aware of his father’s nobility and honor ...”

“Did Steel know the truth?” Caramon interrupted.

Sara shook her head. “How could I tell him? It would have confused him. If s odd, but he never asked me who his parents were. I never made any secret of the fact that I wasn’t his real mother. Too many in my small town knew the truth. But I lived—I still live—in dread of the question: who are my real father and mother?”

“You mean”—Caramon looked astonished—“he doesn’t know? To this day?”

“He knows now who his mother is. They took care to tell him that much. But he has never once asked his father’s name. Perhaps he doesn’t think I know.”

“Or perhaps he doesn’t want to find out,” Tika suggested.

“I still think he should have known,” Caramon argued.

“Do you?” Sara cast him a bitter glance. “Think of this. Remember the battle for the High Clerist’s Tower. As you know, the knights won. The Dragon Highlord, Kitiara, was defeated, but at what a terrible cost. As you said, she killed Sturm Brightblade, killed him as he stood alone on the battlements.

“I was horrified when I heard this news. Can you imagine what I felt? To look at Steel and know that his mother had slain the man who was his father. How could I explain such things to a boy when I didn’t understand them myself?”

Caramon sighed. “I don’t know,” he said moodily. “I don’t know.”

Sara went on. “We were living in Palanthas when the war ended. And then I was truly frightened, terrified that Kitiara might start searching for her son. Maybe she did. At any rate, she didn’t find us. Some time later, I heard she had taken up with the dark elf mage, Dalamar—apprentice to her brother, Raistlin, who was now Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas.”

Caramon’s face softened, grew grave and wistful, as always, when Raistlin was mentioned.

“Forgive me, Caramon,” Sara said softly, “but when I heard the stories about your brother Raistlin, all I could think of was-here is more dark blood, running in my child’s veins. And it seemed to me that Steel drifted deeper into the shadows every day. He wasn’t like other boys hisage. All boys play at war, but, for Steel, war wasn’t a game. Soon the other children refused to play with him. He hurt them, you see.”