The Second Generation

“A curse, Lord Ariakan said. A curse if I discovered the truth.” He sighed, then, glancing down, said coldly, “Stand back, Mother. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Caramon caught hold of the weeping Sara and pulled her out of the way of the dragon’s great wings.

Steel spoke a word. Flare soared into the air. The dragon circled them once.

They could see the young man’s face—white against the blue wings.

And perhaps it was Tanis’s imagination or maybe a trick of the dying sunlight, but he thought he saw an argent flash, as from an elven jewel, in the young man’s hand.

The blue dragon disappeared into the darkening sky, heading north.

Chapter Twelve His Mother’s Blood

The winds blew fiercely on Storm’s Keep. Waves lashed the rocks, broke across them in torrents of spray and foam. Lightning flared in the dark clouds; thunder rumbled, shook the foundations of the fortress. It was midnight.

The clear notes of a trumpet shattered the darkness. Lord Ariakan stood in the center of the courtyard of Storm’s Keep, surrounded by a circle of knights. Torches sputtered and flickered in the rain. The knights' black armor glistened. The black lily of violent death adorned each black breastplate, the flower’s severed stem entwined around a bloody axe. Black cloaks, trimmed in blue, white or red—depending on the knight’s order—whipped about their armored bodies, but did little to protect them from the driving rain.

The Knights of Takhisis reveled in the rain, reveled in the storm. It was a mark of their goddess’s favor. Soon, the young man to be invested into the knighthood would—if the high priestess deemed him worthy—emerge from the temple, where he had spent the day in vigil and in prayer.

In deep-voiced unison, the knights began to chant Her Dark Majesty’s praises.

Inside the temple, in deathly silence, Steel Brightblade lay prostrate, in full armor, on the floor before the dark altar. He had spent the day lying on the chill, dank stone, abasing himself before his goddess. The temple was empty, except for him; none were permitted to disturb the knight’s vigil.

At the sound of the trumpet call, a woman emerged from the thick black curtains in back of the obsidian altar. The woman was old and bent. Her hair was gray and worn long, straggling down over her crooked shoulders.

She walked with slow steps, shuffled across the stone floor. Her eyes were red-rimmed, shrewdly intelligent. She wore the black robes and dragon necklace of a high priestess of Takhisis.

A favorite of the Dark Queen’s, the priestess had immense power. It was whispered that, years ago, she had participated in the dread ceremonies that had produced draconians from the stolen eggs of the good dragons.

There was not a knight on Storm’s Keep, Lord Ariakan among them, who did not tremble at the old woman’s look, her touch.

She came to stand before the young knight, who lay with his face pressed against the stones, his dark hair streaming about him, gleaming blue-black in the light of the altar candles. On the altar, awaiting the Dark Queen’s blessing, was his helm, fashioned in the shape of a hideous, grinning skull, and his breastplate, with its lily and its axe. But not his sword, as was customary.

“Rise,” said the priestess.

Weak from fasting and from lying, encased in chain mail, on the cold floor, Steel rose stiffly and awkwardly to his knees. His head remained bowed. Not daring to lift his eyes to the holy priestess, he clasped his hands before him.

She observed him closely, then, reaching out a clawlike hand, she placed her fingers beneath his chin. The nails dug into his flesh. He flinched at her touch, which was far colder than the stones. She raised his face to the light, to her scrutiny.

“You now know the name of your father?”

“Yes, Holiness,” Steel said steadfastly, “I do.”

“Say it. Speak it before the altar of your queen.”

Steel swallowed, his throat constricted. He hadn’t thought this would be so difficult.

“Brightblade,” he whispered.

“Again.”

“Brightblade.” His voice rang out, defiantly proud.

The priestess was not displeased, it seemed.

“Your mother’s name.”

“Kitiara Uth Matar.” Again, this time fiercely, with pride.

The priestess nodded.

“A worthy lineage. Steel Uth Matar Brightblade, do you hereby dedicate your body, your heart, your soul to Her Dark Majesty, Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, Dark Warrior, Dragon Queen, She-of-Many-Faces?”

“I do so,” Steel answered calmly.

The priestess smiled a secret, dark smile.

“Body and heart and soul, Steel Uth Matar Brightblade?” she repeated.

“Yes, of course,” he answered, troubled. This was not part of the ritual, as he had been taught. “Why should you doubt me?”

In answer, the priestess took hold of a slender, steel chain that encircled the young man’s neck. She tugged on the chain, drew forth its ornament.

An elven jewel, carved in the shape of a star, pale and gleaming, hung from the steel chain.

“What is this?” the priestess hissed.