The Second Generation

“Yes, we parents can be blind,” Justarius murmured, “but that is neither here nor there.” Leaning forward, the archmage clasped his hands together. “I see you growing impatient, Caramon. As you guessed, we have called you here for a purpose. And, I’m afraid it does have something to do with your son, Palin.”

This is it, Caramon said to himself, scowling, his sweating hand clenching and unclenching nervously around the hilt of his sword.

“There is no easy way to say this, so I will be blunt and direct.” Justarius drew a deep breath; his face became grave and sorrowful, touched with a shadow of fear. “We have reason to believe that the young man’s uncle—your twin brother, Raistlin—is not dead."

Chapter Two

“This place shivers my skin!” Tanin muttered, with a sideways glance at his youngest brother.

Slowly sipping a cup of tarbean tea, Palin stared into the flames of the fire, pretending not to have heard Tanin’s remark, which he knew was addressed to him.

“Oh, in the name of the Abyss, would you sit down!” Sturm said, tossing pieces of bread at his brother. “You’re going to walk yourself right through the floor, and the gods only know what’s beneath us.”

Tanin merely frowned, shook his head, and continued his pacing.

“Reorx’s beard, Brother!” Sturm continued almost incomprehensibly, his mouth full of cheese. “You’d think we were in a draconian dungeon instead of what might pass for a room in one of the finest inns in Palanthas itself! Good food, great ale—” he took a long pull to wash down the cheese —“and there’d be pleasant company if you weren’t acting like such a doorknob!”

“Well, we aren’t in one of the finest inns in Palanthas,” said Tanin sarcastically, stopping in his pacing to catch a hunk of thrown bread. Grinding it to bits in his hand, he tossed it on the floor. “We’re in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. We’ve been spirited into this room. The damn doors are locked, and we can’t get out. We have no idea what these wizards have done with Father, and all you can think of is cheese and ale!”

“That's not all I’m thinking of,” Sturm said quietly with a nod of his head and a worried glance at their little brother, who was still staring into the fire.

“Yeah,” Tanin snapped gloomily, his gaze following Sturm’s. “I’m thinking of him, too! If s his fault we’re here in the first place!” Moodily kicking a table leg as he walked past, Tanin resumed his pacing. Seeing his little brother flinch at his older brother’s words, Sturm sighed and returned to his sport of trying to hit Tanin between the shoulder blades with the bread.

Anyone observing the older two young men (as some one was at this very moment) might have taken them for twins, though they were—in reality—a year apart in age. Twenty-four and twenty-three respectfully, Tanin and Sturm (named for Caramon’s best friend, Tanis Half-Elven, and the heroic Knight of Solamnia, Sturm Brightblade) looked, acted, and even thought alike. Indeed, they often played the part of twins and enjoyed nothing so much as when people mistook one for the other.

Big and brawny, each young man had Caramon’s splendid physique and his genial, honest face. But the bright red curls and dancing green eyes that wreaked such havoc among the women the young men met came directly from their mother, who had broken her share of hearts in her youth. One of the beauties of Krynn as well as a renowned warrior, Tika Waylan had grown a little plumper since the days when she bashed draconians over the head with her skillet. But heads still turned when Tika waited tables in her fluffy, low-necked white blouse, and there were few men who left the Inn of the Last Home without shaking their heads and swearing that Caramon was a lucky fellow.

The green eyes of young Sturm were not dancing now, however. Instead, they glinted mischievously as, with a wink at his younger brother—who wasn’t watching—Sturm rose silently to his feet and, positioning himself behind the preoccupied Tanin, quietly drew his sword. Just as Tanin turned around, Sturm stuck the sword blade between his brother’s legs, tripping him and sending him to the floor with a crash that seemed to shake the very foundation of the tower.

“Damn you for a lame-brained gully dwarf!” roared Tanin. Clambering to his feet, he leapt after his brother, who was scrambling to get out of the way.

Tanin caught him and, grabbing hold of the grinning Sturm by the collar of his tunic, sent him sprawling backward into the table, smashing it to the floor. Tanin jumped on top of his brother, and the two were engaged in their usual rough-and-tumble antics, which had left several barrooms in Ansalon in shambles, when a quiet voice brought the tussle to a halt.

“Stop it,” said Palin tensely, rising from his chair by the fire. “Stop it, both of you! Remember where you are!”

“I remember where I am,” Tanin said sulkily, gazing up at his youngest brother.