DRAGONLANCE SAGA: THE SECOND GENERATION 1994 TSR, Inc. 2001 Wizards of the Coast LLCAll characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorizeduse of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards ofthe Coast LLC.Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.DRAGONLANCE, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of theCoast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.Cover art by: Matt StawickieISBN: 978-0-7869-6290-7640-25342000-001-ENFor customer service, contact:U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, 1800-324-6496,, Eire, & South Africa: Wizards of the Coast LLC, c/o Hasbro UK Ltd., P.O. Box 43, Newport, NP19 4YD, UK, Tel: 08457 12 55 99, Email: [email protected]: Wizards of the Coast p/a Hasbro Belgium NV/SA, Industrialaan 1, 1702 Groot-Bijgaarden, Belgium, Tel:, Email: [email protected] our websites at www.wizards.comwww.DungeonsandDragons.comv3.1

To everyonewho wanted more

ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationPrologueForewordKitiara’s SonChapter One: The Strange Request Of a Blue Dragon RiderChapter Two: Kitiara’s SonChapter Three: White Rose, Black LilyChapter Four: Caramon Tries to Remember Where He Put His ArmorChapter Five: Tanis Half-Elven Has an Unpleasant SurpriseChapter Six: The Fortress of Storm’s KeepChapter Seven: Why Have You Never Asked?Chapter Eight: The High Clerist’s TowerChapter Nine: Black Lily, White RoseChapter Ten: “My Honor is My Life”Chapter Eleven: His Father’s SwordChapter Twelve: His Mother’s BloodThe LegacyChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter Eleven

“Wanna Bet?”Foreword: (Or Afterword, As The Case May Be)Chapter One: Dougan RedhammerChapter Two: A Really Bad HangoverChapter Three: The MiracleChapter Four: The Isle of BargathChapter Five: A Matter of HonorChapter Six: Castle BargathChapter Seven: Our HeroesChapter Eight: Lord GargathChapter Nine: Wanna Bet?Afterword: (This Time For Real)Raistlin’s DaughterThe SacrificeChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenEpilogueAppendixSong of HumaKnights of TakhisisAbout the Authors

PrologueIt is always the map of believing,the white landscapeand the shrouded farms.It is always the land of remembrance,of sunlight fracturedin old, immovable ice,And always the heart,cloistered and southerly,misgives the ice, the driftingfor something perplexed and eternal.It will end like this,the heart will tell you,it will end with mammoth and glacier,with ten thousand yearsof effacing night,and someday the scientistsrifling lakes and moraines,will find us in evidence,our relics the outside of history,but your story, whole and hollowed, will endat the vanishing edge of your hand.So says the heartin its intricate cell,charting with mirrorsthe unchartable landof remembrance and rivers and ice.This time it was different:the town had surrenderedto the hooded snow,

the houses and tavernswere awash in the fragmented light,and the lake was marbledwith unstable ice,as I walked through driftsthrough lulling spirits,content with the slate of the skyand the prospect of calendared spring.It will end like this,the winter proclaimed,sooner or laterin dark, inaccessible ice,and you are the next oneto hear this story,winter and winteroccluding the heart,and there in Wisconsin,mired by the snowand by vanishing faith,it did not seem badthat the winter was takingall light away,that the darkness seemed welcomeand the last, effacing snow.He stood in the midstof frozen automobiles,cars lined like cenotaphs.In a bundle of coatsand wool hats and mufflershe rummaged the trunkfor God knows what,and I knew his nameby the misted spectacles,the caved, ridiculoushat he was wearing,

