The Second Generation

“I spent a month at Tanis’s, before I went home,” Caramon continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. “It was in his quiet, peaceful home that I thought about all this. It was there that I first had to come to grips with the fact that my brother—my companion since birth, the person that I loved better than anyone else on this world—was gone. Lost. For all I knew, trapped in horrible torment. I... I thought, more than once, about taking the edge off my pain with dwarf spirits again.” Caramon closed his eyes, shuddering. “One day, when I didn’t think I could live anymore without going mad, I went into my room and locked the door. Taking out my sword, I looked at it, thinking how easy it would be to ... to escape. I lay on my bed, fully intending to kill myself. Instead, I fell into an exhausted sleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke up, it was night. Everything was quiet, Solinari’s silver light shone in the window, and I was filled with a sense of inexpressible peace. I wondered why ... and then I saw him.”

“Saw who?” Justarius asked, exchanging quick glances with Dalamar.

“Raistlin?”

“Yes.”

The faces of the two wizards grew grim.

“I saw him,” said Caramon gently, “lying beside me, asleep, just like when... when we were young. He had terrible dreams sometimes. He’d wake, weeping, from them. I’d comfort him and... and make him laugh. Then he’d sigh, lay his head on my arm, and fall asleep. That’s how I saw him—”

“A dream!” Dalamar scoffed.

“No.” Caramon shook his head resolutely. “It was too real. I saw his face as I see yours. I saw his face as I had seen it last, in the Abyss. Only now the terrible lines of pain, the twisted marks of greed and evil were gone, leaving it smooth and... at rest—like Crysania said. It was the face of my brother, my twin... not the stranger he’d become.” Caramon wiped his eyes again. “The next day, I was able to go home, knowing that everything was all right.... For the first time in my life, I believed in Paladine. I knew that he understood Raistlin and judged him mercifully, accepting his sacrifice.”

“He has you there, Justarius,” boomed a voice from out of the shadows. “What do you say to faith like that?”

Looking around quickly, Caramon saw four figures materialize out of the shadows of the vast chamber. Three he recognized and, even in this grim place, with its storehouse of memories, his eyes blurred again, only these were tears of pride as he looked upon his sons. The older two, armor clanking and swords rattling, appeared somewhat subdued, he noticed. Not unusual, he thought grimly, considering all they had heard about the tower, both in legend and family history. Then, too, they felt about magic the way he himself felt—both disliked and distrusted it. The two stood protectively, as usual, one on each side of Caramon’s third son, their younger brother.

It was this youngest son that Caramon looked at anxiously as they entered.

Dressed in his white robes, Palin approached the head of the conclave with his head bowed, his eyes on the floor, as was proper for one of his low rank and station. Having just turned twenty, he wasn’t even an apprentice yet and probably wouldn’t be until he was twenty-five at least. That is the age when magic-users in Krynn may choose to take the Test—the grueling examination of their skills and talents in the Art, which all must pass before they can acquire more advanced and dangerous knowledge. Because magicians wield such great power, the Test is designed to weed out those who are unskilled or who do not take their art seriously. It does this very effectively—failure means death. There is no turning back. Once a young man or woman of any race—elven, human, ogre—decides to enter the Tower of High Sorcery with the intent of taking the Test—he or she commits body and soul to the magic. Palin seemed unusually troubled and serious, just as he had on their journey to the tower—almost as if he were about to take the Test himself. But that’s ridiculous, Caramon reminded himself sternly. The boy is too young.

Granted, Raistlin took the Test at this age, but that was because the conclave needed him. Raistlin was strong in his magic, excelling in the Art, and—even so—the Test had nearly killed him. Caramon could still see his twin lying on the bloodstained stone floor of the tower... He clenched his fist. No! Palin is intelligent, he is skilled, but he’s not ready. He’s too young.

“Besides,” Caramon muttered beneath his breath, “give him a few more years, and he may decide to drop this notion....”

As if aware of his father’s worried scrutiny, Palin raised his head slightly and gave him a reassuring smile. Caramon smiled back, feeling better.

Maybe this weird place had opened his son’s eyes.