The Second Generation

Book 4: Raistlin’s Daughter

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.

Curious in spite of himself, the innkeeper leaned over to catch a glimpse of the mixture, hoping it might be a magic potion of some sort. To his disappointment, it appeared to be nothing more than tea with a few leaves floating on the surface. A bitter smell rose to his nostrils. Sniffing, he started to make some comment when the door blew open, admitting more snow, more wind, and another guest. Motioning one of the slatternly barmaids to finish waiting on the mage and his brother, Slegart turned to greet the new arrival.

It appeared—from its graceful walk and its tall, slender build—to be either a young human male, a human female, or an elf. But so bundled and muffled in clothes was the figure that it was impossible to tell sex or race.

“We’re full up,” Slegart started to announce, but before he could even open his mouth, the guest had drifted over to him (it was impossible for him to describe its walk any other way) and, reaching out a hand remarkable for its delicate beauty, laid two steel coins in the innkeeper’s hand (remarkable only for its dirt).

“A place by the fire this night,” said the guest in a low voice.

“I do believe a room’s opened up,” announced Slegart to the delight of the goblinish humans, who greeted this remark with coarse laughs and guffaws. Even the warrior grinned ruefully and shook his head, reaching across the table to nudge his brother. The mage said nothing, only gestured irritably for his drink.

“I’ll take the room,” the guest said, reaching into its purse and handing two more coins to the grinning innkeeper.

“Very good. . . .” Noticing the guest’s fine clothes, made of rich material, Slegart thought it wise to bow. “Uh, what name ... ?”

“Do the room and I need an introduction?” the guest asked sharply.

The warrior chuckled appreciatively at this, and it seemed as if even the mage responded, for the hooded head moved slightly as he sipped his steaming, foul-smelling drink.

Somewhat at a loss for words, Slegart was fumbling about in his mind, trying to think of another way to determine his mysterious guest's identity, when the guest turned from him and headed for a table located in a shadowed corner as far from the fire as possible. “Meat and drink.” It tossed the words over its shoulder in an imperious tone.

“What would Your... Your Lordship like?” Slegart asked, hurrying after the guest, an ear cocked attentively. Though the guest spoke Common, the accent was strange, and the innkeeper still couldn’t tell if his guest was male or female.

“Anything,” the guest said wearily, turning its back on Slegart as it walked over to the shadowy booth. On its way, it cast a glance at the table where the warrior, Caramon, and his brother sat. 'That. Whatever they’re having.” The guest gestured to where the barmaid was heaping a wooden bowl full of some gray, coagulating mass and rubbing her body up against Caramon’s at the same time.

Now, perhaps it was the way the mysterious guest walked or perhaps it was the way the person gestured or even perhaps the subtle sneer in the guest’s voice when it noticed Caramon’s hand reaching around to pat the barmaid on a rounded portion of her anatomy, but Slegart guessed instantly that the muffled guest was female.

It was dangerous journeying through Ansalon in those days some five years before the war. There were few who traveled alone, and it was unusual for women to travel at all. Those women who did were either mercenaries—skilled with sword and shield—or wealthy women with a horde of escorts, armed to the teeth. This woman—if such she was—carried no weapon that Slegart could see and if she had escorts, they must enjoy sleeping in the open in what boded to be one of the worst blizzards ever to hit this part of the country.

Slegart wasn’t particularly bright or observant, and he arrived at the conclusion that his guest was a lone, unprotected female about two minutes after everyone else in the place. This was apparent from the warrior’s slightly darkening face and the questioning glance he cast at his brother, who shook his head. This was also apparent from the sudden silence that fell over the “hunting” party gathered near the bar and the quick whispers and muffled snickers that followed.

Hearing this, Caramon scowled and glanced around behind him. But a touch on the hand and a softly spoken word from the mage made the big warrior sigh and stolidly resume eating the food in his bowl, though he kept his eyes on the guest, to the disappointment of the barmaid.

Slegart made his way back of the bar again and began wiping out mugs with a filthy rag, his back half-turned but his sharp eyes watching everything. One of the ruffians rose slowly to his feet, stretched, and called for another pint of ale. Taking it from the barmaid, he sauntered over to the guest s table.

“Mind if I sit down?” he said, suiting his action to his words.

“Yes,” said the guest sharply.

“Aw, c’mon.” Grinning, the ruffian settled himself comfortably in the booth across from the guest, who sat eating the gray gunk in her bowl. “It’s a custom in this part of the country for innfellows to make merry on a night like this. Join our little party ...”

The guest ignored him, steadily eating her food. Caramon shifted slightly in his seat, but, after a pleading glance at his brother, which was answered with an abrupt shake of the hooded head, the warrior continued his dinner with a sigh.

The ruffian leaned forward, reaching out his hand to touch the scarf the guest had wound tightly about her face. “You must be awful hot—” the man began.

He didn’t complete his sentence, finding it difficult to speak through the bowl of hot stew dripping down his face.

“I’ve lost my appetite,” the guest said. Calmly rising to her feet, she wiped stew from her hands on a greasy napkin and headed for the stairs.

“I’ll go to my room now, innkeeper. What number?”

“Number sixteen. You can bolt lock it from the inside to keep out the riff-raff,” Slegart said, his mug-polishing slowing. Trouble was bad for business, cut into profits. “Serving girl’ll be along to turn down the bed.”

The “riffraff,” stew dripping off his nose, might have been content to let the mysterious person go her way. There had been a coolness in the voice and the quick, self-possessed movement indicating that the guest had some experience caring for herself. But the big warrior laughed appreciatively at the innkeeper’s remark, and so did the “hunting” party by the fire.

Their laughter was the laughter of derision, however.

Casting his comrades an angry glance, the man wiped stew from his eyes and leapt to his feet. Overturning the table, he followed the woman, who was halfway up the stairs.

“I’ll show you to yer room!” He leered, grabbed hold of her, and jerked her backward.

Caught off balance, the guest fell into the ruffian’s arms with a cry that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was, indeed, a female.

“Raistlin?” pleaded Caramon, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Very well, my brother,” the mage said with a sigh. Reaching out his hand for the staff he had leaned against the wall, he used it to pull himself to his feet.

Caramon was starting to stand up when he saw his brother’s eyes shift to a point just behind him. Catching the look, Caramon nodded slightly just as a heavy hand closed over his shoulder.

“Good stew, ain’t it?” said one of the “hunting” party. “Shame to interrupt yer dinner over somethin' that ain’t none of yer business. Unless, of course, you want to share some of the fun. If so, we’ll let you know when it’s your tur—”

Caramon’s fist thudded into the man’s jaw. “Thanks,” the warrior said coolly, drawing his sword and twisting around to face the other thugs behind him. “I think I’ll take my turn now.”