And whether the couragewas spring in its memory,was sunlight in promiseor whiskeyed shade,or something alignedbeyond snow and searching,it was with me that momentas I spoke to him there;in my days I am thankfulit stood me that momentas I spoke to the bundledweaver of accidents,the everyday wizardin search of impossible spring.Tracy, I told him, poetry liesin the seams of the story,in old recollections and prospectof what might always and never be(And those were the wordsI did not say, but poetry liesin the prospect of what should have been:you must believe that I said these wordspast denial, past history),and there in the winterthe first song began,the moons twined and beckonedon the borders of Krynn,the country of snowresolved to the grasslandsmore brilliant and plausible.And the first song continuedthrough prospects of summer,where the promise returnsfrom the vanished seed,where the staff returns

from forgetful deserts,and even the northern landscry out to the spirit,this is the mapof believing fulfilled;this is the map of belief.Where’s my hat? You took it! I saw you.Don’t tell me it’s on my head! I know better! I Oh, there it is. Decided to bring it back, did you?No, I don’t believe you. Not for a minute You’vealways had your eye on my hat, Hickman. I—What? You want me to write what?Now? This minute?Can’t do it. Don’t have the time.Trying to recall the words to a spell.Fire sale. Fire engine. Great balls of fire. That’s close. Oh, very well. I’ll write your blasted foreword.But just this once, mind you.Here goes.

ForewordA long time ago, a couple of doorknobs named Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickmandecided to leave their homes on Krynn and go out adventuring. I’m afraid there’s somekender blood in those two. They just couldn’t resist traipsing off to visit other new andexciting worlds.But Weis and Hickman are like kender and bad pennies—they keep turning up. Andso here they are again, all set to tell us about the wonderful things that are happeningin Krynn.Some of these stories we’ve heard before, but they have a couple of new ones, too, allabout the children of that small band of adventurers who are now known as the Heroesof the Lance.Many years have passed since the war. The Heroes’ children are growing up, goingoff on adventures of their own, heading out into a world that, I’m sorry to say, still hasplenty of danger and trouble left to go around.Now, as you read these stories, you will notice that sometimes Weis and Hickmancontradict certain other stories you may have heard. Some of you might find yourselvesmore than a little perplexed over their accounts of the Heroes’ past lives—accounts thatdiffer from other accounts.There is a perfectly simple explanation.Following the War of the Lance, Tanis and Caramon and Raistlin and all the rest ofthe Companions stopped being ordinary people and became Legends. We liked hearingabout the Heroes’ adventures so much, we didn’t want the stories to end. We wanted tohear more. To fill the demand, bards and legend-spinners came from all over Krynn totell the wondrous tales. Some of these knew the Heroes well. Others simply repeatedstories they’d heard told by a dwarf who had it from a kender who borrowed it from aknight who had an aunt who knew the Heroes You get the picture.Some of these stories are absolutely, positively true. Others are probably almostabsolutely, positively true, but not quite. Still others are what we refer to in politesociety as “kender tales”—stories that aren’t true, but sure are a hoot to hear!And so you ask: Fizban, Great and Powerful Wizard, which stories are which?And I, Fizban, Great and Powerful Wizard, answer: As long as you enjoyed thestories, you doorknob, what does it matter?Well, well. Glad we got that settled.Now, go pack your pouches. Pocket your hankies. Grab your hoopak. We have a lotof adventuring to do. Come along! Forget your cares! Travel with Weis and Hickmanthrough Krynn once again, if only for a little while. They won’t be here long, but theydo plan to come back.(Maybe next time, they’ll return my hat!)

What was my name again?Oh, yes.I remain, yours sincerely,Fizban the Fabulous

IAt the edge of the worldthe juggler wanders,sightless and pathless,trusting the venerablebreadth of his juggler’s hands.He wanders the edgeof a long-ago story,juggling moons,parading the fixedanonymous stars in his passage.Something like instinctand something like agatehard and transparentin the depths of his reflexeschannels the objectsto life in the air.stilettos and bottles,wooden pins and ornamentsthe seen and the unseen—all reassembletranslated to light and dexterity.It is this version of light we steer by:constellations of memoryand a chemistry bornin the blood’s alembic,where motive and metaphorand the impulse of nightare annealed by the morninginto our countenance,into the whorls

of our surfacing fingers.Something in each of usyearns for this balance,for the vanished chemistriesthat temper the steel.The best of all jugglerylies in the trucesthat shape our intentionout of knives, out of filamentout of half-empty bottlesand mirrors and chemistries,and from the forgottenore of the night

