Dragonlance 10 - The Second Generation (36 page)

One small incident marred an otherwise idyllic cruise (not counting constantly ducking the sail, being hit by falling fish, and wondering whether or not they were going to sink before they reached land, due to the leaking of the smashed-in prow… or stern… ).

Dougan was lounging on the deck one night, contemplating the heavens (the planet Reorx was missing) when suddenly he was accosted by the three brothers.

"Sturm, get his arms!" Tanin ordered, leaping on the dwarf from behind. "Palin, if his beard so much as twitches, send him to sleep!"

"What is this outrage! How dare you?" Dougan roared, struggling in Sturm's strong grasp.

"We risked our lives for that rock," Tanin said grimly, glaring down at the red-faced dwarf. "And I want to see it."

"You've been putting us off for days," added Palin, standing beside his brother. "We at least want a look at it before you take it back to your forge or wherever."

"Let me loose!" Dougan swore an oath. "Or you'll see nothing ever again!"

Sturm, at a nod from Tanin, let go of the dwarf's arms. Dougan glanced around at them uncomfortably.

"The Graygem?" the brothers said, gathering around.

"Well, now, lads." The dwarf appeared highly uncomfortable. "That's going to be a bit of a problem."

"What do you mean?" Palin asked nervously, not liking the expression on the dwarf's face. "Is it so powerful that we can't look at it?"

"Nooo…" said Dougan slowly, his face flushing in the red light of Lunitari. "That's not it, exactly…"

"Well, then, let's see it!" Tanin demanded.

"The… uh… the fact is, lads," stammered Dougan, winding his black beard around his finger, "that I've… I've misplaced it."

"Misplaced it!" Sturm said in amazement.

"The Graygem?" Palin glanced around the boat in alarm, fearing to see its gray light beaming out at them.

"Perhaps, 'misplaced' isn't quite the word," the dwarf mumbled. "You see, I got into this bones game, the night before we left the island and…" His voice trailed off miserably.

"You lost it!" Tanin groaned.

Palin and Sturm stared at the dwarf, too stunned to speak.

"Aye, lad." Dougan sighed heavily. "It was a sure thing, too…"

"So the Graygem's loose in the world again," Palin murmured.

"I'm afraid so. After all, I did lose the original wager, if you will remember. But don't worry, laddie," said the dwarf, laying his hand on Palin's arm. "We'll get it back! Someday, we'll get it back!"

"What do you mean we?" Tanin growled.

"I swear by Paladine and by Gilean and by the Dark Queen and by all the gods in the heavens that if I ever in my life see you even looking my direction, dwarf, I will turn around and walk—no, run—the opposite way!"

Sturm vowed devoutly.

"The same goes for me," said Palin.

"And me!" said Tanin.

Dougan looked at them, downcast for a moment. Then, a grin split the dwarf's face. His beady eyes glittered.

"Wanna bet?"

The first sign of the change
is not the golden eye
nor the dangerous stature
the countenance of hill and desert,

instead it is the child's breath
the chill of water underground
the cry at night a memory of knives

and you startle
sit up in the bed and say
this is something I have made
somehow I have made this thing.

So you fear it away
let the night cover your dream
and the red moon wades
through a hundred journeys
jostled like blood
in the coded vein,

and then the arrivals
rending the edge of belief
a vacancy in play
the abstract smile
that has nothing to do
with whatever you did
and you know that your wishes
can never conceal
the long recollection of elsewhere.

The cuckoo's story, the supplanted nest
the egg left in care of unwary others.
Surely its child is alien, elfshot,
stolen by gypsies, forever another,
and yet, in the accident
of blood and adoption,
as it was in your time
and the time of your mothers,
forever and always your own.

So sing to the stranger this lullaby
Sing the inventions of family
     the fiction of brothers
     the bardic ruse of the father
Sing the mother concocted of reasons and light,
Sing to me, goldeneyed daughter.