A chair flung from the back of the crowd caught Caramon on the shoulder of his sword arm. Two men in front jumped him, one grabbing his wrist and trying to knock the sword free, the other flailing away with his fists.

The mob—seeing the warrior apparently falling—surged forward.

“Get the girl, Raist! I’ll take care of these!” Caramon shouted in muffled tones from beneath a sea of bodies. “Everything’s... under... contr—”

“As usual, my brother,” said the mage wryly. Ignoring the grunts and yells, the cracking of furniture and bone, Raistlin leaned on his staff and began climbing the stairs.

Though the girl was fighting her attacker with her fists, she apparently had no other weapon, and it was easy to see she must soon lose. The man’s attention was fixed on dragging his struggling victim up the stairs, so he never noticed the red-robed mage moving swiftly behind him.

There was a flash of silver, a quick thrust of the mage’s hand, and the ruffian, letting loose of the girl, clutched his ribs. Blood welled out from between his fingers. For an instant he stared at Raistlin in astonishment, then tumbled past him, falling headlong down the stairs, the mage’s dagger protruding from his side.

“Raist! Help!” Caramon shouted from below. Though he had laid three opponents low, he was locked in a vicious battle with a fourth, his movements decidedly hampered by a gully dwarf, who had crawled up his back and was beating him over the head with a pan.

But Raistlin was not able to go to his brother’s rescue. The girl, weak and dizzy from her struggles, missed her step upon the stairs.

Letting go of his staff—which remained perfectly upright, standing next to him as though he were holding it—Raistlin caught the girl before she fell.

“Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her head down. Her scarf had come undone in her struggles and she tried to wrap it around her face again. But Raistlin, with a sardonic smile and a deft movement of his skilled hands, snatched the scarf from the girl’s head.

“You dropped this,” he said coolly, holding the scarf out to her, all the while his keen eyes looking to see why this young woman hid her face from the sun. He gasped.

The girl kept her head down, even after losing the scarf, but, hearing the man’s swift intake of breath, she knew it was too late. He had seen her.

She checked the movement, therefore, looking up at the mage with a small sigh. What she saw in his face shocked her almost as much as what he saw in hers.

“Who . . . what kind of human are you?” she cried, shrinking away from him.

“What kind are you?” the mage demanded, holding on to the girl with his slender hands that were, nevertheless, unbelievably strong.

“I—I am... ordinary,” the girl faltered, staring at Raistlin with wide eyes.

“Ordinary!” Raistlin gripped her more tightly as she made a halfhearted attempt to break free. His eyes gazed in disbelief at the fine-boned, delicate face; the mass of hair that was the brilliance and color of silver starlight; the eyes that were as dark and soft and velvet-black as the night sky. “Ordinary! In my hands I hold the most beautiful woman I have seen in all my twenty-one years. What is more, I hold in my hands a woman who does not age!” He laughed mirthlessly. “And she calls herself 'ordinary!' ”

“What about you?” Trembling, the girl’s hand reached up to touch Raistlin’s golden-skinned face. “And what do you mean—I do not age?”

The mage saw fear in the girl’s eyes as she asked this question, and his own eyes narrowed, studying her intently. “My golden skin is my sacrifice for my magic, as is my shattered body. As for you not aging, I mean you do not age in my sight. You see, my eyes are different from the eyes of other men...” He paused, staring at the girl, who began to shiver beneath the unwavering scrutiny. “My eyes see time as it passes, they see the death of all living things. In my vision, human flesh wastes and withers, spring trees lose their leaves, rocks crumble to dust. Only the young among the long-lived elves would appear normal to me and even then I would see them as flowers about to lose their bloom. But you—”

“Raist!” Caramon boomed from below. There was a crash.

Endeavoring to shake off the gully dwarf—who was holding his hands firmly over the big man’s eyes, blinding him—Caramon landed headlong on a table, smashing it to splinters.

The mage did not move, nor did the girl. “You do not age at all! You are not elven,” Raistlin said.

“No,” the girl murmured. Her eyes still fixed on the mage, she tried unsuccessfully to free herself from his grasp. “You—you’re hurting me ..."

“What are you?” he demanded.

She shrugged, squirming and pushing at his hands. “Human, like yourself,” she protested, looking up into the strange eyes. “And I thank you for saving me, but—”

Suddenly she froze, her efforts to free herself ceased. Her gaze was locked with Raistlin’s, the mage’s gaze fixed on hers. “No!” she moaned helplessly. “No!” Her moan became a shriek, echoing above the howling of the storm winds outside the inn.

Raistlin reeled backward, slamming into the wall as though she had driven a sword into his body. Yet she had not harmed him, she had done nothing but look at him.

With a wild cry, the girl scrambled to her feet and ran up the stairs, leaving the mage slumped against the wall, staring with stunned, unseeing eyes at where she had crouched before him on the staircase.

“Well, I took care of the scum, small thanks to you,” Caramon announced, coming up beside his brother. Wiping blood from a cut on the mouth, the big warrior looked over the railing in satisfaction. Four men lay on the floor, not counting the one his brother had stabbed, whose inert body huddled at the foot of the staircase. The gully dwarf was sticking out of a barrel, upside down, his feet waving pathetically in the air, his ear-splitting screams likely to cause serious breakage of the glassware.

“What about damages?” Slegart demanded, coming over to survey the ruin.

“Collect it from them,” Caramon growled, gesturing to the groaning members of the “hunting” party. “Here’s your dagger, Raist,” the warrior said, holding out a small silver knife. “I cleaned it as best I could. Guess you didn’t want to waste your magic on those wretches, huh? Anyway—hey, Raist—you all right?”

“I’m ... not injured ” Raistlin said softly, reaching out his hand to catch hold of his brother.

“Then what’s the matter?” Caramon asked, puzzled. “You look like you’ve seen a spirit. Say, where’s the girl?” He glanced around. “Didn’t she even stay to thank us?”

“I—I sent her to her room,” Raistlin said, blinking in confusion and looking at Caramon as though wondering who he was. After a moment, he seemed more himself. Taking the dagger from his brother’s hand, the mage replaced it on the cunningly made thong he had attached around his wrist. “And we should be going to our rooms, my brother,” he said firmly, seeing Caramon’s gaze drift longingly to the pitcher of ale still on their table.

“Lend me your arm,” the mage added, taking hold of his staff. “My exertions have exhausted me.”

“Oh, uh, sure, Raist,” Caramon said, his thirst forgotten in his concern for his brother.

