The Second Generation

Always the son in that oldest of stories,
sport of the blood
in its natural turning,
the charmed one, least likely
to end up heroic,
captures the crown
and the grail and the princess.
Suddenly, out of the shires of concealment
the least likely son
perseveres and arises
after veiling his heart
through the hooded night,
and his unmasked glory
of grail and of jewelry
effaces the moment
before the beginning of stories,
when the galvanic heartbeat
contended with ice and illusion,
when the world was a country
of mirrors and brothers,
and harmony broke
on the long effacement of days.
It is brothers like these
whom poetry touches,
who are handy with visions
instead of with swords,
whose pale light is hidden
in the cloud of their knowing.
But for each who emerges
past wounds and obscurity,
for each who negotiates bramble
and dragon and wizard,
there is another forever
forgotten conceded and
wed to the language of brothers,
lost in the bloodline
of sword and money
in the old palindrome of the spirit.
It is brothers like these
that the poets sing,
for their baffled courage
and the water’s solace
for the one in the bramble
and the failed inheritance,
it is for these
that the ink is drying,
it is for these
that the angels come.

Chapter One

Caramon stood in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. It was so wide, its perimeter was lost in shadow, so high its ceiling was obscured in shadow. No pillars supported it. No lights lit it. Yet light there was, though none could name its source. It was a pale light, white—not yellow. Cold and cheerless, it gave no warmth.

Though he could see no one in the chamber, though he could hear no sound disturb the heavy silence that seemed centuries old, Caramon knew he was not alone. He could feel the eyes watching him as they had watched him long ago, and so he stood stolidly, waiting patiently until they deemed it time to proceed.

He guessed what they were doing, and he smiled, but only inwardly. To those watching eyes, the big man’s face remained smooth, impassive. They would see no weakness in him, no sorrow, no bitter regret. Though memory was reaching out to him, its hand was warm, its touch gentle. He was at peace with himself, and had been for twenty-five years.

As if reading his thoughts—which, Caramon supposed, they might well have been—those present in the vast chamber suddenly revealed themselves. It was not that the light grew brighter, or a mist lifted, or the darkness parted, for none of that happened. Caramon felt more as though he were the one who had suddenly entered, though he had been standing there upwards of a quarter hour. The two robed figures that appeared before him were a part of this place just like the white, magical light, the ages-old silence. He wasn’t—he was an outsider and would be one forever.

“Welcome once again to our tower, Caramon Majere,” said a voice.

Caramon bowed, saying nothing. He couldn’t—for the life of him—remember die man’s name.

“Justarius,” the man said, smiling pleasantly. “Yes, the years have been long since we last met, and our last meeting was during a desperate hour. It is small wonder you have forgotten me. Please, be seated.” A heavy, carved, oaken chair materialized beside Caramon. “You have journeyed long and are weary, perhaps.”

Caramon started to state that he was just fine, that a journey like this was nothing to a man who had been over most of the continent of Ansalon in his younger days. But at the sight of the chair with its soft, inviting cushions, Caramon realized that the journey had been rather a long one—longer than he remembered it. His back ached, his armor appeared to have grown heavier, and it seemed that his legs just weren’t holding up their end of things anymore.