The Second Generation

“May I ask what?” Dalamar inquired sarcastically. “The Portal to the Abyss dosed, after all-dosed with your brother’s help—leaving him trapped on the other side.” The dark elf’s voice dropped. “Her Dark Majesty would not kill him. Raistlin prevented her entry into this world. Her rage would know no bounds. She would take delight in tormenting him eternally. Death would have been Raistlin’s salvation.”

“And so it was,” said Caramon softly.

“Sentimental drivel—” Dalamar began impatiently, but Justarius once again laid his hand upon the dark elf’s arm, and the black-robed mage lapsed into seething silence.

“I hear certainty in your voice, Caramon,” Justarius said earnestly. “You have knowledge, obviously, that we do not. Share this with us. I know this is painful for you, but we face a decision of grave importance, and this may influence our actions.”

Caramon hesitated, frowning. “Does this have something to do with my son?”

“Yes,” Justarius replied.

Caramon’s face darkened. His gaze went to his sword, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his hand absently fingering the hilt. “Then I will tell you,” he said, speaking reluctantly, yet in a firm, low voice, “what I have never told anyone—not my wife, not Tanis, not anyone.” He was silent a moment more, collecting his thoughts. Then, swallowing and brushing his hand across his eyes, keeping his gaze on the sword, he began. “I was numb after ... after what happened in the tower in Palanthas. I couldn’t think. I didn’t want to think.

“It was easier to go through the day like a sleepwalker. I moved, I talked, but I didn’t feel. It was easy.” He shrugged. “There was a lot to do to keep me occupied. The dry was in ruins. Dalamar”—he glanced briefly at the dark elf—“was nearly dead, Revered Daughter Crysania hurt badly. Then there was Tas—stealing that floating citadel.” In spite of himself, Caramon smiled, remembering the antics of the merry kender. But the smile—soon faded.

Shaking his head, he continued.

“I knew that someday I’d have to think about Raistlin. I’d have to sort it out in my mind.” Raising his head, Caramon looked at Justarius directly. “I had to make myself understand what Raistlin was, what he had done. I came to face the fact that he was evil, truly evil, that he had jeopardized the entire world in his lust for power, that innocent people had suffered and died because of him.”

“And for this, of course, he was granted salvation!” Dalamar sneered.

“Wait!” Caramon raised his hand, flushing. “I came to realize something else. I loved Raistlin. He was my brother, my twin. We were close—no one knows how close.” The big man could not go on, but stared down at his sword, frowning, until, drawing a shaking breath, he raised his head again. “Raistlin did some good in his life. Without him, we couldn’t have defeated the dragonarmies. He cared for those who ... who were wretched, sick... like himself. But even that, I know, wouldn’t have saved him at the end.” Caramon’s lips pressed together firmly as he blinked back his tears. “When I met him in the Abyss, he was near victory, as you well know. He had only to reenter the portal, draw the Dark Queen through it, and then he would be able to defeat her and take her place. He would achieve his dream of becoming a god. But in so doing, he would destroy the world. My journey into the future showed that to me—and I showed the future to him. Raistlin would become a god—but he would rule over a dead world. He knew then that he couldn’t return. He had doomed himself. He knew the risks he faced, however, when he entered the Abyss.”

“Yes,” said Justarius quietly. “And, in his ambition, he chose freely to take those risks. What is it you are trying to say?”

“Just this,” Caramon returned. “Raistlin made a mistake, a terrible, tragic mistake. And he did what few of us can do—he had courage enough to admit it and try to do what he could to rectify it, even though it meant sacrificing himself.”

“You have grown in wisdom over the years, Caramon Majere. What you say is convincing.” Justarius regarded Caramon with new respect, even as the archmage shook his head sadly.

“Still, this is a question for philosophers toargue. It is not proof. Forgive me for pressing you, Caramon, but—”