Dragonlance 10 - The Second Generation (13 page)

"Rise," said the priestess.

Weak from fasting and from lying, encased in chain mail, on the cold floor, Steel rose stiffly and awkwardly to his knees. His head remained bowed. Not daring to lift his eyes to the holy priestess, he clasped his hands before him.

She observed him closely, then, reaching out a claw-like hand, she placed her fingers beneath his chin. The nails dug into his flesh. He flinched at her touch, which was far colder than the stones. She raised his face to the light, to her scrutiny.

"You now know the name of your father?"

"Yes, Holiness," Steel said steadfastly, "I do."

"Say it. Speak it before the altar of your queen."

Steel swallowed, his throat constricted. He hadn't thought this would be so difficult.

"Brightblade," he whispered.

"Again."

"Brightblade." His voice rang out, defiantly proud.

The priestess was not displeased, it seemed.

"Your mother's name."

"Kitiara Uth Matar." Again, this time fiercely, with pride. The priestess nodded.

"A worthy lineage. Steel Uth Matar Brightblade, do you hereby dedicate your body, your heart, your soul to Her Dark Majesty, Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, Dark Warrior, Dragon Queen, She-of-Many-Faces?"

"I do so," Steel answered calmly.

The priestess smiled a secret, dark smile.

"Body and heart and soul, Steel Uth Matar Brightblade?" she repeated.

"Yes, of course," he answered, troubled. This was not part of the ritual, as he had been taught.

"Why should you doubt me?"

In answer, the priestess took hold of a slender, steel chain that encircled the young man's neck. She tugged on the chain, drew forth its ornament.

An elven jewel, carved in the shape of a star, pale and gleaming, hung from the steel chain.

"What is this?" the priestess hissed.

Steel shrugged, tried to laugh. "I stole it from the corpse of my father, at the same time I stole his sword. The knights were furious. I struck fear into their hearts!"

His words were bold, but they echoed too loudly, hollow and discordant, in the silence of the temple.

The priestess placed her fingertip gingerly on the jewel.

A flash of white light, a sizzling sound.

The priestess snatched her hand back with a shrill cry of pain.

"It is an artifact of good!" She spat the word. "I cannot touch it. No one who is a true servant of Her Dark Majesty could touch that cursed jewel. Yet you, Steel Brightblade, wear it with impunity."

Steel, deathly pale, stared at her in dismay. "I'll forsake it! I'll take it off," he cried. His hand closed over the jewel, shrouding its brilliant light in darkness. "It's just a bauble. It means nothing to me!" He made ready to yank the jewel from its silver chain.

The priestess stopped him.

"Wear the cursed jewel. It is the Dark Queen's wish and pleasure that you do so. May it serve to remind you of this warning. Think of my words every time you look upon the jewel, Steel Brightblade. She-of-Many-Faces has many eyes. She sees all. There is nothing you can hide from her.

"Your heart is hers, your body is hers. But not your soul. Not now…

"But it will be." The priestess pressed her wrinkled face so near the young man's that he felt her fetid breath hot upon his cheek. "And, in the meantime, Steel Uth Matar Brightblade, you will be of inestimable value to your queen."

The dry and withered lips kissed Steel upon his brow.

Shivering, sweating, he forced himself to hold still beneath the awful touch.

"Your helm and breastplate lie upon the altar. Both have been blessed by the Dark Queen. Stand, Sir Knight, and put them on."

Steel stared at the priestess in astonishment, then dawning joy. The priestess, with that secret smile, turned and left him. Parting the black curtains, she disappeared back into the innermost regions of the temple.

Two boys, in their teens, entered through the front temple doors. From now on, the younger would be his page, the older his squire. They stood silently, respectfully, waiting to assist the knight with his armor.

Both boys gazed at Steel with admiration and envy, no doubt dreaming of their own future investiture, seeing it embodied in him.

Shaking, barely able to stand, Steel reverently approached the altar. One hand, his right, rested on the black breastplate, adorned with the death lily. The other hand, his left, stole to the jewel around his neck.

His eyes closed. Tears burned beneath the lids. Angrily, he started, once again, to the rip the jewel from his neck.

His hand slid from it, fell limply upon the altar.

The trumpet call sounded, twice more.

