The Second Generation

Sturm Brightblade lay on his marble bier, his hands folded over the hilt of an antique sword—his father’s sword. He was clad in his father’s armor. The star jewel, shining with the light of love, gleamed on his breast.

A dragonlance lay alongside him. Next to it was a wooden rose, carved by the hands of a grieving old dwarf, now sleeping his own restful sleep.

Beside the rose, encapsulated in crystal, was a white feather, a final gift of a loving kender.

Tanis knelt on one knee beside the body. His head level with the knight’s, Tanis spoke to his friend softly in Elvish. “Sturm, honorable, gentle, noble heart. I know you have forgiven Kitiara for what she did to you, for her treachery, her deceit—more painful for you than the spear she finally used to slay you. This young man is her son, far too much her son, I fear.

“Yet, there is, I think, something of you in him, my friend. Now that I stand here, I believe that you truly are his father. I see the resemblance in your features, but, stronger than physical evidence, I see you in this young man’s spirit, in his dauntless courage, in his nobility of character, in the compassion for others that he counts as a mark against himself.

“Your son is in danger, Sturm. The Dark Queen draws him near, whispering her words of seduction, promising him glory that must surely end in ultimate defeat. He needs your help, my friend, if such help is possible for you to grant. I regret disturbing your peaceful slumber, but I am asking you, Sturm, to do whatever you can to draw your son away from the dark path he now walks.”

Tanis stood up. Brushing his hand across his eyes, he looked over at Caramon.

The big man knelt on the opposite side of the catafalque. “I’d give up my life for my children,” he said, in a quiet voice, “if I thought that would save them from danger. I know that you’ll... Well, you’ll do what's right, Sturm. You always did.”

With this somewhat enigmatic request, Caramon stood up. Turning his back, he snuffled loudly, then wiped his eyes and nose on his shirt sleeve.

Tanis looked at Steel. The young man had held back. He stood alone, away from the knights, away from the catafalque, though he stared at the body with dark and burning eyes. He continued to stand, unmoving. His face, pale and cold and hard, was the exact copy of the face of the slumbering knight. Both might well have been carved out of marble.

“So much for that,” Tanis said to himself. “Poor Sara. Still, she tried.”

Sighing, he took a step forward. It was time to leave. Suddenly Steel made a convulsive lunge for the marble catafalque.

“Father!” he cried brokenly, and it wasn’t the man’s voice who spoke, but the voice of the child, bereft, alone.

Steel’s hands closed over the cold hands of the corpse.

A flash of white light, a light pure and radiant, cold and awful, surged through all present, left them paralyzed and half-blind.

Tanis rubbed his eyes, trying to knead out the vibrant afterimage, trying frantically to see through a bursting of fiery red and vivid yellow spots. Elven eyesight is keen, and elven eyes adjust better to darkness and to light than do human eyes. Or perhaps, in this instance, it was the eyes of the heart that saw clearer than those of the head. Sturm Brightblade stood in the chamber.

So real was the vision—if vision it was—that Tanis very nearly called out his friend’s name, very nearly reached out to once again clasp his friend’s hand.

Something kept the half-elf silent. Sturm’s gaze was fixed on his son, and in it was sorrow, understanding, love.

Sturm spoke no word. He reached to his breast, clasped his hand over the star jewel. The dazzling white light was briefly diminished. Sturm reached out to his son.

Steel stared at his father; the young man was more livid than the corpse.

Sturm’s hand touched Steel on the breast. The light of the jewel flared.

Steel put his hand swiftly to his breast, fumbled for something there, and closed his hand over it. White light pulsed briefly in Steel’s grasp, welled through his fingers, then the light was darkness. Steel thrust whatever had been in his hand inside his armor.

“Sacrilege!” Sir Wilhelm gave a hoarse cry of outrage and fury, then drew his sword from its scabbard.

At last, the fiery halo disappeared. Tanis could see clearly and the sight unnerved and appalled him.

The body of Sturm Brightblade was gone. The corpse had disappeared. All that remained was the helm, the shining antique armor, and the ancient sword, lying on the bier.

“We have been deceived!” Sir Wilhelm was thundering. “This man is not one of us! He is not a Solamnic Knight. He is a servant of the Dark Queen! A minion of evil! Seize him! Slay him!”

“The magic jewel!” another knight cried. “It’s gone! He has stolen it! The jewel must be on his person!”

“Take him! Search him!” Sir Wilhelm howled. Brandishing his sword, he leapt for Steel.