Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

“My reasons will soon become apparent. Keep silent and come with me.”

Dalamar strode rapidly across the lawn. Tanis hurried to catch up.

“Send me back to that chamber. I’ll go alone!”

Dalamar shook his head. “As I told you, my friend, there’s something sinister going on here.”

When they were in sight of the house, Dalamar halted.

A Wilder elf stood guard, blocking the door.

Putting his hand to the side of his mouth, Dalamar called out, speaking the Kagonesti tongue, “Come quickly! I need you!”

The guard jumped, turned around, and peered into a grove of aspen trees growing in back of the large house.

Cloaked in magic, Dalamar was standing practically in front of the porch, but his voice had come from the grove.

“Hurry, you slug!” Dalamar called again, adding a favorite Kagonesti insult.

The guard left his post, ran toward the aspen grove.

“One of Raistlin’s old illusionist tricks. I learned much from my shalafi,” Dalamar said, and he glided silently inside the house.

Mystified, unable to imagine what the dark elf was after, Tanis followed.

In the entryway, a Kagonesti woman was busily scrubbing at a large stain on one of the elegant carpets. Dalamar pointed to the stain, drawing Tanis’s attention to it.

The stain was fresh; the water in the servant’s bucket, the rag in her hand, were crimson.

Blood. Tanis’s lips formed the word, he did not speak it aloud.

Dalamar did not reply. He was standing at the foot of a flight of stairs, peering upward. He began to climb, motioned to Tanis to accompany him. The servant, unaware of their presence, continued at her task.

Tanis kept his hand on his sword. He was not particularly good at fighting left-handed, but he would at least have the advantage of surprise. No enemy would see him coming.

They crept up the stairs, walking cautiously, testing each board before setting foot upon it. The house was deathly silent; a single creaking board would give them away. The steps proved sturdy and solid, however.

“Only the finest for Senator Rashas,” Tanis muttered, and he began to climb more rapidly. He was now beginning to have an idea of why they had come.

the top of the stairs, Dalamar held up a warding hand. Tanis halted. A door stood open, revealing a spacious hallway. Three doors opened off the hall, one door at the far end and two on each side. Only a single door-the one at the far end-was guarded. Two Kagonesti, holding spears, stood in front of it.

Tanis glanced at Dalamar.

“You take the man on the left,” said the dark elf. “I’ll take the right. Make your attack swift and silent. There are probably more guards inside the room.”

Tanis considered using his sword, then decided against it. Positioning himself directly in front of the oblivious Kagonesti, Tanis clenched his fist, aimed a swift, sharp jab to the jaw. The Wilder elf never knew what hit him.

Tanis caught the stunned guard as he fell and lowered him silently to the floor. Glancing over, he saw the other Kagonesti asleep on the floor, a scattering of sand over his inert body.

Tanis put his hand on the door handle. Dalamar’s thin fingers closed over the half-elf’s wrist.

“If what I think is true,” Dalamar whispered into Tanis’s ear, “any move to open that door could be fatal. Not to us,” he added, noting Tanis’s look of astonishment. “To the person inside. We will return to the corridors of magic.”

Tanis scowled and shook his head. Walking those “corridors” left him feeling disoriented and slightly nauseous. Dalamar smiled in understanding.

“Close your eyes,” the dark elf advised. “It helps.”

Keeping fast hold of Tanis’s wrist, Dalamar spoke quick words.

Almost before Tanis had his eyes shut, he felt those same ringers dig into his arm, warning him to look around. Opening his eyes, he blinked in the bright light.

He was in a large sunlit arboretum. Seated on a couch near a window was a woman. Her wrists and ankles were bound together with silken cord.

She sat rigidly straight, regal and imperious, her cheeks flushed—not with fear, but with anger. Tanis recognized, with shock, Alhana Starbreeze.

Directly opposite Alhana stood a Kagonesti guard, armed with bow and arrow. The bow was raised, one arrow nocked and ready to fire. The arrow was aimed at Alhana’s breast.

“And they exiled me!” Dalamar said quietly.

Tanis could say nothing. He could barely think coherently, much less speak. He guessed now what threat had been used to induce Porthios to give up the sun medallion—the same threat that had forced Gilthas to accept it.

Horror and outrage, shock and fury, and the dreadful memory of the terrible things he’d said to his son combined to overpower Tanis. He was as numb and useless as his arm. He could do nothing except stand staring in sick and unwilling disbelief.

Dalamar tugged on Tanis’s sleeve, gestured at the Kagonesti guard, who stood with his back to them. The dark elf made a motion with a clenched fist.

Tanis nodded to show he understood, though he wondered what Dalamar had in mind. At the first sound they made, the Kagonesti would fire. Even if they managed to kill him, his fingers might spasmodically unleash the arrow.

Alhana sat unmoving on the couch, staring at death with a disdain that seemed to invite it.

Dalamar, invisible to everyone in the room except Tanis, walked over, came to stand directly in front of the Kagonesti. The arrow was now pointed at the dark elf’s breast. With a sudden movement, Dalamar grabbed hold of the bow, yanked it away from the guard. Tanis—both fists clenched—clouted the guard on the back of the head. The Kagonesti went down without a sound.

Alhana didn’t move, didn’t speak. She gazed at the fallen guard in bewilderment. Unable to see either Tanis or Dalamar, it must have looked to her as if the guard had just fought with himself and lost.

Tanis took off his ring. Dalamar threw off his magical cloak.

Alhana shifted her disbelieving gaze to them both.

“Your Majesty,” Tanis said, hastening to her side. “Are you all right?”

“Tanis Half-Elven?” Alhana stared dazedly at him.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He touched her hand, let her know he was flesh and blood, and began to untie her bindings. “Did they hurt you?”

“No, I am fine,” Alhana said. She rose hurriedly. “Come with me. We have no time to lose. We must stop Rashas ...”

Her voice died. She had seen the expression on Tanis’s face.

“Too late, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. “When I left, Gilthas was taking the vow. Before that, the Thalas-Enthia decreed that you and Porthios are to be exiled.”

“Exiled,” Alhana repeated.

The blood drained from her cheeks, left her as pale as if it had taken her life with it. Her gaze went involuntarily to Dalamar, a dark elf—the personification of her doom. Shuddering, she averted her gaze, put her hand over her eyes.

Dalamar’s lip curled. “You have no right to turn your face from me, my lady. Not now.”

Alhana flinched. Shivering, she pressed her hand over her mouth and leaned unsteadily on the back of a chair.

“Dalamar—” Tanis began harshly.

“No, Half-Elven,” Alhana said softly. “He is right.”

Lifting her head, the mass of dark hair falling disheveled around her beautiful face, she held out her hand to him. “Please forgive me, Dalamar. You speak the truth. I am now what you are. You saved my life. Accept my apology and my gratitude.”

Dalamar’s hands remained folded in the sleeves of his black robes. His face was ice hard with disdain, frozen by bitter memory.

Alhana said nothing. Slowly, her hand lowered.

Dalamar gave a sigh that was like the wind in the leaves of the aspen trees. His black robes rustled. He touched Alhana’s fingertips, barely brushing them, as if fearing he might inadvertently do her some harm.