In the courtyard of Storm's Keep, Lord Ariakan stood, waiting to knight the dark paladin with his father's sword.

Steel Uth Matar Brightblade, Knight of the Lily, son of Sturm Brightblade, Knight of the Crown, son of Dragon Highlord Kitiara Uth Matar.

Lifting the helm, with its skull-like grin, Steel placed it on his head. Then, kneeling before the altar, he offered a grateful prayer to his queen, Takhisis.

Rising proudly, extending his arms, he motioned for his squire to buckle on the black and shining breastplate.

Always the son
in that oldest of stories,
sport of the blood
in its natural turning,
the charmed one, least likely
to end up heroic,
captures the crown
and the grail and the princess.
Suddenly, out of the shires of concealment
the least likely son
perseveres and arises
after veiling his heart
through the hooded night,
and his unmasked glory
of grail and of jewelry
effaces the moment
before the beginning of stories,
when the galvanic heartbeat
contended with ice and illusion,
when the world was a country
of mirrors and brothers,
and harmony broke
on the long effacement of days.

It is brothers like these
whom poetry touches,
who are handy with
visions instead of with swords,
whose pale light is hidden
in the cloud of their knowing.
But for each who emerges
past wounds and obscurity,
for each who negotiates
bramble and dragon and wizard,
there is another forever forgotten
conceded and wed
to the language of brothers,
lost in the bloodline
of sword and money
in the old palindrome of the spirit.
It is brothers like these
that the poets sing,
for their baffled courage
and the water's solace
for the one in the bramble
and the failed inheritance,
it is for these
that the ink is drying,
it is for these
that the angels come.

Caramon stood in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. It was so wide, its perimeter was lost in shadow, so high its ceiling was obscured in shadow. No pillars supported it. No lights lit it. Yet light there was, though none could name its source. It was a pale light, white—not yellow. Cold and cheerless, it gave no warmth.

Though he could see no one in the chamber, though he could hear no sound disturb the heavy silence that seemed centuries old, Caramon knew he was not alone. He could feel the eyes watching him as they had watched him long ago, and so he stood stolidly, waiting patiently until they deemed it time to proceed.

He guessed what they were doing, and he smiled, but only inwardly. To those watching eyes, the big man's face remained smooth, impassive. They would see no weakness in him, no sorrow, no bitter regret. Though memory was reaching out to him, its hand was warm, its touch gentle. He was at peace with himself, and had been for twenty-five years.

As if reading his thoughts—which, Caramon supposed, they might well have been—those present in the vast chamber suddenly revealed themselves. It was not that the light grew brighter, or a mist lifted, or the darkness parted, for none of that happened. Caramon felt more as though he were the one who had suddenly entered, though he had been standing there upwards of a quarter hour. The two robed figures that appeared before him were a part of this place just like the white, magical light, the ages-old silence. He wasn't—he was an outsider and would be one forever.

"Welcome once again to our tower, Caramon Majere," said a voice. Caramon bowed, saying nothing. He couldn't—for the life of him—remember the man's name.

"Justarius," the man said, smiling pleasantly. "Yes, the years have been long since we last met, and our last meeting was during a desperate hour. It is small wonder you have forgotten me. Please, be seated." A heavy, carved, oaken chair materialized beside Caramon. "You have journeyed long and are weary, perhaps."

Caramon started to state that he was just fine, that a journey like this was nothing to a man who had been over most of the continent of Ansalon in his younger days. But at the sight of the chair with its soft, inviting cushions, Caramon realized that the journey had been rather a long one—longer than he remembered it. His back ached, his armor appeared to have grown heavier, and it seemed that his legs just weren't holding up their end of things anymore.

Well, what do you expect, Caramon asked himself with a shrug. I'm the proprietor of an inn now. I've got responsibilities. Someone's got to sample the cooking… Heaving a rueful sigh, he sat down, shifting his bulk about until he was settled comfortably.

"Getting old, I guess," he said with a grin.

"It comes to all of us," Justarius answered, nodding his head. "Well, most of us," he amended, with a glance at the figure who sat beside him. Following his gaze, Caramon saw the figure throw back its rune-covered hood to reveal a familiar face—an elven face.