“Number thirteen,” grunted Slegart, helping the ruffians drag their wounded comrade off into a corner.

“It figures,” Caramon muttered, assisting his brother up the stairs.

“Hey, you got a good look at that girl? Was she pretty?”

“Why ask me, my brother?” Raistlin replied softly. Pulling his hood down low over his face again, he evaded his brother’s question. “You know what these eyes of mine see!”

“Yeah, sorry, Raist.” Caramon flushed. “I keep forgetting. Damn! That one bastard broke a chair over my back end when I was bending over. I know I got splinters....”

“Yes, my brother,” Raistlin murmured, not listening. His gaze went to the door at the end of the hall, a door marked with the number sixteen.

Behind that door, Amberyl paced restlessly, clasping and unclasping her hands and occasionally making that low, moaning cry.

“How could this happen?” she asked feverishly, walking back and forth, back and forth, in the small chamber. The room was chill and dark. In her preoccupation, Amberyl had allowed the fire to go out. “Why did this happen? How could it happen? Why didn’t any of the wise foresee this?” Over and over again she repeated these words, her feet tracing the circular path of her thoughts out upon the grime-encrusted wooden floor.

“I must see him,” she said to herself suddenly. “He is magi, after all. He may know some way ... some way to... help.... Yes! I’ll see him.”

Grabbing up her scarf, she wound it around her face again and cautiously opened the door. The hallway was empty and she started to creep out when she realized she had no idea which room was his.

“Perhaps he isn’t even staying the night,” she said, sagging against the door frame in despair. “What would I say to him anyway?” Turning, she started back into her room when she stopped. “No, I must see him!” she said, and closed the door firmly so that she might not be tempted back inside. “If he isn’t up here yet, I’ll go after him.”

Moving down the hall, Amberyl crept near each door, listening.

Behind some she heard groans and muttered oaths and hurriedly shied away from these, realizing that her attackers were inside, recovering from their fray with the mage and his brother. At another door there was the shrill giggle of a female and the deeper laughter of a man. Amberyl continued to number thirteen.

“But, Raist! What am I supposed to say to the girl? 'Come down to our room. My brother wants you'?”

Recognizing the voice, Amberyl pressed closer against the door, listening carefully.

“If that is all you can think of saying, then say that.”

The whispering, sneering voice, barely heard above the howling of the storm wind, sent tiny prickles of pain through Amberyl’s body. Shivering, she drew closer still.

“I don’t care what you do, just bring her to me!”

Amberyl heard a shuffling sound and a deprecating cough. “Uh, Raist, I don’t know how grateful you think she’s gonna be, but from what I’ve seen of her—”

“Caramon,” said the whispering voice, “I am weary and sick, and I have no more patience to cope with your stupidity. I told you to bring the girl to me. Now do so....” The voice trailed off in coughing.

There came the sound of heavy footsteps nearing the door. Fearful of being caught listening, yet unable to leave, Amberyl wondered frantically what to do. She had just decided to run back to her room and hide when the door opened.

“Name of the gods!” Caramon said in astonishment, reaching out and catching hold of Amberyl as she shrank backward. “Here she is, Raist! Standing outside in the hall. Eavesdropping!”

“Is she?” The golden-eyed, golden-skinned mage looked up curiously from where he sat huddled by the fire as his brother half-dragged, half-led Amberyl into the room. “What were you doing out there?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.—For a moment, Amberyl could say nothing. She just stood staring at the mage, twisting the bottom of her scarf in her hands.

“Hold on, Raist,” Caramon said gently. “Don’t yell at her. The poor thing’s freezing. Her hands are like a ghoul’s. Here, my lady,” the big man said awkwardly, leading her closer to the fire and drawing up a chair for her.

“Sit down. You’ll catch your death.” He put his hand on her scarf. “This is wet from the snow. Let me take—”

“No!” Amberyl cried in a choked voice, her hands going to the scarf. “No,” she repeated more softly, flushing to see Raistlin look at her with a grim smile. “I—I’m fine. I... never ... catch cold. Please....”

“Leave us, Caramon,” Raistlin ordered.

“What?” The big man looked startled.

“I said leave us. Go back to your pitcher of ale and the barmaid. She appeared not insensible to your attractions.”

“Uh, sure, Raist. If that’s what you want....” Caramon hesitated, looking at his brother with such a dumbfounded expression on his face that Amberyl started to laugh, only it came out in a sob. Hiding her face in her scarf, she tried to check her tears.

“Leave us!” Raistlin commanded.

“Sure!” Amberyl heard Caramon backing out the door.

“Just... just remember, you’re not strong, Raistlin ”

The door closed gently. “I—I’m sorry,” Amberyl faltered, raising her face from the scarf and using the tip to dry her eyes. “I didn’t mean to cry. I lost control. It—it won’t happen again.”

Raistlin did not answer her. Comfortably settled in a battered old chair, the mage sat calmly staring at Amberyl, his frail hands clutching a mug of tea that had long ago gone cold. Behind him, near at hand, his staff leaned against the wall. “Remove the scarf,” he said finally, after a long silence.

Swallowing her tears, Amberyl slowly reached up and unwound the scarf from her face. The expression in the golden eyes did not change; it was as cold and smooth as glass. Amberyl discovered, looking into those eyes, that she could see herself reflected there. She wouldn’t be able to enter again, not as she had on the stairs. The mage had put up barriers around his soul.

Too late! she thought in despair. Too late

“What have you done to me?” Raistlin asked, still not moving. “What spell have you cast upon me? Name it, that I may know how to break it.”

Amberyl looked down, unable to stand the gaze of those strange eyes a moment longer. “No—no spell,” she murmured, twisting the scarf round and round. “I—I am not... not magi... as surely you can tell—”

“Damn you!” Raistlin slid out of the chair with the speed of a striking snake. Hurling the mug to the floor, he grabbed hold of Amberyl’s wrists and dragged her to her feet. “You’re lying! You have done something to me! You invaded my being! You live inside me! All I can think of is you. All I see in my mind is your face. I cannot concentrate! My magic eludes me! What have you done, woman?”

“You—you’re hurting me!” Amberyl cried softly, twisting her arms in his grasp. His touch burned. She could feel an unnatural warmth radiate from his body, as though he were being consumed alive by some inner fire.

“I will hurt you much worse than this,” Raistlin hissed, drawing her nearer, “if you do not tell me what I ask!”

“I—I can’t explain!” Amberyl whispered brokenly, gasping as Raistlin tightened his grip. “Please! You must believe me. I didn’t do this to you deliberately! I didn’t mean for this to happen—”

“Then why did you come here ... to my room?”

