The Second Generation

Raistlin drew his hand over her smooth skin, his finger touching her soft lips. Her eyes closed, she leaned toward him. His hand moved to touch her long eyelashes, as fine as elven lace. Her body pressed close to his. He could feel her shivering. Putting his arm around her, he drew her close. As he did so, the fire’s last little flame flickered and died. Darkness warmer and softer than the blankets covered them. Outside they could hear the wind laughing, the trees whispering to themselves.

“Or we will perish...” Raistlin murmured.

Amberyl woke from a fitful sleep wondering, for a moment, where sh e was. Stirring slightly, she felt the mage’s arm wrapped around her protectively, the warmth of his body lying next to hers. Signing, she rested her head against his shoulder, listening to the shallow, too rapid breathing.

She let herself lie there, surrounded by his warmth, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible.

Outside, she could no longer hear the wind and knew the storm must have ended. The darkness that covered them was giving way to dawn. She could barely make out the blackened remnants of the firewood in the gray half-light. Turning slightly, she could see Raistlin’s face.

He was a light sleeper. He stirred and muttered at her movement, coughing, starting to wake. Amberyl touched his eyelids lightly with her fingertips, and he sighed deeply and relaxed back into sleep, the lines of pain smoothing from his face.

How young he looks, she thought to herself. How young and vulnerable. He has been deeply hurt. That is why he wears the armor of arrogance and unfeeling. It chafes him now. He is not used to it. But something tells me he will become all too accustomed to this armor before his brief life ends.

Moving carefully and quietly so as not to disturb him—more by instinct than because she feared she would wake him from his enchanted sleep—Amberyl slid out from his unconscious embrace. Gathering her things, she wrapped the scarf once more about her head. Then, kneeling down beside the sleeping mage, she looked upon Raistlin’s face one last time.

“I could stay,” she told him softly. “I could stay with you a little while. But then my solitary nature would get the better of me and I would leave you and you would be hurt.” A sudden thought made her shudder. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Or you might find out the truth about our race. If you ever discovered it, then you would loathe me, despise me! Worse still”—her eyes filled with tears—“you would despise our child.”

Gently, Amberyl stroked back the mage’s prematurely white hair, and her hand caressed the golden skin. “There is something about you that frightens me,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t understand. Perhaps the wise will know....” A tear crept down her face. “Farewell, mage. What I do now will keep pain from us both”—bending down, she kissed the sleeping face—“and from one who should come into this world free of all its burdens.”

Amberyl placed her hand upon the mage’s temples and, closing her eyes, began reciting words in the ancient language. Then, tracing the name Caramon upon the dirt floor, she spoke the same words over it as well. Rising hurriedly to her feet, she started to leave the cave. At the entrance she paused.

The cave was damp and chill; she heard the mage cough. Pointing at the fire, she spoke again. A blazing flame leapt up from the cold stone, filling the cave with warmth and light. With a final backward glance, a last, small sigh, Amberyl stepped out of the cave and walked away beneath the watchful, puzzled trees of the magical Forest of Wayreth.

Dawn glistened brightly on the new-fallen snow when Caramon finally made his way back to the cave.

“Raist!” he called out in a frightened voice as he drew nearer. “Raist! I’m sorry! This cursed forest!” He swore, glancing nervously at the trees as he did so. “This . . .blasted place. I spent half the night chasing after some wretched firelight that vanished when the sun came up. Are—are you all right?"

Frightened, wet, and exhausted, Caramon stumbled through the snow, listening for his brother’s answer, cough ... anything.

Hearing nothing from within the cave but ominous silence, Caramon hurried forward, tearing the blanket from the entrance in his desperate haste to get inside.

Once there, he stopped, staring about him in astonish ment.

A comfortable, cheery fire burned brightly. The cave was as warm—warmer—than a room in the finest inn. His twin lay fast asleep, his face peaceful as though lost in some sweet dream. The air was filled with a springlike fragrance, as of lilacs and lavender.

“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.