Dragonlance 10 - The Second Generation (3 page)

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?"

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.

"I carried her into my house. She was very ill. I could tell that much. I ran to the old woman, a druidess, who was the village healer. That was in the days before the clerics of Mishakal had returned to us, but the druidess was skilled in her own way and saved many lives. Perhaps that's why we never fell for any of those false clerics and their tricks.

"By the time the druidess came back, the woman—Kitiara, she said her name was—had recovered consciousness. She was trying to get out of bed, but was too weak. The old woman examined her, told her to lie back down and stay down.

"Kitiara refused. 'It's only a fever,' she said. 'Give me something for it, and I'll be on my way.'

"'It's not a fever, as you well know,' the druidess told her. 'You're with child, and if you don't lie down and rest, you're going to lose the baby.'"

Caramon's face went white, all the blood draining from it in a rush. Tika, pale herself, was forced to put down her mug of tea, for fear she might spill it. She reached out and took hold of Caramon's hand. His grip on hers was thankful, crushing.

"'I want to lose the brat!' Kitiara began to curse, savagely. I'd never heard a woman talk like that, say such foul things." Sara shuddered. "It was dreadful to listen to, but it didn't bother the old druidess.

"'Aye, you'll lose the baby, but you'll lose yourself at the same time. You'll die if you don't take care.'

"Kitiara muttered something about not believing a toothless old fool, but I could tell that she was scared—perhaps because she was so weak and sick. The druidess wanted to have Kitiara carried to her house, but I said no, I would take care of her. Perhaps you think this was strange, but I was lonely and… there was something I admired about your sister."

Caramon shook his head, his face dark.

Sara smiled, shrugged. "She was strong and independent. She was what I would have been if I'd had courage enough. And so she stayed with me. She was very ill. She did have the fever; the kind you get from swamps. And fretting about the baby. She obviously didn't want it, and her anger over being with child didn't help her any.

"I nursed her through the fever. She was sick for almost a month or more. At last she grew better, and she didn't lose the baby. But the fever left her very weak—you know how it is. She could barely lift her head from the pillow." Sara sighed. "The first thing she asked, when she was well, was for the druidess to give her something to end her pregnancy.

"The old woman told Kitiara that, by then, it was too late. She would kill herself. Kitiara didn't like that, but she was too weak to argue, too weak to do much of anything. But from that day, she began to count the days until the baby's birth. That day I'll be rid of the little bastard,' she'd say, 'and I can move on.'"

Caramon made a gulping noise, coughed, and looked stern. Tika squeezed his hand.

"The time of the birthing came," Sara continued. "Kitiara had recovered her strength by then, and it was well she did, 'for the birth was a long and difficult one. After two days of hard labor, the baby was finally born—a boy. He was strong and healthy. Unfortunately, Kitiara wasn't. The druidess (who didn't like her) told Kitiara bluntly that she was probably going to die and that she should tell someone who the baby's father was, so that he could come and claim his offspring.

"That night, when she was near death, Kitiara told me the name of the baby's father and all the circumstances surrounding the child's conception. But, because of those circumstances, and who the father was, she forced me to vow not to tell him.

"She was vehement about that. She made me swear an oath—a terrible oath—on the memory of my own mother. 'Take the boy to my brothers. Their names are Caramon and Raistlin Majere. They will bring my son up to be a great warrior. Caramon, especially. He's a good fighter. I know, I taught him.'

"I promised her. I would have promised her anything. I felt so sorry for her. She was so lowspirited and feeble, I was certain she was going to die. 'Is there something I can take to your brothers that will convince them the child is yours? Otherwise, why would they believe me?' I asked her. 'Some piece of jewelry they would recognize?'"

"'I have no jewelry. All I have is my sword. Take my sword to Caramon. He will know it. And tell him… tell him…' Kitiara glanced weakly around the room. Her gaze went to the baby, who was screaming lustily in a cradle by the fire.

"'My little brother used to cry like that,' she whispered. 'He was always sickly, Raistlin was. And when he'd cry, Caramon would try to tease him out of it. He'd make shadow figures, like this.' She held up her hand—poor thing, it was all she could do to lift it—and she formed her fingers into the shape of a rabbit's head. Like this.