Kitiara’s Son

Chapter OneThe Strange Request Of a Blue Dragon RiderIt was autumn on Ansalon, autumn in Solace. The leaves of the vallenwood treeswere the most beautiful they’d ever been, so Caramon said—the reds blazing brighterthan fire, the golds sparkling more brilliantly than the newly minted coins that werecoming out of Palanthas. Tika, Caramon’s wife, agreed with him. Never had such colorsbeen seen before in Solace.And when he stepped out of the inn, went to haul in another barrel of brown ale,Tika shook her head and laughed.“Caramon says the same thing every year. The leaves are more colorful, morebeautiful than the year before. It never fails.”The customers laughed with her, and a few teased the big man, when he came backinto the inn, carrying the heavy barrel of brown ale on his back.“The leaves seem a tad brown this year,” commented one sadly.“Drying up,” said another.“Aye, they’re foiling too early, before they’ll have a chance to completely turn,”another remarked.Caramon looked amazed. He swore stoutly that this wasn’t so and even dragged thedisbelievers out onto the porch and shoved their faces in a leafy branch to prove hispoint.The customers—longtime residents of Solace—admitted he was right. The leaves hadnever before looked so lovely. At which Caramon, as gratified as if he’d painted theleaves personally, escorted the customers back inside and treated them to free ale. This,too, happened every year.The Inn of the Last Home was especially busy this autumn. Caramon would haveliked to ascribe the increase in trade to the leaves; there were many who made thepilgrimage to Solace, in these days of relative peace, to see the wondrous vallenwoodtrees, which grew here and nowhere else on Krynn (despite various claims to thecontrary, made by certain jealous towns, whose names will not be mentioned).But even Caramon was forced to agree with the practical-minded Tika. Theupcoming Wizards’ Conclave was having more to do with the increased number ofguests than the leaves—beautiful as they were.A Wizards’ Conclave was held infrequently on Krynn, occurring only when the topranking magic-users in each of the three orders—White, Red, and Black—deemed itnecessary that all those of all levels of magic, from the newest apprentice to the mostskilled sorcerer, gather to discuss arcane affairs.Mages from all over Ansalon traveled to the Tower of Wayreth to attend theconclave. Also invited were certain individuals of those known as the Graystone Gem

races, whose people did not use magic, but who were involved in the crafting ofvarious magical items and artifacts. Several members of the dwarven race werehonored guests. A group of gnomes arrived, encumbered with blueprints, hoping topersuade the wizards to admit them. Numerous kender appeared, of course, but theywere gently, albeit firmly, turned away at the borders.The Inn of the Last Home was the last comfortable inn before a traveler reached themagical Forest of Wayreth, where stood one of the Towers of High Sorcery, ancientheadquarters of magic on the continent. Many mages and their guests stopped at theinn on their way to the tower.“They’ve come to admire the color of the leaves,” Caramon pointed out to his wife.“Most of these mages could have simply magicked themselves to the tower withoutbothering to stop anywhere in between.”Tika could only laugh and shrug and agree with her husband that, yes, it must be theleaves, and so Caramon went about inordinately pleased with himself for the rest of theday.Neither made mention of the fact that each mage who came to stay in the innbrought with him or her a small token of esteem and remembrance for Caramon’s twinbrother, Raistlin. A mage of great power, and far greater ambition, Raistlin had turnedto evil and very nearly destroyed the world. But he had redeemed himself at the end bythe sacrifice of his own life, over twenty years ago. One small room in the inn wasdeemed Raistlin’s Room and was now filled with various tokens (some of themmagical) left to commemorate the wizard’s life. (No kender were ever permittedanywhere near this room!)The Wizards’ Conclave was only three days away, and this night, for the first time ina week, the inn was empty. The mages had all traveled on, for the Wayreth Forest is atricky place—you do not find the forest, it finds you. All mages, even the highest oftheir rank, knew that they might spend at least a day wandering about, waiting for theforest to appear.And so the mages were gone, and none of the regulars had yet come back. Thetownsfolk, both of Solace and neighboring communities, who stopped by the innnightly for either the ale or Tika’s spiced potatoes or both, stayed away when themages came. Magic-users were tolerated on Ansalon, (unlike the old days, when they’dbeen persecuted), but they were not trusted, not even the white-robed mages, whowere dedicated to good.The first year the conclave had been held—several years after the War of the Lance—Caramon had opened his inn to mages (many inns refuse to serve them). There hadbeen trouble. The regular customers had complained loudly and bitterly, and one hadeven been drunk enough to attempt to bully and torment a young red-robed wizard.That was one of the few times anyone in Solace could remember seeing Caramonangry, and it was still talked of to this day, though not in Caramon’s presence. Thedrunk was carried out of the inn feetfirst, after his friends had removed his head from afork in a tree branch grown into the inn.After that, whenever a conclave occurred, the regulars took their business to othertaverns, and Caramon served the mages. When the conclave ended, the regulars

