Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

Quickly murmuring words to herself in a language that none on the continent of Ansalon had heard for countless centuries, Amberyl gestured.

Barely visible from where she stood, a glimmer of firelight burst into being far off in another part of the forest.

Catching a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye, Caramon shouted. “Raist! There’s—A fire! Someone’s close by! You stay wrapped up and ... and warm... . I’ll be back soon!”

The shadow merged with the darkness, then Amberyl saw the bright glint of armor in the moonlight and heard the heavy footsteps and labored breathing of the big man slogging through the snow.

Amberyl smiled. “No, you won’t be back very soon, my friend,” she told him silently as he passed right by the tree where she was hiding, “not very soon at all.”

Waiting until she was certain Caramon was well off on his pursuit of the elusive blaze that would, she knew, keep always just beyond his reach, Amberyl drew a deep breath, said a silent prayer to her god, and crept swiftly through the sparkling silver snow toward the cave.

Pushing aside the blanket Caramon had strung up in a pathetic attempt to block out the elements, Amberyl entered. The cave was cold, damp, and dark, lit only by a fire that sputtered feebly near the doorway to allow for ventilation. Glancing at it, Amberyl shook her head. What firewood Caramon had been able to find was wet with snow and ice. It was a tribute to the big man’s skill in wood-lore that he had been able to coax a flame from it at all.

But it wouldn’t last long and there was no wood at all to replace it when it was gone.

Peering into the shadows, Amberyl couldn’t find the mage at first, though she could hear his rattling breath and smell the spicy fragrance of his spell components. Then he coughed. A bundle of clothes and blankets near the fire moved, and Amberyl saw a thin hand snake out to clasp hold of a steaming mug that stood near the blaze. The fingers trembled, nearly dropping the mug. Hurriedly kneeling by his side, Amberyl caught hold of it.

“Let me help you,” she said. Not waiting for an answer, she lifted the mug in her hand, then assisted Raistlin to sit.

“Lean on me,” she offered, seeing the mage endeavoring weakly to prop himself up.

“You’re not surprised to see me, are you?” she asked.

Raistlin regarded her for a few moments with his flat, golden eyes, then—with a bitter smile—rested his frail body against Amberyl' s as she settled down beside him. Chilled as he was, Amberyl could feel that strange warmth emanate from the thin body. He was tense and rigid, his breathing labored. Raistlin lifted the mug to his lips, but began to cough again, a cough that Amberyl could feel tear at him.

Taking the mug from him, she set it down, and held onto him as he choked and gasped for breath, wrapping her arms around him as though she would hold his body together. Her own heart was torn, both in pity for him and his suffering and with fear for herself. He was so weak! What if he died?

But, finally, the spasm eased. Raistlin was able to draw a shuddering breath and motioned for his drink. Amberyl held it to his lips, her nose wrinkling at the foul smell.

Slowly, Raistlin sipped it. “I wondered if you would find us here,” he whispered. “I wondered if the wizards would allow you inside the forest.”

“I wondered the same myself,” Amberyl said softly. “As for me finding you”—she sighed—“if I hadn’t, you would have found me. You would have come back to me. You couldn’t help yourself.”

“So that's the way it is,” Raistlin said, his breathing coming easier.

“That's the way it is . . .” Amberyl murmured.

“Help me lie down,” Raistlin ordered, sinking back among his blankets. Amberyl made him as comfortable as possible, her gaze going to the dying fire. A sudden gust of wind blew the blanket aside. A flurry of snow hissed and danced on the glowing embers.

“I feel myself growing strangely weak, as though my life were being drained off,” the mage said, huddling into the wet blankets. “Is that a result of the spell?”

“Yes ... I feel it, too. And it isn’t a spell,” Amberyl said, doing what she could to stir up the blaze. Coming to sit in front of the mage, she clasped her arms around her legs, looking at him as intently as he stared at her.

“Take off your scarf,” he whispered.

Slowly, Amberyl unwound the scarf from her face, letting it fall about her shoulders. She shook out her snow-wet hair, feeling drops of water spatter on her hands.

“How beautiful you—” He broke off. “What will happen to me?” Raistlin asked abruptly. “Will I die?”

“I—I don’t know,” Amberyl answered reluctantly, her gaze going to the fire. She couldn’t bear to look at him. The mage’s eyes burned through her, touching something deep inside, filling her with sweet pain. “I have ... never heard of this ... happening to—to a ... human before.”

“So you are not human,” Raistlin remarked.

“No, I am not,” Amberyl replied, still unable to face him.

“You are not elven, nor any of the other races that I am familiar with who live upon Krynn—and I tell you—What is your name?”

“Amberyl.”

“Amberyl,” he said it lingeringly, as though tasting it. She shivered again.

“I tell you, Amberyl,” he repeated, “I am familiar with all the races on Krynn.”

“Wise you may be, mage,” Amberyl murmured, “but the mysteries of this world that have yet to be discovered are as numberless as the snowflakes.”

“You will not reveal your secret to me?”

Amberyl shook her glistening hair. “It is not my secret alone.”

Raistlin was silent. Amberyl did not speak either. Both sat listening to the hissing and popping of the wood and the whistling of the wind among the trees.

“So . . . I am to die, then,” Raistlin said, breaking the silence at last.

He didn’t sound angry, just weary and resigned.

“No, no, no!” Amberyl cried. Reaching out impulsively, she took his thin, wasted hand in her own, cradling her cheek against it. “No,” she repeated. “Because then I would die.”

Raistlin snatched his hand from hers. Propping himself up weakly on his elbow, his golden eyes glittering, he whispered hoarsely, “There is a cure? You can break this ... this enchantment?”

“Yes,” Amberyl answered without a voice, feeling the warm blood suffuse her face.

“How?” Raistlin demanded, his hand clenching. “First,” said Amberyl, swallowing, “I—I must tell you something about... about the Valin.”

“The what?” Raistlin asked quickly. Amberyl could see his eyes flicker.

Even facing death, his mind was working, catching hold eagerly of this new information, storing it away.

“The Valin. That is what it is called in our language. It means ...” She paused, frowning, trying to think. “I suppose the closest meaning in your language is life-mate.”

The startled expression on the mage’s face was so funny that Amberyl laughed nervously. “Wait, let me explain,” she said, feeling her own face growing more and more flushed. “For reasons of our own, in ages so far back that they are past reckoning, my people fled this land and retreated to one where we could live undisturbed. Our race is, as you were able to detect, long-lived. But we are not immortal. As all others, in order for our race to survive, we must produce children. But there were few of us and fewer still as time went by. The land we chose to live in is a harsh one. We tend to be loners, living by ourselves with little interaction even among our own kind. What you know as families are unknown among us. We saw our race begin to dwindle and the elders knew that soon it must die out completely. They were able to establish the Valin to ensure that our young people... that they...” Raistlin’s face had not changed expression; his eyes continued to stare at her. But Amberyl could not continue speaking beneath that strange, unblinking gaze.