The Second Generation

Palin had a sudden vision of his uncle as he had heard of him in the legends: facing the evil Fistandantilus, feeling the touch of the bloodstone upon his chest as it sought to draw out his soul, suck out his life. The young man shivered, his body drenched in chill sweat. “I am strong,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can fight as he fought—”

“Fight him? The greatest wizard who ever lived? The archmage who challenged the Queen of Darkness herself and nearly won?” Dalamar laughed mirthlessly. “Bah! You are doomed, young man. You haven’t a prayer. And you know what I will be forced to do if Raistlin succeeds!” Dalamar’s hooded head darted so near Palin that the young man could feel the touch of breath on his cheek. “I must destroy him—I will destroy him. I don’t care whose body he inhabits. That’s why they’re giving you to me. They don’t have the stomach for it.”

Unnerved, Palin took a step back from the dark elf. Then he caught himself, and stood still.

“I. . . understand,” he said, his voice growing firmer as he continued. “I told you that once. Besides, I don’t believe my uncle would harm me in ... the way you say.”

“You don’t?” Dalamar appeared amused. His hand moved to his chest.

“Would you like to see what harm your uncle is capable of doing?”

“No!” Palin averted his eyes, then, flushing, he added lamely, “I know about it. I’ve heard the story. You betrayed him—”

“And this was my punishment.” The dark elf shrugged. “Very well. If you are determined—”

“I am.”

“—then I suggest you bid farewell to your brothers—a final farewell, if you take my meaning. For I deem it unlikely that you will meet again in this life.”

The dark elf was matter-of-fact. His eyes held no pity, no remorse. Palin’s hands twitched, his nails dug into his flesh, but he managed to nod firmly.

“You must be careful what you say.” Dalamar glanced meaningfully at Caramon, who was walking over to Justarius. “Your brothers mustn’t suspect. He mustn’t suspect. If he knew, he would prevent your going. Wait”—Dalamar caught hold of the young man—“pull yourself together.”

Swallowing, trying to moisten a throat that was parched and aching, Palin pinched his cheeks to bring the color back and wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe. Then, biting his lips to keep them steady, he turned from Dalamar and walked over to his brothers.

His white robes rustled around his ankles as he approached them. “Well, Brothers,” he began, forcing himself to smile, “I’m always standing on the porch of the inn, waving good-bye to you two, going off to fight something or other. Looks like if s my turn now.”

Palin saw Tanin and Sturm exchange swift, alarmed glances, and he choked. The three were close; they knew each other inside out. How can I fool them? he thought bitterly. Seeing their faces, he knew he hadn’t.

“My brothers,” Palin said softly, reaching out his hands. Clasping hold of both of them, he drew them near. “Don’t say anything,” he whispered. “Just let me go! Father wouldn’t understand. It’s going to be hard enough for him as it is.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Tanin began severely.

“Oh, shut up!” Sturm muttered. “So we don’t understand. Does it matter? Did our little brother blubber when you went off to your first battle?” Putting his big arms around Palin, he hugged him tightly. “Good-bye, kid,” he said.

“Take care of yourself and... and ... don’t be gone ...long....” Shaking his head, Sturm turned and walked hurriedly away, wiping his eye and muttering something about “those damn spell components make me sneeze!”

But Tanin, the oldest, remained standing beside his brother, staring at him sternly. Palin looked up at him pleadingly, but Tanin’s face grew grim. “No, Little Brother,” he said. “You’re going to listen.”

Dalamar, watching the two closely, saw the young warrior put his hand on Palin’s shoulder. He could guess what was being said. The dark elf saw Palin drawn away, shaking his head stubbornly, the young man’s features hardening into an impassive mask that Dalamar knew well. The wizard’s hand went to the wounds in his chest. How like Raistlin the young man was! Like, yet different, as Caramon had said, as different as the white moon and the black.... The dark elf’s thoughts were interrupted when he noticed that Caramon had observed the conversation between his two sons, and was taking a step toward them. Quickly, Dalamar interceded. Walking over to Caramon, he placed his slender hand on the big man’s arm.

“You have not told your children the truth about their uncle,” Dalamar said as Caramon glanced at him.

“I’ve told them,” Caramon retorted, his face flushing, “as much as I thought they should know. I tried to make them see both sides of him....”

“You have done them a disservice, particularly one of them,” Dalamar replied coldly, his glance going to Palin.