“You—you are magi. . . . I hoped there might be some way . . . You might know—”

“—how to break the enchantment,” Raistlin finished softly, loosening his grip and staring at Amberyl. “So—you are telling the truth. It is happening to you. I see that now. That’s the real reason you came here, isn’t it? Somehow I have invaded your being as well.”

Amberyl hung her head. “No. I mean yes. Well, partly.” Raising her face, she looked at the mage. “I did truly come here to see if there wasn’t some way . . .”

Laughing bitterly, Raistlin dropped her hands. “How can I remove a spell when you won’t tell me what you have cast?”

“It isn’t a spell!” Amberyl cried despairingly. She could see the marks his fingers had left on her flesh.

“Then what is it?” Raistlin shouted. His voice cracked, and, coughing, he fell backward, clutching his chest.

“Here,” Amberyl said, reaching out her hands, “let me help—”

“Get out!” Raistlin panted through lips flecked with blood and froth.

With his last strength, he shoved Amberyl away from him, then sank down into his chair. “Get out!” he said again. Though the words were inaudible, his eyes spoke them clearly, the hourglass pupils dilated with rage.

Frightened, Amberyl turned and fled. Opening the door, she plummeted out into the hallway, crashing headlong into Caramon and the barmaid who were heading for another room,

“Hey!” Caramon cried, catching Amberyl in his arms. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Your—your brother,” Amberyl said in confusion, hiding her face in her long hair. “He ... he’s ill.”

“I warned him ...” Caramon said softly, his face crumpling in worry as he heard his brother’s rasping cough. Forgetting the barmaid, who was setting up a disappointed cry behind him, the big warrior went back into his room.

Amberyl ran blindly down the hall, yanked open her door, and stumbled inside her room to stand, shivering, against the wall in the darkness.

She may have slept. She wasn’t certain. Her dreams were too near her waking thoughts. But she’d heard a sound. Yes, there it was again. A door slamming. Though it could have been any one of the rooms in the inn, Amberyl knew instinctively whose door it was.

Rising from the bed on which she’d been lying, fully dressed, the girl opened her door a crack as a voice echoed down the hall.

“Raist! It’s a blizzard out there! We’ll perish! You can’t take this!”

“I am leaving this inn! Now!” came the mage’s voice. No longer whispering, it was hoarse with anger and fear. “I am leaving, and I go with you or without you. If s up to you!”

The mage started walking down the hall, leaning upon his staff.

Stopping, he cast a piercing glance at Amberyl’s room. Panic-stricken, she ducked back into the shadows. He headed toward the stairs, his brother standing behind him, hands spread helplessly.

“This has to do with that girl, doesn’t it?” Caramon shouted. “Name of the Abyss, answer me! I—He’s gone.” Left alone in the hall, the big warrior scratched his head. “Well, he won’t get far without me. I’ll go after him. Women!” he muttered, hurrying back into the room and reappearing, struggling to lift a pack to his back. “Just after we got out of that damn magic forest, too. Now, I suppose we’ll end up right back in it.”

Amberyl saw Caramon look down the hall toward her room and, once more, ducked back.

“I’d like to know what’s going on, my lady,” the big man said in her general direction. Then, snaking his head, Caramon shouldered the pack and clumped hastily down the stairs.

Amberyl stood for a moment in the darkness of her room, waiting until her breathing calmed and she could think clearly. Then, grabbing her scarf, she wound it tightly around her face. Pulling a fur cloak from her own pack, she crept cautiously down the hall after Caramon.

Amberyl could recall no worse storm in her life and she had lived many years in the world, though she was young yet by the standards of her kind. The snow was blinding. Blown by a fierce wind, it blotted out all traces of any object from her sight—even her own hands held out before her were swallowed up by the stinging, blinding white darkness. There was no possible way she could have tracked Raistlin and his brother—no way except the way she did it—by the bond that had been accidentally created between herself and the mage.

Accidental. Yes, it must have been accidental, she thought as she trudged through the drifts. Though the snow had been falling only a matter of hours, it was already knee-deep. Strong as she was, she was having some difficulty plowing her way through the steep drifts and she could imagine the magic-user ... in his long robes....

Shaking her head, Amberyl sighed. Well, the two humans would stop soon. That much was certain. Wrapping her scarf tighter about her face, covering her skin from the biting snow, she asked herself what she intended to do when they did stop. Would she tell the mage?

What choice do I have? she argued with herself bitterly and, even as she asked the question, she slipped and stumbled. There! she thought, a sickening wave of fear convulsing her. It’s beginning already, the weakness that came from the bond. And if it was happening to her, it must be happening to him also! Would it be worse in a human? she wondered in sudden alarm.

What if he died!

No, she would tell him tonight, she decided firmly. Then, stopping to lean against a tree and catch her breath, she closed her eyes.

And after you’ve told—then what?

“I don’t know . ..” she murmured to herself brokenly. “The gods help me. I don’t know!”

So lost in her fear and inner turmoil was Amberyl that, for a moment, she did not notice that the snow had suddenly ceased falling, the cutting, biting wind had lessened. When she became aware of the fact, she looked around.

There were stars, she saw, and even moonlight! Solinari shone brightly, turning the snow silver and the white-covered woods into a wondrous realm of the most fantastic beauty.

The woods.... She had crossed the boundary. Amberyl laid her hand gently upon the trunk of the tree against which she leaned. She could feel the life pulsing in the bark, the magic pulsing within that life.

She was in the magical Forest of Wayreth. Though the blizzard might rage unabated not one foot away from her, here, within the shelter of these trees, it could be summer if the wizards commanded it. But it wasn’t. The wind, though it had ceased its inhuman howl, still bit the flesh with teeth of ice. The snow was piled thigh-deep in places. But at least the storm was not permitted to vent its full fury inside the forest. Amberyl could see now quite clearly. Solinari’s light against the snow was bright as the sun. No longer was she stumbling in the dark, led on only by the burning remembrance of the mage’s golden eyes, his touch....

Sighing, Amberyl walked on until she found tracks in the snow. It was the humans. Yes, her instincts had led her unerringly. Not that she had ever doubted her powers. But would they hold true in this forest? Ever since she had come to this land, she had been hearing tales about the strange and magical wood.

Pausing, Amberyl examined the tracks, and her fear grew. There were two sets—one pair of footprints that went through the deepest drifts without stopping. The other, however, was a wide swath cut through the snow, the swath left by a man floundering along in heavy, wet robes. In more than one place, she could see quite clearly the marks of hands, as though the mage had fallen. Her heart began to beat painfully when she saw that one set of tracks—the mage’s—had come to an end. His brother must be carrying him!