"Greetings, Caramon Majere."

"Dalamar," returned Caramon steadily with a nod of his head, though the grip of memory tightened a bit at the sight of the black-robed wizard. Dalamar looked no different than he had years ago—wiser, perhaps, calmer and cooler. At ninety years of age, he had been just an apprentice magic-user, considered little more than a hot-blooded youth as far as the elves were concerned. Twenty-five years mattered no more to the long-lived elves than the passing of a day and night. Now well over one hundred, his cold, handsome face appeared no older than a human of thirty.

"The years have dealt kindly with you, Caramon," Justarius continued. "The Inn of the Last Home, which you now own, is one of the most prosperous in Krynn. You are a hero—you and your lady wife both. Tika Majere is well and undoubtedly as beautiful as ever?"

"More," Caramon replied huskily.

Justarius smiled. "You have five children, two daughters and three sons—" A sliver of fear pricked Caramon's contentment. No, he said to himself inwardly, they have no power over me now. He settled himself more solidly in his chair, like a soldier digging in for battle.

"The two eldest, Tanin and Sturm, are soldiers of renown"—Justarius spoke in a bland voice, as though chatting with a neighbor over the fence. Caramon wasn't fooled, however, and kept his eyes closely on the wizard—"bidding fair to outdo their famous father and mother in deeds of valor on the field. But the third, the middle child, whose name is—" Justarius hesitated.

"Palin," said Caramon, his brows lowering into a frown. Glancing at Dalamar, the big man saw the dark elf watching him intently with slanted, inscrutable eyes.

"Palin, yes." Justarius paused, then said quietly, "It would seem he follows in the footsteps of his uncle."

There. It was out. Of course, that's why they had ordered him here. He had been expecting it, or something like it, for a long time now. Damn them! Why couldn't they leave him alone! He never would have come, if Palin hadn't insisted. Breathing heavily, Caramon stared at Justarius, trying to read the man's face. He might as well have been trying to read one of his son's spellbooks. Justarius, head of the Conclave of Wizards, was the most powerful magic-user in Krynn. The red-robed wizard sat in the great stone chair in the center of the semicircle of twenty-one chairs. An elderly man, his gray hair and lined face were the only outward signs of aging. The eyes were as shrewd, the body appeared as strong—except the crippled left leg—as when Caramon had first met the archmage twenty-five years ago.

Caramon's gaze went to the mage's left leg. Hidden beneath the red robes, the man's injury was noticeable only to those who had seen him walk.

Aware of Caramon's scrutiny, Justarius's hand went self-consciously to rub his leg, then he stopped with a wry smile. Crippled Justarius may be, Caramon thought, chilled, but only in body. Not in mind or ambition. Twenty-five years ago, Justarius had been the leading spokesman only of his own order, the Red Robes, those wizards in Krynn who had turned their backs against both the evil and the good to walk their own path, that of neutrality. Now he ruled over all the wizards in the world, presumably—the White Robes, Red Robes, and the Black. Since magic is the most potent force in a wizard's life, he swears fealty to the conclave, no matter what private ambitions or desires he nurses within his own heart.

Most wizards, that is. Of course, there had been Raistlin…

Twenty-five years ago.

Par-Salian of the White Robes had been head of the conclave then. Caramon felt memory's hand clutch him more tightly still.

"I don't see what my son has to do with any of this," he said in an even, steady voice. "If you want to meet my boys, they are in that room you magicked us into after we arrived. I'm sure you can magic them in here anytime you want. So, now that we have concluded social pleasantries—By the way, where is Par-Salian?" Caramon demanded suddenly, his gaze going around the shadowy chamber, flicking over the empty chair next to Justarius.

"He retired as head of the conclave twenty-five years ago," Justarius said gravely, "following the… the incident in which you were involved."

Caramon flushed, but said nothing. He thought he detected a slight smile on Dalamar's delicate elven features.

"I took over as head of the conclave, and Dalamar was chosen to succeed LaDonna as head of the Order of Black Robes in return for his dangerous and valiant work during—"

"The incident." Caramon growled. "Congratulations," he said. Dalamar's lip curled in a sardonic smile. Justarius nodded, but it was obvious he was not to be distracted from the previous topic of discussion.