Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“I’ll be a gully dwarf,” Caramon breathed in awe, suddenly noticing that the fire was burning solid rock. Shivering, the big man glanced around.

“Mages!” he muttered, keeping a safe distance from the strange blaze. “The sooner we’re out of this weird forest the better, to my mind. Not that I’m not grateful,” he added hastily. “Looks like you wizards saved Raist’s life. I just wonder why it was necessary to send me on that wild swimming-bird chase."

Kneeling down, he shook his brother by the shoulder.

“Raist,” Caramon whispered gently. “Raist. Wake up!”

Raistlin’s eyes opened wide. Starting up, he looked around. “Where is—” he began.

“Where is who? What?” Caramon cried in alarm. Backing up, his hand on the hilt of his sword, he looked frantically around the small cave. “I knew—”

“Is ... is—” Raistlin stopped, frowning. “No one, I guess,” the mage said softly, his hand going to his head.

He felt dizzy. “Relax, my brother,” he snapped irritably, glancing up at Caramon. 'There is no one here but us.”

“But... this fire...” Caramon said, eyeing the blaze suspiciously. “Who—”

“My own work,” Raistlin replied. “After you ran off and left me, what else could I do? Help me to my feet.” Stretching out his frail hand, the mage caught hold of his brother’s strong one and slowly rose up out of the pile of blankets on the stone floor.

“I—I didn’t know you could do anything like that!” Caramon said, staring at the fire whose fuel was rock.

“There is much about me you do not know, my brother,” Raistlin returned.

Wrapping himself up warmly in his cloak, he watched as Caramon hurriedly repacked the blankets.

“They’re still a little damp,” the big man muttered. “I suppose we ought to stay and dry them out....”

“No,” Raistlin said, shivering. He took hold of the Staff of Magius, which was leaning against the cavern wall. “I have no desire to spend any more time in the Forest of Wayreth.”

“You’ve got my vote there,” Caramon said fervently. “I wonder if there are any good inns around here. I heard that there was one, built near the forest. If s called the Wayward Inn or some such thing.” The big man’s eyes brightened. “Maybe tonight we’ll eat hot food and drink good ale for a change. And sleep in a bed!”

“Perhaps.” Raistlin shrugged, as if it didn’t much matter.

Still talking of what he had heard about the rumored inn, Caramon picked up the blanket that had hung over the cave entrance, folded it, and added it to the ones in his pack. “I’ll go ahead a little way,” he said to his brother.

“Break a trail through the snow for you.”

Raistlin nodded, but said nothing. Walking to the entrance of the cave, he stood in the doorway, watching his strong twin wade through the snowdrifts, making a path the frail twin could follow. Raistlin’s lip curled in bitterness, but the sneer slipped as, turning, he looked back inside the cave.

The fire had died almost instantly, upon Caramon’s leaving. Already, the chill was creeping back.

But there lingered on the air, still, the faint fragrance of lilac, of spring....

Shrugging, Raistlin turned and walked out into the snow-blanketed forest.

The Wayward Inn looked its best in summer, a season that has this happy influence on just about anything and everyone. Great quantities of ivy had been persuaded to cradle the inn in its leafy green embrace, thus hiding some of the building’s worst deficiencies. The roof still needed patching; this occurred to Slegart every time it rained, when it was impossible to go out and fix it. During dry weather, of course, it didn’t leak and so didn’t need fixing.

The windows were still cracked, but in the heat of summer, the cool breeze that wafted through the panes was a welcome one.

There were more travelers at the inn during these journeying months.

Dwarven smiths, occasionally an elf, many humans, and more kender than anyone cared to think about, generally kept Slegart and his barmaids busy from morning until late, late at night.

But this evening was quiet. It was a soft, fragrant summer evening. The twilight lingered on in hues of purple and gold. The birds had sung their night songs and were now murmuring sleepily to their young. Even the old trees of Wayreth seemed to have been lulled into forgetting their guardian duties and slumbered drowsily at their posts. On this evening, the inn itself was quiet, too.

It was too quiet, so two strangers thought as they approached the inn.

Dressed in rich clothing, their faces were covered with silken scarves—an unusual thing in such warm weather. Only their black eyes were visible and, exchanging grim glances, they quickened their steps, shoving open the wooden plank door and stepping inside.

Slegart sat behind the bar, wiping out a mug with a dirty rag. He had been wiping out that same mug for an hour now and would probably have gone on wiping it for the next hour had not two incidents occurring simultaneously interrupted him—the entry of the two muffled strangers through the front door and the arrival of the servant girl, running breathlessly down the stairs.

“Your pardon, gentlemen both,” Slegart said, rising slowly to his feet and holding up his hand to check one of the strangers in his speech. Turning to the servant, he said gruffly, “Well?”

The girl shook her head.

Slegart' s shoulders slumped. “Aye,” he muttered. “Well, p’rhaps it’s better so.”

The two strangers glanced at each other.

“And the babe?” Slegart asked.

At this, the servant girl burst into tears.

“What?” Slegart asked, astonished. “Not the babe, too?”

“No!” the servant girl managed to gasp between sobs. “The baby’s fine. Listen—” A faint cry came from overhead.

“You can hear 'er now. But... but—oh!” The girl covered her face with her hands. “If s dreadful! I’ve never seen anything like it—”

At this, one of the strangers nodded, and the other stepped forward.

“Parde-me, innkeep,” the stranger said in a cultivated voice with an unusual accent. “But some terrible tragedy appears to have happened here. Perhaps it would be better if we continued on—”

“No, no,” Slegart said hastily, the thought of losing money bringing him to himself. “There, Lizzie, either dry your tears and help, or go have your cry out in the kitchen.”

Burying her face in her apron, Lizzie ran off into the kitchen, setting the door swinging behind her.

Slegart led the two strangers to a table. “A sad thing,” said the innkeeper, shaking his head.

“Might we inquire—” ventured the stranger casually, though an astute observer would have noticed he was unusually tense and nervous, as was his companion.

“Nothin' for you gentlemen to concern yourselves with,” Slegart said.

“Just one of the serving girls died in childbirth.”

One of the strangers reached out involuntarily, grasping hold of his companion’s arm with a tight grip. The companion gave him a warning glance.

“This is indeed sad news. We’re very sorry to hear it,” said the stranger in a voice he was obviously keeping under tight control. “Was she—was she kin of yours? Pardon me for asking, but you seem upset—”

“I am that, gentlemen,” Slegart said bluntly. “And no, she warn’t no kin of mine. Came to me in the dead 'o winter, half-starved, and begging for work. Somethin' familiar about her there was, but just as I start to think on if—he put his hand to his head—“I get this queer feelin'. 'Cause of that, I was of a mind to turn her away, but”—he glanced upstairs—“you know what women are. Cook took to her right off, fussin' over 'er and such like. I got to admit,” Slegart added solemnly, “I’m not one fer gettin' attached to people. But she was as pretty a critter as I’ve seen in all my born days. A hard worker, too. Never complained. Quite a favorite she was with all of us.”