Perhaps he... perhaps he was...

No! Amberyl caught her breath, shaking her head. The mage might be frail-looking, but there was a strength in him greater than the finest steel blade ever forged. All this meant was that the two must stop and find shelter, and that would work to her advantage.

It wasn’t long before she heard voices.

Dodging behind a tree, keeping within its moon-cast shadow, Amberyl saw a tiny bit of light streaming outside what must be a cave in the side of a cliff, a cliff that had apparently appeared out of nowhere, for she could have sworn she had not seen it ahead of her.

“Of course,” she whispered to herself in thankfulness, “the wizards will take care of one of their own. Do they know I am here?” she wondered suddenly. “Would they recognize me? Perhaps not. It has been so long, after all”

Well, it did not matter. There was little they could do. Hope fully, they would not interfere.

“I’ve got to get help, Raist!” she heard the big warrior saying as she drew near. Caramon’s voice sounded tense and anguished. “You’ve never been this bad! Never!”

There was silence, then Caramon’s voice rose again in answer to words Amberyl could not hear.

“I don’t know! Back to the inn if I have to! All I know is that this firewood isn’t going to last until morning. You yourself tell me not to cut the trees in this forest, and they’re wet anyway. It’s stopped snowing. I’ll only be gone a few hours at most. You’ll be safe here. Probably a lot safer in these accursed woods than I will.” A pause, then. “No, Raist. This time I’m doing what I think best!”

In her mind, Amberyl could almost hear the mage’s bitter curse, and she smiled to herself. The light from the cave was obliterated for an instant by a dark shadow—Caramon coming out. It hesitated. Could the man be having second thoughts? The shadow half-turned, going back into the cave.

Quickly murmuring words to herself in a language that none on the continent of Ansalon had heard for countless centuries, Amberyl gestured.

Barely visible from where she stood, a glimmer of firelight burst into being far off in another part of the forest.

Catching a glimpse of it from the corner of his eye, Caramon shouted. “Raist! There’s—A fire! Someone’s close by! You stay wrapped up and ... and warm... . I’ll be back soon!”

The shadow merged with the darkness, then Amberyl saw the bright glint of armor in the moonlight and heard the heavy footsteps and labored breathing of the big man slogging through the snow.

Amberyl smiled. “No, you won’t be back very soon, my friend,” she told him silently as he passed right by the tree where she was hiding, “not very soon at all.”

Waiting until she was certain Caramon was well off on his pursuit of the elusive blaze that would, she knew, keep always just beyond his reach, Amberyl drew a deep breath, said a silent prayer to her god, and crept swiftly through the sparkling silver snow toward the cave.

Pushing aside the blanket Caramon had strung up in a pathetic attempt to block out the elements, Amberyl entered. The cave was cold, damp, and dark, lit only by a fire that sputtered feebly near the doorway to allow for ventilation. Glancing at it, Amberyl shook her head. What firewood Caramon had been able to find was wet with snow and ice. It was a tribute to the big man’s skill in wood-lore that he had been able to coax a flame from it at all.

But it wouldn’t last long and there was no wood at all to replace it when it was gone.

Peering into the shadows, Amberyl couldn’t find the mage at first, though she could hear his rattling breath and smell the spicy fragrance of his spell components. Then he coughed. A bundle of clothes and blankets near the fire moved, and Amberyl saw a thin hand snake out to clasp hold of a steaming mug that stood near the blaze. The fingers trembled, nearly dropping the mug. Hurriedly kneeling by his side, Amberyl caught hold of it.

“Let me help you,” she said. Not waiting for an answer, she lifted the mug in her hand, then assisted Raistlin to sit.

“Lean on me,” she offered, seeing the mage endeavoring weakly to prop himself up.

“You’re not surprised to see me, are you?” she asked.

Raistlin regarded her for a few moments with his flat, golden eyes, then—with a bitter smile—rested his frail body against Amberyl' s as she settled down beside him. Chilled as he was, Amberyl could feel that strange warmth emanate from the thin body. He was tense and rigid, his breathing labored. Raistlin lifted the mug to his lips, but began to cough again, a cough that Amberyl could feel tear at him.

Taking the mug from him, she set it down, and held onto him as he choked and gasped for breath, wrapping her arms around him as though she would hold his body together. Her own heart was torn, both in pity for him and his suffering and with fear for herself. He was so weak! What if he died?

But, finally, the spasm eased. Raistlin was able to draw a shuddering breath and motioned for his drink. Amberyl held it to his lips, her nose wrinkling at the foul smell.

Slowly, Raistlin sipped it. “I wondered if you would find us here,” he whispered. “I wondered if the wizards would allow you inside the forest.”

“I wondered the same myself,” Amberyl said softly. “As for me finding you”—she sighed—“if I hadn’t, you would have found me. You would have come back to me. You couldn’t help yourself.”

“So that's the way it is,” Raistlin said, his breathing coming easier.

“That's the way it is . . .” Amberyl murmured.

“Help me lie down,” Raistlin ordered, sinking back among his blankets. Amberyl made him as comfortable as possible, her gaze going to the dying fire. A sudden gust of wind blew the blanket aside. A flurry of snow hissed and danced on the glowing embers.

“I feel myself growing strangely weak, as though my life were being drained off,” the mage said, huddling into the wet blankets. “Is that a result of the spell?”

“Yes ... I feel it, too. And it isn’t a spell,” Amberyl said, doing what she could to stir up the blaze. Coming to sit in front of the mage, she clasped her arms around her legs, looking at him as intently as he stared at her.

“Take off your scarf,” he whispered.

Slowly, Amberyl unwound the scarf from her face, letting it fall about her shoulders. She shook out her snow-wet hair, feeling drops of water spatter on her hands.

“How beautiful you—” He broke off. “What will happen to me?” Raistlin asked abruptly. “Will I die?”

“I—I don’t know,” Amberyl answered reluctantly, her gaze going to the fire. She couldn’t bear to look at him. The mage’s eyes burned through her, touching something deep inside, filling her with sweet pain. “I have ... never heard of this ... happening to—to a ... human before.”

“So you are not human,” Raistlin remarked.

“No, I am not,” Amberyl replied, still unable to face him.

“You are not elven, nor any of the other races that I am familiar with who live upon Krynn—and I tell you—What is your name?”

“Amberyl.”

“Amberyl,” he said it lingeringly, as though tasting it. She shivered again.

“I tell you, Amberyl,” he repeated, “I am familiar with all the races on Krynn.”

“Wise you may be, mage,” Amberyl murmured, “but the mysteries of this world that have yet to be discovered are as numberless as the snowflakes.”

