The Second Generation

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.