The Second Generation

Well, what do you expect, Caramon asked himself with a shrug. I’m the proprietor of an inn now. I’ve got responsibilities. Someone’s got to sample the cooking... . Heaving a rueful sigh, he sat down, shifting his bulk about until he was settled comfortably.

“Getting old, I guess,” he said with a grin.

“It comes to all of us,” Justarius answered, nodding his head. “Well, most of us,” he amended, with a glance at the figure who sat beside him. Following his gaze, Caramon saw the figure throw back its rune-covered hood to reveal a familiar face—an elven face.

“Greetings, Caramon Majere.”

“Dalamar,” returned Caramon steadily with a nod of his head, though the grip of memory tightened a bit at the sight of the black-robed wizard.

Dalamar looked no different than he had years ago—wiser, perhaps, calmer and cooler. At ninety years of age, he had been just an apprentice magic-user, considered little more than a hot-blooded youth as far as the elves were concerned. Twenty-five years mattered no more to the long-lived elves than the passing of a day and night. Now well over one hundred, his cold, handsome face appeared no older than a human of thirty.

“The years have dealt kindly with you, Caramon,” Justarius continued. “The Inn of the Last Home, which you now own, is one of the most prosperous in Krynn. You are a hero—you and your lady wife both. Tika Majere is well and undoubtedly as beautiful as ever?”

“More,” Caramon replied huskily.

Justarius smiled. “You have five children, two daughters and three sons—”

A sliver of fear pricked Caramon’s contentment. No, he said to himself inwardly, they have no power over me now. He settled himself more solidly in his chair, like a soldier digging in for battle.

“The two eldest, Tanin and Sturm, are soldiers of renown”—Justarius spoke in a bland voice, as though chatting with a neighbor over the fence. Caramon wasn’t fooled, however, and kept his eyes closely on the wizard—“bidding fair to outdo their famous father and mother in deeds of valor on the field. But the third, the middle child, whose name is—” Justarius hesitated.

“Palin,” said Caramon, his brows lowering into a frown. Glancing at Dalamar, the big man saw the dark elf watching him intently with slanted, inscrutable eyes.

“Palin, yes.” Justarius paused, then said quietly, “It would seem he follows in the footsteps of his uncle.”

There. It was out. Of course, that’s why they had ordered him here. He had been expecting it, or something like it, for a long time now. Damn them!

Why couldn’t they leave him alone! He never would have come, if Palin hadn’t insisted. Breathing heavily, Caramon stared at Justarius, trying to read the man’s face. He might as well have been trying to read one of his son’s spellbooks.

Justarius, head of the Conclave of Wizards, was the most powerful magic-user in Krynn. The red-robed wizard sat in the great stone chair in the center of the semicircle of twenty-one chairs. An elderly man, his gray hair and lined face were the only outward signs of aging. The eyes were as shrewd, the body appeared as strong—except the crippled left leg—as when Caramon had first met the archmage twenty-five years ago.

Caramon’s gaze went to the mage’s left leg. Hidden . beneath the red robes, the man’s injury was noticeable only to those who had seen him walk.

Aware of Caramon’s scrutiny, Justarius’s hand went selfconsciously to rub his leg, then he stopped with a wry smile. Crippled Justarius may be, Caramon thought, chilled, but only in body. Not in mind or ambition. Twenty-five years ago, Justarius had been the leading spokesman only of his own order, the Red Robes, those wizards in Krynn who had turned their backs against both the evil and the good to walk their own path, that of neutrality. Now he ruled over all the wizards in the world, presumably—the White Robes, Red Robes, and the Black.

Since magic is the most potent force in a wizard’s life, he swears fealty to the conclave, no matter what private ambitions or desires he nurses within his own heart.

Most wizards, that is. Of course, there had been Raistlin . . .

Twenty-five years ago.

Par-Salian of the White Robes had been head of the conclave then.

Caramon felt memory’s hand clutch him more tightly still.

“I don’t see what my son has to do with any of this,” he said in an even, steady voice. “If you want to meet my boys, they are in that room you magicked us into after we arrived. I’m sure you can magic them in here anytime you want. So, now that we have concluded social pleasantries—By the way, where is Par-Salian?” Caramon demanded suddenly, his gaze going around the shadowy chamber, flicking over the empty chair next to Justarius.

“He retired as head of the conclave twenty-five years ago,” Justarius said gravely, “following the ... the incident in which you were involved.”

Caramon flushed, but said nothing. He thought he detected a slight smile on Dalamar’s delicate elven features.