“You will not reveal your secret to me?”

Amberyl shook her glistening hair. “It is not my secret alone.”

Raistlin was silent. Amberyl did not speak either. Both sat listening to the hissing and popping of the wood and the whistling of the wind among the trees.

“So . . . I am to die, then,” Raistlin said, breaking the silence at last.

He didn’t sound angry, just weary and resigned.

“No, no, no!” Amberyl cried. Reaching out impulsively, she took his thin, wasted hand in her own, cradling her cheek against it. “No,” she repeated. “Because then I would die.”

Raistlin snatched his hand from hers. Propping himself up weakly on his elbow, his golden eyes glittering, he whispered hoarsely, “There is a cure? You can break this ... this enchantment?”

“Yes,” Amberyl answered without a voice, feeling the warm blood suffuse her face.

“How?” Raistlin demanded, his hand clenching. “First,” said Amberyl, swallowing, “I—I must tell you something about... about the Valin.”

“The what?” Raistlin asked quickly. Amberyl could see his eyes flicker.

Even facing death, his mind was working, catching hold eagerly of this new information, storing it away.

“The Valin. That is what it is called in our language. It means ...” She paused, frowning, trying to think. “I suppose the closest meaning in your language is life-mate.”

The startled expression on the mage’s face was so funny that Amberyl laughed nervously. “Wait, let me explain,” she said, feeling her own face growing more and more flushed. “For reasons of our own, in ages so far back that they are past reckoning, my people fled this land and retreated to one where we could live undisturbed. Our race is, as you were able to detect, long-lived. But we are not immortal. As all others, in order for our race to survive, we must produce children. But there were few of us and fewer still as time went by. The land we chose to live in is a harsh one. We tend to be loners, living by ourselves with little interaction even among our own kind. What you know as families are unknown among us. We saw our race begin to dwindle and the elders knew that soon it must die out completely. They were able to establish the Valin to ensure that our young people... that they...” Raistlin’s face had not changed expression; his eyes continued to stare at her. But Amberyl could not continue speaking beneath that strange, unblinking gaze.

“You chose to leave your land?” Raistlin asked. “Or were you sent away?”

“I was sent to this land ... by the elders. There are others here as well....”

“Why? What for?”

Amberyl shook her head. Picking up a stick, she poked at the fire, giving herself an excuse to avoid his eyes.

“But surely your elders knew that something like this must happen if you go out into other lands,” Raistlin said bitterly. “Or have they been away that long?”

“You have no conception of how long we have been away,” Amberyl said softly, staring at the fire that was flickering out despite her best efforts to keep it going. “And, no, it should not have happened. Not with one who is not of our race.” Her gaze went back to Raistlin. “And now it is my turn to ask questions. What is there about you that is different from other humans? For there is something, something besides your golden skin and eyes that see death in the living. Looking at you, I perceive the shadow of another. You are young, yet there is a timelessness about you. Who are you, Raistlin, that this has happened between us?”

To her amazement, Raistlin blanched, his eyes widening in fear, then narrowing in suspicion. “It seems we both have our secrets.” He shrugged.

“And now, Amberyl, it appears that we will never know what caused this to happen. All that should really concern us is what must be done to rid ourselves of this ... this Valin.”

Shutting her eyes, Amberyl licked her lips. Her mouth was dry, and the cave was suddenly unbearably cold. Shivering, she tried more than once to speak. “What?” Raistlin’s voice grated.

“I. . . must bear ... your child,” Amberyl said weakly, her throat constricting.

For long moments there was silence. Amberyl did not dare open her eyes, she did not dare look at the mage. Ashamed and afraid, she buried her face in her arms. But an odd sound made her raise her gaze.

Raistlin was lying back on his blankets, laughing. It was almost inaudible laughter, more a wheeze and a choking but laughter nonetheless—taunting, cutting laughter. And Amberyl saw, with pity in her heart, that its sharp edge was directed against himself.

“Don’t, please, don’t,” Amberyl said, crawling nearer. “Look at me, lady!” Raistlin gasped, his laughter catching in his throat, setting him to coughing. Grinning at her mirthlessly, he gestured outside. “You had best wait for my brother. Caramon will be back soon....”

“No, he won’t,” Amberyl said softly, creeping closer to Raistlin. “Your brother will not be back before morning.”

Raistlin’s lips parted. His eyes—filled with a sudden hunger—devoured Amberyl’s face. “Morning,” he repeated. “Morning,” she said.

Reaching up a trembling hand, Raistlin brushed back the beautiful hair from her delicate face. “The fire will be out long before morning.”

“Yes,” said Amberyl softly, blushing, resting her cheek against the mage’s hand. “It—it’s already growing cold in here. We will have to do something to keep warm ... or we will perish....”

Raistlin drew his hand over her smooth skin, his finger touching her soft lips. Her eyes closed, she leaned toward him. His hand moved to touch her long eyelashes, as fine as elven lace. Her body pressed close to his. He could feel her shivering. Putting his arm around her, he drew her close. As he did so, the fire’s last little flame flickered and died. Darkness warmer and softer than the blankets covered them. Outside they could hear the wind laughing, the trees whispering to themselves.

“Or we will perish...” Raistlin murmured.

Amberyl woke from a fitful sleep wondering, for a moment, where sh e was. Stirring slightly, she felt the mage’s arm wrapped around her protectively, the warmth of his body lying next to hers. Signing, she rested her head against his shoulder, listening to the shallow, too rapid breathing.

She let herself lie there, surrounded by his warmth, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible.

Outside, she could no longer hear the wind and knew the storm must have ended. The darkness that covered them was giving way to dawn. She could barely make out the blackened remnants of the firewood in the gray half-light. Turning slightly, she could see Raistlin’s face.

He was a light sleeper. He stirred and muttered at her movement, coughing, starting to wake. Amberyl touched his eyelids lightly with her fingertips, and he sighed deeply and relaxed back into sleep, the lines of pain smoothing from his face.

How young he looks, she thought to herself. How young and vulnerable. He has been deeply hurt. That is why he wears the armor of arrogance and unfeeling. It chafes him now. He is not used to it. But something tells me he will become all too accustomed to this armor before his brief life ends.

Moving carefully and quietly so as not to disturb him—more by instinct than because she feared she would wake him from his enchanted sleep—Amberyl slid out from his unconscious embrace. Gathering her things, she wrapped the scarf once more about her head. Then, kneeling down beside the sleeping mage, she looked upon Raistlin’s face one last time.

