The Second Generation

As tall as the older two young men, Palin was well-built. Given to study rather than swordplay, however, he lacked the heavy musculature of the two warriors. He had his mother’s red hair, but it was not fiery red, being nearer a dark auburn. He wore his hair long—it flowed to his shoulders in soft waves from a central part on his forehead. But it was the young man’s face—his face and his hands—that sometimes haunted the dreams of his mother and father. Fine-boned, with penetrating, intelligent eyes that always seemed to be seeing right through one, Palin’s face had the look of his uncle, if not his features. Palin’s hands were Raistlin’s, however. Slender, delicate, the fingers quick and deft, the young man handled the fragile spell components with such skill that his father was often torn between watching with pride and looking away in sadness.

Just now, the hands were clenched into fists as Palin glared grimly at his two older brothers lying on the floor amid spilled ale, pieces of bread, crockery, a half-eaten cheese, and shards of broken table.

“Then try to behave with some dignity, at least!” Palin snapped.

“I remember where I am,” Tanin repeated angrily. Getting to his feet, he walked over to stand in front of Palin, staring at him accusingly. “And I remember who brought us here! Riding through that accursed wood that damn near got us killed—”

“Nothing in Wayreth Forest will hurt you,” Palin returned, looking at the mess on the floor in disgust. “As I’d have told you if you’d only listened. This forest is controlled by the wizards in the tower. It protects them from unwanted intruders. We have been invited here. The trees let us pass without harm. The voices you heard whispered only the fears in your own heart. If s magic—”

“You listen, Palin,” Tanin interrupted in what Sturm always referred to as his Elder Brother voice. “Why don’t you just drop all this magic business? You’re hurting Father and Mother—Father most of all. You saw his face when we rode up to this place! The gods know what it must have cost him to come back here.”

Flushing, Palin turned away, biting his lip.

“Oh, lay off the kid, will you, Tanin?” Sturm said, seeing the pain on his younger brother’s face. Wiping ale from his pants, he somewhat shamefacedly began trying to put the table back together—a hopeless task, considering most of it was in splinters.

“You had the makings of a good swordsman once, Little Brother,” Tanin said persuasively, ignoring Sturm and putting his hand on Palin’s shoulder.

“C’mon, kid. Tell whoever’s out there”—Tanin waved his hand somewhat vaguely—“that you’ve changed your mind. We can leave this cursed place, then, and go home—”

“We have no idea why they asked us to come here,” Palin retorted, shaking off his brother’s hand. “It probably has nothing to do with me! Why should it?” he asked bitterly. “I’m still a student. It will be years before I am ready to take my test... thanks to Father and Mother,” he muttered beneath his breath.

Tanin did not hear it, but the unseen observer did.

“Yeah? And I’m a half-ogre,” retorted Tanin angrily. “Look at me when I’m talking, Palin—”

“Just leave me alone!”

“Hey, you two—” Sturm the peacemaker started to intervene when the three young men suddenly realized they were not alone in the room.

All quarrels forgotten, the brothers acted instantly. Sturm rose to his feet with the quickness of a cat. His hand on the hilt of his sword, he joined Tanin, who had already moved to stand protectively in front of the unarmed Palin. Like all magic-users, the young man carried neither sword nor shield nor wore armor. But his hand went to the dagger he wore concealed beneath his robes, his mind already forming the words of the few defensive spells he had been allowed to learn.

“Who are you?” Tanin asked harshly, staring at the man standing in the center of the locked room. “How did you get in here?”

“As to how I got here”—the man smiled expansively—“there are no walls in the Tower of High Sorcery for those who walk with magic. As for who I am, my name is Dunbar Mastersmate, of Northern Ergoth.”

“What do you want?” Sturm asked quietly.

“Want? Why—to make certain you are comfortable, that is all,” Dunbar answered. “I am your host—”

“You? A magic-user?” Tanin gaped, and even Palin seemed slightly startled.

In a world where wizards are noted for having more brains than brawn, this man was obviously the exception. Standing as tall as Tanin, he had a barrel of a chest that Caramon might well have envied. Muscles rippled beneath the shining black skin of his bare chest. His arms looked as though he could have picked up the stalwart Sturm and carried him about the room as easily as if he had been a child. He was not dressed in robes, but wore bright-colored, loose-fitting trousers. The only hint that he might have been a wizard at all came from the pouches that hung at his waist and a white sash that girdled his broad middle.

Dunbar laughed, booming laughter that set the dishes rattling.