Margaret Weis And Dezra Despain

I first heard the legend of Raistlin's Daughter about five years after my twin's death. As you can imagine, I was extremely intrigued and disturbed by the rumors and did what I could to investigate. In this I was assisted by my friends—the old Companions—who had by this time scattered over most of Ansalon. We found versions of the legend in almost every part of Ansalon. It is being told among the elves of Silvanesti, the people of Solamnia, and the Plainsmen who have returned to Que-shu. But we could find no verification of it. Even the kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot, who goes everywhere and hears everything (as kender do), could discover no firsthand information regarding it. The story is always told by a person who heard it from his aunt who had a cousin who was midwife to the girl… and so forth.

I even went so far as to contact Astinus the Historian, who records history as it passes before his all-seeing eyes.

In this, my hope to hear anything useful was slim, for the Historian is notoriously close-mouthed, especially when something he has seen in the past might affect the future. Knowing this, I asked only for him to tell me whether or not the legend was true. Did my twin father a child? Does he or she live still on this world? His response was typical of that enigmatic man, whom some whisper is the god Gilean himself.

"If it is true, it will become known. If not, it won't."

I have agreed to allow the inclusion of the legend in this volume as a curiosity and because it might, in the distant future, have some bearing upon the history of Krynn. The reader should before-warned, however, that my friends and I regard it as veritable gossip.

—Caramon Majere

Twilight touched the Wayward Inn with its gentle hand, making even that shabby and ill-reputed place seem a restful haven to those who walked or rode the path that led by its door. Its weather-beaten wood-rotting and worm-ridden when seen in broad daylight—appeared rustic in the golden—tinged evening. Its cracked and broken windowpanes actually sparkled as they caught the last rays of dying light, and the shadows hit the roof just right, so that no one could see the patches. Perhaps this was one reason that the inn was so busy this night—either that or the masses of gray, lowering clouds gathering in the eastern sky like a ghostly, silent army.

The Wayward Inn was located on the outskirts—if the magical trees deemed it so—of the Forest of Wayreth. If the magical trees chose otherwise, as they frequently did, the inn was located on the outskirts of a barren field where nothing anyone planted grew. Not that any farmer cared to try his luck. Who would want anything from land controlled, so it was believed by the archmages of the Tower of High Sorcery; by the strange, uncanny forest?

Some thought it peculiar that the Wayward Inn was built so close to the Forest of Wayreth (when the forest was in appearance), but then the owner—Slegart Havenswood—was a peculiar man. His only care in the world, seemingly, was profit—as he would say to anyone who asked. And there was always profit to be made from those who found themselves on the fringes of wizards' lands when night was closing in.

There were many this evening who found themselves in those straits, apparently, for almost every room in the inn was taken. For the most part, the travelers were human, since this was in the days before the War of the Lance, when elves and dwarves kept to themselves and rarely walked this world. But there were a few gully dwarves around; Slegart hired them to cook and clean up, and he was not averse to allowing goblins to stay in his place as long as they behaved themselves. There were no goblins this night, however, though there were some humans who might have been taken for goblins—so twisted and crafty were their faces. It was this large party that had taken several of Slegart's rooms (and there weren't many in the small, shabby place), leaving only two empty.

Just about the time when the first evening star appeared in the sky, to be almost immediately overrun by the advancing column of clouds, the door to the inn burst open, letting in a chill blast of air, a warrior in leather armor, and a mage in red robes. From his place behind the dirty bar, Slegart frowned. It was not that he disliked magic-users (rumor had it that his inn existed by the grace of the wizards of the tower), but that he didn't particularly like them staying in his place. When the big warrior (and he was a remarkably big young man, as both Slegart and the others in the common room noted) slapped down a coin and said, "Dinner," Slegart's frown broadened immediately to a smile. When the big man added, "and a room for the night," however, the smile slipped.

"We're full up," growled Slegart, with a significant glance around the crowded common room.

"Hunting moon tonight…"

"Bah!" The big warrior snorted. "There'll be no moon tonight, hunting or otherwise. That storm's goin' to break any moment now and, unless you're partial to hunting snowflakes, you won't shoot anything this night." At this, the big man glanced around the common room to see if any cared to dispute his remark. Noting the size of his shoulders, the well-worn scabbard he wore, and the nonchalant way his hand went to the hilt of his sword, even the rough-appearing humans began to nod their heads at his wisdom, agreeing that there would definitely be no hunting this night.

