The Second Generation

Suddenly she froze, her efforts to free herself ceased. Her gaze was locked with Raistlin’s, the mage’s gaze fixed on hers. “No!” she moaned helplessly. “No!” Her moan became a shriek, echoing above the howling of the storm winds outside the inn.

Raistlin reeled backward, slamming into the wall as though she had driven a sword into his body. Yet she had not harmed him, she had done nothing but look at him.

With a wild cry, the girl scrambled to her feet and ran up the stairs, leaving the mage slumped against the wall, staring with stunned, unseeing eyes at where she had crouched before him on the staircase.

“Well, I took care of the scum, small thanks to you,” Caramon announced, coming up beside his brother. Wiping blood from a cut on the mouth, the big warrior looked over the railing in satisfaction. Four men lay on the floor, not counting the one his brother had stabbed, whose inert body huddled at the foot of the staircase. The gully dwarf was sticking out of a barrel, upside down, his feet waving pathetically in the air, his ear-splitting screams likely to cause serious breakage of the glassware.

“What about damages?” Slegart demanded, coming over to survey the ruin.

“Collect it from them,” Caramon growled, gesturing to the groaning members of the “hunting” party. “Here’s your dagger, Raist,” the warrior said, holding out a small silver knife. “I cleaned it as best I could. Guess you didn’t want to waste your magic on those wretches, huh? Anyway—hey, Raist—you all right?”

“I’m ... not injured ” Raistlin said softly, reaching out his hand to catch hold of his brother.

“Then what’s the matter?” Caramon asked, puzzled. “You look like you’ve seen a spirit. Say, where’s the girl?” He glanced around. “Didn’t she even stay to thank us?”

“I—I sent her to her room,” Raistlin said, blinking in confusion and looking at Caramon as though wondering who he was. After a moment, he seemed more himself. Taking the dagger from his brother’s hand, the mage replaced it on the cunningly made thong he had attached around his wrist. “And we should be going to our rooms, my brother,” he said firmly, seeing Caramon’s gaze drift longingly to the pitcher of ale still on their table.

“Lend me your arm,” the mage added, taking hold of his staff. “My exertions have exhausted me.”

“Oh, uh, sure, Raist,” Caramon said, his thirst forgotten in his concern for his brother.

“Number thirteen,” grunted Slegart, helping the ruffians drag their wounded comrade off into a corner.

“It figures,” Caramon muttered, assisting his brother up the stairs.

“Hey, you got a good look at that girl? Was she pretty?”

“Why ask me, my brother?” Raistlin replied softly. Pulling his hood down low over his face again, he evaded his brother’s question. “You know what these eyes of mine see!”

“Yeah, sorry, Raist.” Caramon flushed. “I keep forgetting. Damn! That one bastard broke a chair over my back end when I was bending over. I know I got splinters....”

“Yes, my brother,” Raistlin murmured, not listening. His gaze went to the door at the end of the hall, a door marked with the number sixteen.

Behind that door, Amberyl paced restlessly, clasping and unclasping her hands and occasionally making that low, moaning cry.

“How could this happen?” she asked feverishly, walking back and forth, back and forth, in the small chamber. The room was chill and dark. In her preoccupation, Amberyl had allowed the fire to go out. “Why did this happen? How could it happen? Why didn’t any of the wise foresee this?” Over and over again she repeated these words, her feet tracing the circular path of her thoughts out upon the grime-encrusted wooden floor.

“I must see him,” she said to herself suddenly. “He is magi, after all. He may know some way ... some way to... help.... Yes! I’ll see him.”

Grabbing up her scarf, she wound it around her face again and cautiously opened the door. The hallway was empty and she started to creep out when she realized she had no idea which room was his.

“Perhaps he isn’t even staying the night,” she said, sagging against the door frame in despair. “What would I say to him anyway?” Turning, she started back into her room when she stopped. “No, I must see him!” she said, and closed the door firmly so that she might not be tempted back inside. “If he isn’t up here yet, I’ll go after him.”

Moving down the hall, Amberyl crept near each door, listening.

Behind some she heard groans and muttered oaths and hurriedly shied away from these, realizing that her attackers were inside, recovering from their fray with the mage and his brother. At another door there was the shrill giggle of a female and the deeper laughter of a man. Amberyl continued to number thirteen.

“But, Raist! What am I supposed to say to the girl? 'Come down to our room. My brother wants you'?”

Recognizing the voice, Amberyl pressed closer against the door, listening carefully.

“If that is all you can think of saying, then say that.”