“I could stay,” she told him softly. “I could stay with you a little while. But then my solitary nature would get the better of me and I would leave you and you would be hurt.” A sudden thought made her shudder. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Or you might find out the truth about our race. If you ever discovered it, then you would loathe me, despise me! Worse still”—her eyes filled with tears—“you would despise our child.”

Gently, Amberyl stroked back the mage’s prematurely white hair, and her hand caressed the golden skin. “There is something about you that frightens me,” she said, her voice trembling. “I don’t understand. Perhaps the wise will know....” A tear crept down her face. “Farewell, mage. What I do now will keep pain from us both”—bending down, she kissed the sleeping face—“and from one who should come into this world free of all its burdens.”

Amberyl placed her hand upon the mage’s temples and, closing her eyes, began reciting words in the ancient language. Then, tracing the name Caramon upon the dirt floor, she spoke the same words over it as well. Rising hurriedly to her feet, she started to leave the cave. At the entrance she paused.

The cave was damp and chill; she heard the mage cough. Pointing at the fire, she spoke again. A blazing flame leapt up from the cold stone, filling the cave with warmth and light. With a final backward glance, a last, small sigh, Amberyl stepped out of the cave and walked away beneath the watchful, puzzled trees of the magical Forest of Wayreth.

Dawn glistened brightly on the new-fallen snow when Caramon finally made his way back to the cave.

“Raist!” he called out in a frightened voice as he drew nearer. “Raist! I’m sorry! This cursed forest!” He swore, glancing nervously at the trees as he did so. “This . . .blasted place. I spent half the night chasing after some wretched firelight that vanished when the sun came up. Are—are you all right?"

Frightened, wet, and exhausted, Caramon stumbled through the snow, listening for his brother’s answer, cough ... anything.

Hearing nothing from within the cave but ominous silence, Caramon hurried forward, tearing the blanket from the entrance in his desperate haste to get inside.

Once there, he stopped, staring about him in astonish ment.

A comfortable, cheery fire burned brightly. The cave was as warm—warmer—than a room in the finest inn. His twin lay fast asleep, his face peaceful as though lost in some sweet dream. The air was filled with a springlike fragrance, as of lilacs and lavender.

“I’ll be a gully dwarf,” Caramon breathed in awe, suddenly noticing that the fire was burning solid rock. Shivering, the big man glanced around.

“Mages!” he muttered, keeping a safe distance from the strange blaze. “The sooner we’re out of this weird forest the better, to my mind. Not that I’m not grateful,” he added hastily. “Looks like you wizards saved Raist’s life. I just wonder why it was necessary to send me on that wild swimming-bird chase."

Kneeling down, he shook his brother by the shoulder.

“Raist,” Caramon whispered gently. “Raist. Wake up!”

Raistlin’s eyes opened wide. Starting up, he looked around. “Where is—” he began.

“Where is who? What?” Caramon cried in alarm. Backing up, his hand on the hilt of his sword, he looked frantically around the small cave. “I knew—”

“Is ... is—” Raistlin stopped, frowning. “No one, I guess,” the mage said softly, his hand going to his head.

He felt dizzy. “Relax, my brother,” he snapped irritably, glancing up at Caramon. 'There is no one here but us.”

“But... this fire...” Caramon said, eyeing the blaze suspiciously. “Who—”

“My own work,” Raistlin replied. “After you ran off and left me, what else could I do? Help me to my feet.” Stretching out his frail hand, the mage caught hold of his brother’s strong one and slowly rose up out of the pile of blankets on the stone floor.

“I—I didn’t know you could do anything like that!” Caramon said, staring at the fire whose fuel was rock.

“There is much about me you do not know, my brother,” Raistlin returned.

Wrapping himself up warmly in his cloak, he watched as Caramon hurriedly repacked the blankets.

“They’re still a little damp,” the big man muttered. “I suppose we ought to stay and dry them out....”

“No,” Raistlin said, shivering. He took hold of the Staff of Magius, which was leaning against the cavern wall. “I have no desire to spend any more time in the Forest of Wayreth.”

“You’ve got my vote there,” Caramon said fervently. “I wonder if there are any good inns around here. I heard that there was one, built near the forest. If s called the Wayward Inn or some such thing.” The big man’s eyes brightened. “Maybe tonight we’ll eat hot food and drink good ale for a change. And sleep in a bed!”

“Perhaps.” Raistlin shrugged, as if it didn’t much matter.

Still talking of what he had heard about the rumored inn, Caramon picked up the blanket that had hung over the cave entrance, folded it, and added it to the ones in his pack. “I’ll go ahead a little way,” he said to his brother.

“Break a trail through the snow for you.”

Raistlin nodded, but said nothing. Walking to the entrance of the cave, he stood in the doorway, watching his strong twin wade through the snowdrifts, making a path the frail twin could follow. Raistlin’s lip curled in bitterness, but the sneer slipped as, turning, he looked back inside the cave.

The fire had died almost instantly, upon Caramon’s leaving. Already, the chill was creeping back.

But there lingered on the air, still, the faint fragrance of lilac, of spring....

Shrugging, Raistlin turned and walked out into the snow-blanketed forest.

The Wayward Inn looked its best in summer, a season that has this happy influence on just about anything and everyone. Great quantities of ivy had been persuaded to cradle the inn in its leafy green embrace, thus hiding some of the building’s worst deficiencies. The roof still needed patching; this occurred to Slegart every time it rained, when it was impossible to go out and fix it. During dry weather, of course, it didn’t leak and so didn’t need fixing.

The windows were still cracked, but in the heat of summer, the cool breeze that wafted through the panes was a welcome one.

There were more travelers at the inn during these journeying months.

Dwarven smiths, occasionally an elf, many humans, and more kender than anyone cared to think about, generally kept Slegart and his barmaids busy from morning until late, late at night.

But this evening was quiet. It was a soft, fragrant summer evening. The twilight lingered on in hues of purple and gold. The birds had sung their night songs and were now murmuring sleepily to their young. Even the old trees of Wayreth seemed to have been lulled into forgetting their guardian duties and slumbered drowsily at their posts. On this evening, the inn itself was quiet, too.

It was too quiet, so two strangers thought as they approached the inn.

Dressed in rich clothing, their faces were covered with silken scarves—an unusual thing in such warm weather. Only their black eyes were visible and, exchanging grim glances, they quickened their steps, shoving open the wooden plank door and stepping inside.

Slegart sat behind the bar, wiping out a mug with a dirty rag. He had been wiping out that same mug for an hour now and would probably have gone on wiping it for the next hour had not two incidents occurring simultaneously interrupted him—the entry of the two muffled strangers through the front door and the arrival of the servant girl, running breathlessly down the stairs.