returned, and life went on as normal.“But tonight,” said Caramon, pausing in his work to look admiringly at his wife, “weget to go to bed early.”They had been married some twenty-two years, and Caramon was still firmlyconvinced that he had married the most beautiful woman in Krynn. They had fivechildren, three boys: Tanin, twenty years old, at the time of this story; Sturm, who wasnineteen; sixteen-year-old Palin; and two small girls, Laura and Dezra, ages five andfour. The two older boys longed to be knights and were always off in search ofadventure, which is where they were this night. The youngest boy, Palin, was studyingmagic. (“It’s a passing fancy,” Caramon said. “The boy’ll soon outgrow it.”) As for thelittle girls well, theirs is another story.“It’ll be nice,” Caramon repeated, “to get to bed early for a change.”Sweeping the floor vigorously, Tika pursed her mouth, so that she wouldn’t giveherself away by laughing, and replied, with a sigh, “Yes, the gods be praised. I’m sotired, I’ll probably fall asleep before my head hits the pillow.”Caramon looked anxious. He dropped the cloth he was using to dry the freshlywashed mugs and sidled around the bar. “You’re not that tired, are you, my dear?Palin’s at school, and the two older boys are away visiting Goldmoon and Riverwind,and the girls are in bed, and it’s just the two of us, and I thought wemight well have a little time to uh talk.”Tika turned away so that he wouldn’t see her grin. “Yes, yes, I am tired,” she said,heaving another weary sigh. “I had all those beds to make up, plus the new cook tosupervise, and the accounts to settle ”Caramon’s shoulders slumped. “Well, that’s all right,” he mumbled. “Why don’t youjust go on to bed, and I’ll finish—”Tika threw down her broom. Laughing, she flung her arms around her husband—asfar as they would go. Caramon’s girth had increased markedly over the years.“You big doorknob,” she said fondly. “I was only teasing. Of course, we’ll go to bedand ‘talk,’ but you just remember that ‘talking’ was what got us the boys and the girlsin the first place! Come on.” She tugged playfully at his apron. “Douse the lights andbolt the door. We’ll leave the rest of the work until morning.”Caramon, grinning, slammed shut the door. He was just about to slide the heavywooden bar across it when there came a faint knock from outside.“Oh, blast!” Tika frowned. “Who could that be at this time of night?” Hastily, sheblew out the candle in her hand. “Pretend we didn’t hear it. Maybe they’ll go away.”“I don’t know,” the soft-hearted Caramon began. “It’s going to frost tonight—”“Oh, Caramon!” Tika said, exasperated. “There are other inns—”The knocking was repeated, louder this time, and a voice called, “Innkeep? I’m sorryit’s late, but I am alone and in desperate need.”“It’s a woman,” said Caramon, and Tika knew she’d lost.Her husband might—just might—be persuaded to allow a man to go in search ofanother inn on a cold night, but a woman, especially one traveling alone—never.It didn’t hurt to argue a bit anyway. “And what’s a lone female doing wanderingabout at this time of night? Up to no good, I’ll wager.”

