The Second Generation

Palin whispered the words to himself as he climbed the dark and winding stairs. Night had stolen upon Palanthas, sealing the city in darkness, deepening the perpetual gloom that hung about the Tower of High Sorcery.

Solinari, the silver moon beloved of Paladine, shone in the sky, but its white rays did not touch the tower. Those inside gazed upon another moon, a dark moon, a moon only their eyes could see.

The stone stairs were pitch black. Though Caramon carried a torch, its feeble, wavering flame was overwhelmed by the darkness. He might have been holding a burning wisp of straw for all the light the torch shed. Groping his way up the stairs, Palin stumbled more than once. Each time, his heart pulsed painfully, and he pressed himself close against the chill, damp wall, dosing his eyes. The core of the tower was a hollow shaft. The stairs ascended it in a dizzying spiral, protruding from the wall like the bones of some dead animal.

“You are safe, young one,” Dalamar said, his hand on Palin’s arm. “This was designed to discourage unwelcome intruders. The magic protects us. Don’t look down. It will be easier.”

“Why did we have to walk?” Palin asked, stopping to catching his breath.

As young as he was, the steep climb had taken its toll. His legs ached; his lungs burned. He could only imagine what his father must be feeling. Even the dark elf appeared to be at a loss for breath, though Dalamar’s face in the dim light was as cold and impassive as ever. “Couldn’t we have used magic?”

“I will not waste my energies,” Dalamar replied, “not on this night of all nights.”

Seeing the slanted eyes observing him coolly, Palin said nothing, but began climbing again, keeping his eyes staring straight ahead and upward.

“There is our destination.” Dalamar pointed. Looking up at the top of the stairs, Palin saw a small doorway.

For me, the gates will open....

Raistlin’s words. Palin’s fear began to subside, and excitement surged through his blood. His steps quickened. Behind him, he heard Dalamar’s light tread and his father’s heavier, booted one. He could also hear Caramon’s labored breathing, and felt a twinge of remorse.

“Do you want to rest, Father?” he asked, stopping and turning around.

“No,” Caramon grunted. “Let’s get this foolishness over with. Then we can go home.”

His voice was gruff, but Palin heard a strange note in it, a note he had never heard before. Turning slowly around to face the door, Palin knew it for what it was—fear. His father was afraid. It wasn’t just the dreadful climb, or the voices whispering of doom and despair. He was afraid of everything within this place.

Palin knew then a secret feeling of joy—one his uncle must have known. His father—Hero of the Lance, the strongest man he knew, who could, even now, wrestle the brawny Tanin to the ground and disarm the skilled swordsman, Sturm—his father was frightened, frightened of the magic.

He is afraid, Palin realized, and I am not! Closing his eyes, Palin leaned back against the chill wall of the tower and, for the first time in his life, gave himself up to the magic. He felt it burn in his blood, caress his skin. The words it whispered were no longer of doom, but of welcome, of invitation. His body trembled with the ecstasy of the magic and, opening his eyes, Palin saw his exultation reflected in the dark elf’s intense, glittering gaze.

“Now you taste the power!” Dalamar whispered. “Go forward, Palin, go forward.”

Smiling to himself, cocooned in the warmth of his euphoria, Palin climbed the stairs rapidly, all fear forgotten. For him, the door would open. He had no doubts. Why or by whose hand, he did not speculate. It did not matter.

Finally, he would be inside the ancient laboratory where some of the greatest magic upon Krynn had been performed. He would see the spellbooks of the legendary Fistandantilus, the spellbooks of his uncle. He would see the great and terrible portal that led from this world into the Abyss. And he would see the famed Staff of Magius....

Palin had long dreamt of his uncie’s staff. Of all Raistlin’s arcane treasures, this intrigued Palin most, perhaps because he had seen it portrayed so often in paintings or because it always figured prominently in legend and song. Palin even owned one such painting (he kept it wrapped in silk, hidden in his bedroom) of Raistlin in his black robes, the Staff of Magius in his hand, battling the Queen of Darkness.

If he had lived to teach me, and I had been worthy of him, perhaps he might have given me the staff, Palin thought wistfully every time he looked at the painting of the wooden staff with its golden dragon claw clutching a shining, faceted, crystal ball.

Now I will at least get to see it, perhaps even get to hold it! Palin shivered in delicious anticipation at the thought. And what else will we find in the laboratory? he wondered. What will we see when we look into the portal?

“AH will be as my father said,” Palin whispered, feeling a momentary pang.