"'And Caramon would say, 'Look, Raist. Bunnies.'"

Caramon gave a great groan and lowered his face into his hands. Tika put her arm around him and said something to him softly.

"I'm sorry," Sara said, concerned. "I forgot how terrible this must be for you. I didn't mean to upset you. I only meant to prove—"

"It's all right, my lady." Caramon lifted his head. His face was haggard and drawn, but he was composed. "The memories are hard sometimes, especially coming… like this. But I believe you now, Sara Dunstan. I'm sorry I didn't before. Only Kit or… or Raist… would have known that story."

"There is no need to apologize." Sara took a swallow of the tea and wrapped her chill hands around the mug to warm them. "Of course, Kitiara did not die. The old druidess couldn't believe it. She said Kitiara must have made a pact with Takhisis. I often thought about that, later on, when I heard Kitiara was responsible for the deaths of so many. Did she promise the Dark Queen souls in exchange for her own? Was that why Takhisis let her go?"

"What a dreadful fancy!" Tika shivered.

"Not a fancy," said Sara, subdued. "I've seen it done." She was silent for long moments. Caramon and Tika stared at her in horror. They saw her now as they had seen her when she first entered—wearing the helm of evil, wearing the death lily as an ornament.

"The baby lived, you said," Caramon stated abruptly, frowning. "I presume Kit left him behind."

"Yes." Sara resumed her tale. "Kitiara was soon strong enough to travel. But while she was recovering, she had taken a liking to the baby. He was a fine boy, alert and well—formed. 'I can't keep him,' she said to me. 'Momentous things are about to happen. Armies are forming in the north. I mean to earn my fortune with my sword. Find him a good home. I'll send money for his upbringing and, when he is old enough to go to war with me, I'll come back for him.'"

"'What about your brothers?' I ventured to suggest.

"She turned on me in a rage. 'Forget I ever said I had kin! Forget all I told you. Especially forget what I said about the father!'

"I agreed. And then I asked her if I could keep the child." Sara stared at the fire, her face flushed.

"I was so lonely, you see. And I'd always wanted a baby of my own. It seemed to me that the gods—if there were gods—had answered my prayers.

"Kitiara was pleased with the idea. She had come to trust me, and I think she even liked me a little—as much as she could ever like any other woman. She promised to send me money, whenever she had any. I said I didn't care about that. I could support myself and a child. And I promised her I would write her letters, telling her about the boy. She kissed the child, when she left, and then put him into my arms.

"What will you name him?" I asked.

"'Call him Steel,' she said. And she laughed when she said it—a kind of joke, considering the baby's surname."

"That would be 'Half-Elven,'" Caramon muttered aside to Tika. "I don't see much joke in that, except on poor Tanis. All these years." He gave a gloomy shake of his head. "Never knowing."

"Hush!" Tika whispered. "You can't say that for sure."

"What?" Sara overheard. "What are you saying?"

"Sorry, but I don't get the joke," said Caramon. "About the baby's name. 'Half-Elven,' you see."

"Half-Elven?" Sara was perplexed.

Blushing, extremely embarrassed, Caramon coughed and said, "Look, we all knew about Tanis and Kit, so you don't have to hide it anymore—"

"Ah, you think the baby's father was Tanis Half-Elven," said Sara, suddenly understanding. "No, you're wrong."

"Are you sure?" Caramon was puzzled. "Of course, there could have been someone else—"

"Any man in trousers," Tika muttered beneath her breath.

"But you said this baby was born four years before the war. Kit and Tanis were lovers. And that must have been just after she left Solace with—" Caramon's breath caught in his throat. He stared at Sara. "That's not possible!" he growled. "Kit was lying. I don't believe it."

"What do you mean?" Tika demanded. "I don't understand! Who are you talking about?"

"Don't you remember back then—"

"Caramon, I was a little girl when you and Raistlin and the others left Solace. And no one of you ever talked about what happened during those five years."

"It's true we never spoke of those journeys," said Caramon slowly, formulating his thoughts. "We went in search of the true gods, that was our goal. But, looking back on it, I realize now that we really went in search of ourselves. How can a man or woman describe that journey? And so, we've kept silent, kept the stories in our hearts, and let the legend—spinners, who are only after a steel piece, make up whatever fool tales they choose."