The Second Generation

“Ah,” the innkeeper said knowingly, his gaze on the young mage not unsympathetic. “I’ve seen many of 'em in my day. And I’ve seen many like yourself”—he looked at the big warrior—“who have come here alone, with only a packet of clothes and a battered spellbook or two as all that remains. Yer lucky, both of you, to have survived.”

The warrior nodded, though it didn’t appear—from the haunted expression on his pale face and dark, pain-filled eyes—that he considered his luck phenomenal. Returning to the table, the warrior laid his hand on his brother’s heaving shoulder, only to be rebuffed with a bitter snarl.

“Leave me in peace, Caramon!” Slegart heard the mage gasp as the innkeeper came to the table, bearing the ale and a pot of hot water on a tray. “Your worrying will put me in my grave sooner than this cough!”

The warrior, Caramon, did not answer, but sat down in the booth opposite his brother, his eyes still shadowed with unhappiness and concern.

Slegart tried his best to see the face covered by the hood, but the mage was huddled near the fire, the red cowl pulled low over his eyes. The mage did not even look up as the innkeeper laid the table with an unusual amount of clattering of plates and knives and mugs. The young man simply reached into a pouch he wore tied to his belt and, taking a handful of leaves, handed them carefully to his brother.

“Fix my drink,” the mage ordered in a rasping voice.

Slegart, watching all this intently, was considerably startled to note that the skin that covered the mage’s slender hand gleamed a bright, metallic gold in the firelight!

The innkeeper tried for another glimpse of the mage’s face, but the young man drew back even further into the shadows, ducking his head and pulling the cowl even lower over his eyes.

“If the skin of 'is face be the same as the skin of 'is hand, no wonder he hides himself,” Slegart reflected, and wished he had turned this strange, sick mage away—money or no money.

The warrior took the leaves from the mage and dropped them in a cup. He then filled it with hot water.

Curious in spite of himself, the innkeeper leaned over to catch a glimpse of the mixture, hoping it might be a magic potion of some sort. To his disappointment, it appeared to be nothing more than tea with a few leaves floating on the surface. A bitter smell rose to his nostrils. Sniffing, he started to make some comment when the door blew open, admitting more snow, more wind, and another guest. Motioning one of the slatternly barmaids to finish waiting on the mage and his brother, Slegart turned to greet the new arrival.

It appeared—from its graceful walk and its tall, slender build—to be either a young human male, a human female, or an elf. But so bundled and muffled in clothes was the figure that it was impossible to tell sex or race.

“We’re full up,” Slegart started to announce, but before he could even open his mouth, the guest had drifted over to him (it was impossible for him to describe its walk any other way) and, reaching out a hand remarkable for its delicate beauty, laid two steel coins in the innkeeper’s hand (remarkable only for its dirt).

“A place by the fire this night,” said the guest in a low voice.

“I do believe a room’s opened up,” announced Slegart to the delight of the goblinish humans, who greeted this remark with coarse laughs and guffaws. Even the warrior grinned ruefully and shook his head, reaching across the table to nudge his brother. The mage said nothing, only gestured irritably for his drink.

“I’ll take the room,” the guest said, reaching into its purse and handing two more coins to the grinning innkeeper.

“Very good. . . .” Noticing the guest’s fine clothes, made of rich material, Slegart thought it wise to bow. “Uh, what name ... ?”

“Do the room and I need an introduction?” the guest asked sharply.

The warrior chuckled appreciatively at this, and it seemed as if even the mage responded, for the hooded head moved slightly as he sipped his steaming, foul-smelling drink.

Somewhat at a loss for words, Slegart was fumbling about in his mind, trying to think of another way to determine his mysterious guest's identity, when the guest turned from him and headed for a table located in a shadowed corner as far from the fire as possible. “Meat and drink.” It tossed the words over its shoulder in an imperious tone.

“What would Your... Your Lordship like?” Slegart asked, hurrying after the guest, an ear cocked attentively. Though the guest spoke Common, the accent was strange, and the innkeeper still couldn’t tell if his guest was male or female.

“Anything,” the guest said wearily, turning its back on Slegart as it walked over to the shadowy booth. On its way, it cast a glance at the table where the warrior, Caramon, and his brother sat. 'That. Whatever they’re having.” The guest gestured to where the barmaid was heaping a wooden bowl full of some gray, coagulating mass and rubbing her body up against Caramon’s at the same time.