The Second Generation

At the edge of the world
the juggler wanders,
sightless and pathless,
trusting the venerable
breadth of his juggler’s hands.
He wanders the edge
of a long-ago story, juggling moons,
parading the fixed
anonymous stars in his passage.
Something like instinct
and something like agate
hard and transparent
in the depths of his reflexes
channels the objects
to life in the air:
stilettos and bottles,
wooden pins and ornaments
the seen and the unseen—all reassemble
translated to light and dexterity.
It is this version of light we steer by:
constellations of memory
and a chemistry born
in the blood’s alembic,
where motive and metaphor
and the impulse of night
are annealed by the morning
into our countenance,
into the whorls
of our surfacing fingers.
Something in each of us yearns for this balance,
for the vanished chemistries that temper the steel.
The best of all jugglery lies in the truces
that shape our intention out of knives,
out of filament out of half-empty bottles
and mirrors and chemistries,
and from the forgotten ore of the night.

Chapter One The Strange Request of a Blue Dragon Rider

It was autumn on Ansalon, autumn in Solace. The leaves of the vallenwood trees were the most beautiful they’d ever been, so Caramon said—the reds blazing brighter than fire, the golds sparkling more brilliantly than the newly minted coins that were coming out of Palanthas. Tika, Caramon’s wife, agreed with him. Never had such colors been seen before in Solace.

And when he stepped out of the inn, went to haul in another barrel of brown ale, Tika shook her head and laughed.

“Caramon says the same thing every year. The leaves are more colorful, more beautiful than the year before. It never fails.”

The customers laughed with her, and a few teased the big man, when he came back into the inn, carrying the heavy barrel of brown ale on his back.

“The leaves seem a tad brown this year,” commented one sadly.

“Drying up,” said another.

“Aye, they’re falling too early, before they’ll have a chance to completely turn,” another remarked.

Caramon looked amazed. He swore stoutly that this wasn’t so and even dragged the disbelievers out onto the porch and shoved their faces in a leafy branch to prove his point.

The customers—longtime residents of Solace—admitted he was right. The leaves had never before looked so lovely. At which Caramon, as gratified as if he’d painted the leaves personally, escorted the customers back inside and treated them to free ale. This, too, happened every year.

The Inn of the Last Home was especially busy this autumn. Caramon would have liked to ascribe the increase intrade to the leaves; there were many who made the pilgrimage to Solace, in these days of relative peace, to see the wondrous vallenwood trees, which grew here and nowhere else on Krynn (despite various claims to the contrary, made by certain jealous towns, whose names will not be mentioned).

But even Caramon was forced to agree with the practical-minded Tika.

The upcoming Wizards' Conclave was having more to do with the increased number of guests than the leaves—beautiful as they were.

A Wizards' Conclave was held infrequently on Krynn, occurring only when the top-ranking magic-users in each of the three orders—White, Red, and Black—deemed it necessary that all those of all levels of magic, from the newest apprentice to the most skilled sorcerer, gather to discuss arcane affairs.

Mages from all over Ansalon traveled to the Tower of Wayreth to attend the conclave. Also invited were certain individuals of those known as the Graystone Gem races, whose people did not use magic, but who were involved in the crafting of various magical items and artifacts. Several members of the dwarven race were honored guests. A group of gnomes arrived, encumbered with blueprints, hoping to persuade the wizards to admit them. Numerous kender appeared, of course, but they were gently, albeit firmly, turned away at the borders.