"At any rate," said the big man, returning his stern gaze to Slegart, "we're spending the night here, if we have to make up our beds by the fire. As you can see"—the warrior's voice softened, and his gaze went to the magic-user, who had slumped down at a table as near the fire as possible—"my brother is in no condition to travel farther this day, especially in such weather." Slegart's glance went to the mage and, indeed, the man appeared to be on the verge of exhaustion.

Dressed in red robes, with a hood that covered his head and left his face in shadow, the magic-user leaned upon a wooden staff decorated at the top with a golden dragon's claw holding a faceted crystal. He kept this staff by him always, his hand going to it fondly as if both to caress it and to reassure himself of its presence.

"Bring us your best ale and a pot of hot water for my twin," said the warrior, slapping another steel coin down upon the bar.

At the sight of the money, Slegart's senses came alert. "I just recollect"—he began, his hand closing over the coin and his eyes going to the warrior's leather purse where his ears could detect the chink of metal. Even his nose wrinkled, as though he could smell it as well—"a room's opened up on the second floor."

"I thought it might," the warrior said grimly, slapping another steel piece down on the bar.

"One of my best," Slegart remarked, eyeing the warrior.

The big man grunted, scowling.

"It's goin' to be no fit night for man nor beast," added the innkeeper and, at that moment, a gust of wind hit the inn, whistling through the cracked windows and puffing flakes of snow into the room. At that moment, too, the red-robed mage began to cough—a wracking, choking cough that doubled the man over the table. It was difficult to tell much about the mage—he was cloaked and hooded against the weather. But Slegart knew he must be young, if he and this giant were, indeed, twins. The innkeeper was considerably startled, therefore, to catch a glimpse of ragged white hair straying out from beneath the hood and to note that the hand holding the staff was thin and wasted.

"We'll take it," the warrior muttered, his worried gaze going to his brother as he laid the coin down.

"What's the matter with 'im?" Slegart said, eyeing the mage, his fingers twitching near the coin, though not touching it. "It ain't catchin', is it?" He drew back. "Not the plague?"

"Naw!" The warrior scowled. Leaning nearer the inn keeper, the big man said in a low voice, "We've just come from the Tower of High Sorcery. He's just taken the Test "

"Ah," the innkeeper said knowingly, his gaze on the young mage not unsympathetic. "I've seen many of 'em in my day. And I've seen many like yourself"—he looked at the big warrior—"who have come here alone, with only a packet of clothes and a battered spellbook or two as all that remains. Yer lucky, both of you, to have survived."

The warrior nodded, though it didn't appear—from the haunted expression on his pale face and dark, pain-filled eyes—that he considered his luck phenomenal. Returning to the table, the warrior laid his hand on his brother's heaving shoulder, only to be rebuffed with a bitter snarl.

"Leave me in peace, Caramon!" Slegart heard the mage gasp as the innkeeper came to the table, bearing the ale and a pot of hot water on a tray. "Your worrying will put me in my grave sooner than this cough!"

The warrior, Caramon, did not answer, but sat down in the booth opposite his brother, his eyes still shadowed with unhappiness and concern.

Slegart tried his best to see the face covered by the hood, but the mage was huddled near the fire, the red cowl pulled low over his eyes. The mage did not even look up as the innkeeper laid the table with an unusual amount of clattering of plates and knives and mugs. The young man simply reached into a pouch he wore tied to his belt and, taking a handful of leaves, handed them carefully to his brother.

"Fix my drink," the mage ordered in a rasping voice.

Slegart, watching all this intently, was considerably startled to note that the skin that covered the mage's slender hand gleamed a bright, metallic gold in the firelight!

The innkeeper tried for another glimpse of the mage's face, but the young man drew back even further into the shadows, ducking his head and pulling the cowl even lower over his eyes.

"If the skin of 'is face be the same as the skin of 'is hand, no wonder he hides himself," Slegart reflected, and wished he had turned this strange, sick mage away—money or no money. The warrior took the leaves from the mage and dropped them in a cup. He then filled it with hot water.