“Your pardon, gentlemen both,” Slegart said, rising slowly to his feet and holding up his hand to check one of the strangers in his speech. Turning to the servant, he said gruffly, “Well?”

The girl shook her head.

Slegart' s shoulders slumped. “Aye,” he muttered. “Well, p’rhaps it’s better so.”

The two strangers glanced at each other.

“And the babe?” Slegart asked.

At this, the servant girl burst into tears.

“What?” Slegart asked, astonished. “Not the babe, too?”

“No!” the servant girl managed to gasp between sobs. “The baby’s fine. Listen—” A faint cry came from overhead.

“You can hear 'er now. But... but—oh!” The girl covered her face with her hands. “If s dreadful! I’ve never seen anything like it—”

At this, one of the strangers nodded, and the other stepped forward.

“Parde-me, innkeep,” the stranger said in a cultivated voice with an unusual accent. “But some terrible tragedy appears to have happened here. Perhaps it would be better if we continued on—”

“No, no,” Slegart said hastily, the thought of losing money bringing him to himself. “There, Lizzie, either dry your tears and help, or go have your cry out in the kitchen.”

Burying her face in her apron, Lizzie ran off into the kitchen, setting the door swinging behind her.

Slegart led the two strangers to a table. “A sad thing,” said the innkeeper, shaking his head.

“Might we inquire—” ventured the stranger casually, though an astute observer would have noticed he was unusually tense and nervous, as was his companion.

“Nothin' for you gentlemen to concern yourselves with,” Slegart said.

“Just one of the serving girls died in childbirth.”

One of the strangers reached out involuntarily, grasping hold of his companion’s arm with a tight grip. The companion gave him a warning glance.

“This is indeed sad news. We’re very sorry to hear it,” said the stranger in a voice he was obviously keeping under tight control. “Was she—was she kin of yours? Pardon me for asking, but you seem upset—”

“I am that, gentlemen,” Slegart said bluntly. “And no, she warn’t no kin of mine. Came to me in the dead 'o winter, half-starved, and begging for work. Somethin' familiar about her there was, but just as I start to think on if—he put his hand to his head—“I get this queer feelin'. 'Cause of that, I was of a mind to turn her away, but”—he glanced upstairs—“you know what women are. Cook took to her right off, fussin' over 'er and such like. I got to admit,” Slegart added solemnly, “I’m not one fer gettin' attached to people. But she was as pretty a critter as I’ve seen in all my born days. A hard worker, too. Never complained. Quite a favorite she was with all of us.”

At this, one of the strangers lowered his head. The other put his hand over his companion’s.

“Well,” said Slegart more briskly, “I can offer you gentlemen cold meat and ale, but you won’t get no hot food this night. Cook’s that upset. And now,”—the innkeeper glanced at the still-swinging kitchen door with a sigh—“from what Lizzie says, it seems like there’s somethin' odd about the babe—”

The stranger made a sudden, swift movement with his hand, and old Slegart froze in place, his mouth open in the act of speaking, his body half-turned, one hand raised. The kitchen door stopped in midswing. The servant girl’s muffled cries from the kitchen ceased. A drop of ale, falling from the spigot, hung suspended in the air between spigot and floor.

Rising to their feet, the two strangers moved swiftly up the stairs amid the enchanted silence. Hastily, they opened every door in the inn, peered inside every room, searching. Finally, coming to a small room at the very end of the hall, one of the strangers opened the door, looked inside, and beckoned to his companion.

A large, matronly woman—presumably Cook—was halted in the act of brushing out the beautiful hair of a pale, cold figure lying upon the bed. Tears glistened on the cook’s kindly face. It had obviously been her work-worn hands that had composed the body for its final rest. The girl’s eyes were shut, the cold, dead fingers folded across the breast, a small bunch of roses held in their unfeeling grasp. A candle shed its soft light upon the young face whose incredible beauty was enhanced by a sweet, wistful smile upon the ashen lips.

“Amberyl!” cried one of the strangers brokenly, sinking down upon the bed and taking the cold hands in his. Coming up behind him, the other stranger laid a hand upon his companion’s shoulder. “I’m truly sorry, Keryl."

“We should have come sooner!” Keryl stroked the girl’s hand.

“We came as quickly as we could,” his companion said gently. “As quickly as she wanted us.”

“She sent us the message—” only when she knew she was dying,” said the companion.

“Why?” Keryl cried, his gaze going to Amberyl’s peaceful face. “Why did she choose to die among . . . among humans?” He gestured toward the cook.

“I don’t suppose we will ever know,” said his companion softly.

“Although I can guess,” he added, but it was in an undertone, spoken only to himself and not to his distraught friend. Turning away, he walked over to a cradle that had been hastily constructed out of a wood box. He whispered a word and lifted the enchantment from the baby, who drew a breath and began whimpering.

“The child?” the stranger said, starting up from the bed. “Is her baby all right? What the servant girl said ...” There was fear in his voice. “It isn’t, it isn’t dea—” He couldn’t go on.

“No,” said his friend in mystified tones. “It is not what you fear. The servant girl said she’d never seen anything 'like it.' But the baby seems fine—Ah!” The stranger gasped in awe. Holding the baby in his arms, he turned toward his friend. “Look, Keryl! Look at the child’s eyes!”

The young man bent over the crying baby, gently stroking the tiny cheek with his finger. The baby turned its head, opening its large eyes as it searched instinctively for nourishment, love, and warmth.

“The eyes are ... gold!” Keryl whispered. “Burning gold as the sun! Nothing like this has ever occurred in our people I wonder—”

“A gift from her human father, no doubt. Although I know of no humans with eyes like this. But that secret, too, Amberyl took with her.” He sighed, shaking his head. Then he looked back down at the whimpering baby. “Her daughter is as lovely as her mother,” the man said, wrapping the baby tightly in its blankets. “And now, my friend, we must go. We have been in this strange and terrible land long enough.”

“Yes,” Keryl said, but he made no move to leave. “What about Amberyl?” His gaze went back to the pale, unmoving figure upon the bed.

“We will leave her among those she chose to be with at the end,” his companion said gravely. “Perhaps one of the gods will accept her now and will guide her wandering spirit home.”

“Farewell, my sister,” Keryl murmured. Reaching down, he took the roses from the dead hands and, kissing them, put the flowers carefully in the pocket of his tunic. His companion spoke words in an ancient language, lifting the enchantment from the inn. Then the two strangers, holding the baby, vanished from the room like a shower of silver, sparkling rain.

And the baby was beautiful, as beautiful as her mother. For it is said that, in the ancient of days before they grew self—centered and seduced by evil, the most beautiful of all races ever created by the gods was the ogre....