The Second Generation

The woman lifted anguished eyes. “I could have lied to you. I could have told you that all will be well, but I don’t know that. I know only that I bear a terrible secret and I must share it with the one other person alive who has the right to know it!” She reached out, caught hold of Caramon’s hand. “A life is at stake. No, sir, more than a life! A soul!”

“It’s not up to us to judge, sweetheart,” said Tika. “This man, whoever he is, must decide for himself.”

“Very well. I’ll go fetch him.” Caramon flung his cloak around his shoulders.

“What” s the name?”

“Majere,” said the woman. “Caramon Majere.”

“Caramon!” repeated Caramon, astounded.

The woman mistook his astonishment for reluctance. “I know I’m asking the impossible. Caramon Majere—a Hero of the Lance, one of the most renowned warriors of Ansalon. What could he have to do with the likes of me? But, if he won’t come, tell him ...” She paused, considering what she might say. 'Tell him I’ve come about his sister.”

“His sister!” Caramon fell back against the wall. The thud shook the inn.

“Paladine help us!” Tika clasped her hands together tightly. “Not... Kitiara?"

Chapter Two Kitiara’s Son

Caramon took off his cloak. He intended to hang it on the peg, but missed.

The cloak slid to the floor. He didn’t bother to pick it up. The woman watched all this with growing suspicion.

“Why aren’t you going to fetch this man?”

“Because you’ve already found him. I am Caramon Majere.”

The woman was startled, then obviously dubious.

“You can ask anyone,” Caramon said simply, waving a hand to indicate the inn and beyond. “What would I gain by lying?” He flushed, patted his broad belly, and shrugged. “I know I may not look much like a hero . . .”

The woman smiled suddenly. The smile made her seem younger. “I was expecting a great lord. I’m glad you’re not. This will be ... easier.”

She studied him intently. “Now that I look at you, I might have recognized you. She described you to me—'a big man, more brawn than brains, always thinking of where his next meal is coming from.' Forgive me, sir. Those were Kitiara’s words, not mine.”

Caramon’s expression darkened. “I suppose you know, my lady, that my sister is dead. My half-sister, I should say. And you know that Kitiara was a Dragon Highlord, in league with the Queen of Darkness. And why would she tell you anything about me? She may have been fond of me, once, I suppose, but she forgot about that in a hurry.”

“I know what Kitiara was, better than most,” the woman said, with a sigh. “She lived with me, you see, for several months. It was before the war. About five years before. Will you hear my story from the beginning? I have traveled many hundreds of miles to find you, at great peril.” “Maybe we should wait until morning—” She shook her head. “No, I dare not. It is safer for me to travel before dawn. Will you hear my story? If you choose not to believe me ..."

She shrugged. “Then I will leave you in peace.”

“I’ll make some tarbean tea,” said Tika. She left for the kitchen, first laying her hand on her husband’s massive shoulder, silently enjoining him to listen.

Caramon sat down heavily. “Very well. What is your name, my lady? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Sara Dunstan. I am—or was—a resident of Solamnia. And it is there, in a small village not too distant from Palanthas, where my tale begins.

“I was about twenty years old then. I lived alone, in a cottage that had belonged to my parents. They had both died of the plague, some years before. I caught it, but I was one of the lucky ones who survived. I earned my trade as a weaver; having learned the craft from my mother. I was a spinster. Oh, I’d had chances to marry, when I was young, but I turned them down. Too picky, the townsfolk said, but the truth was, I never found anyone I loved, and I couldn’t settle for less.

“I wasn’t particularly happy. Few were in those hard times before the war. We didn’t know what lay ahead of us, or we would have counted ourselves blessed.”

She accepted a glass of hot tea. Tika took her place beside her husband and handed him a mug of tea. He accepted it, put it down, and promptly forgot about it. His face was grim. “Go on, my lady.”

“You shouldn’t call me a lady. I’m not. I never was. As I said, I was a weaver. I was working at my loom in my home, one day, when there came a banging on my door. I looked outside. I thought at first it was a man standing on my stoop, but I suddenly realized it was a young woman, dressed in leather armor. She wore a sword, like a man, and her hair was manlike, black, and cut short.”

Tika glanced at Caramon to see his reaction. The description fit Kitiara exactly. But Caramon’s face was expressionless. “She started to ask me for something—water, I think—but before she could say anything, she passed out at my feet.