“Oh, now, Tika,” began Caramon, in the wheedling tone she knew so well, “you can’tsay that. Maybe she’s going to visit a sick relative and darkness caught her on the roador—”Tika lit the candle. “Go ahead. Open up.”“I’m coming,” the big man roared. Heading for the door, he paused, glanced back athis wife. “You should toss a log onto the kitchen fire. She might be hungry.”“Then she can eat cold meat and cheese,” Tika snapped, slamming the candle downon the table.Tika had red hair and, though its color had grayed and softened with age, her temperhad not. Caramon dropped the subject of hot food.“She’s probably real tired,” he said, hoping to pacify his wife. “Likely she’ll gostraight to her room.”“Humpf!” Tika snorted. “Are you going to open the door or let her freeze out there?”Arms akimbo, she glared at her husband.Caramon, flushing and ducking his head, hastened to open the door.A woman stood framed in the doorway. She was not what either had expected,however, and even the soft-hearted Caramon, at the sight of her, appeared to havesecond thoughts about letting her in.She was heavily cloaked and booted and wore the helm and leather gloves indicativeof a dragon rider. That in itself was not unusual; many dragon riders passed throughSolace these days. But the helm and cloak and gloves were a deep blue, trimmed inblack. The light caught a glint of blue scales, glistening on her leather breeches andblack boots.A blue dragon rider.Such a person had not been seen in Solace since the days of the war, for good reason.Had she been discovered in daylight, she would have been stoned. Or, at the very least,arrested and made prisoner. Even these days, twenty-five years after the end of thewar, the people of Solace remembered clearly the blue dragons that had burned andleveled their town, killed many of their kin. And there were veterans who’d fought inthe War of the Lance—Caramon and Tika among them—who recalled with hatred theblue dragons and their riders, servants of the Queen of Darkness.The eyes in the shadow of the blue helm met Caramon’s steadily. “Do you have aroom for the night, Innkeep? I have ridden far, and I am very tired.”The voice that came from behind the mask sounded wistful, weary and nervous.The woman kept to the shadows that had gathered around the door. AwaitingCaramon’s answer, she glanced over her shoulder twice, looking not at the ground, butat the skies.Caramon turned to his wife. Tika was a shrewd judge of character—an easy skill toacquire, if you like people, which Tika did. She gave a quick, abrupt nod.Caramon backed up and motioned for the dragon rider to enter. She took one finallook over her shoulder, then hastily slid inside, keeping out of the direct light. Caramonhimself took a look out the door before he shut it.The sky was brightly lit; the red and the silver moons were up and close together,though not as close as they’d be in a few days’ time. The black moon was out there,

too, somewhere, the moon only those who worshipped the Dark Queen could see.These celestial bodies held sway over three forces: good, evil, and the balance between.Caramon slammed the door shut and dropped the heavy bar across it. The womanflinched at the sound of the bar thudding into place. She’d been trying to unlatch theclasp of the pin that held her cloak together—a large brooch wrought of mother-ofpearl that gave off a faint and eerie glow in the dimness of the candlelit inn. Her handsshook, and she dropped the brooch to the floor. Caramon bent and started to pick it up.The woman moved quickly to forestall him, attempted to hide it.Caramon stopped her, frowning. “An odd adornment,” he said, forcing open thewoman’s hand for Tika to view the pin. He found, now that he studied it, that he wasloath to touch it.Tika peered at the brooch. Her lips tightened. Perhaps she was thinking her infalliblejudge of character had failed her at last. “A black lily.”A black, waxen flower with four pointed petals and a blood-red center, the black lilyis reputed by elven legend to spring up from the graves of those who have met theirdeaths by violence. The black lily is said to grow from the heart of the murdered victimand, if plucked, the broken stem will bleed.The dragon rider snatched her hand away, slid the brooch back into the black furthat trimmed her cloak.“Where’ve you left your dragon?” Caramon asked grimly.“Hidden in a valley near here. You needn’t worry, Innkeep. She’s under my controland completely loyal to me. She won’t harm anyone.” The woman withdrew the blueleather helm she wore to protect her face during flight. “I give you my word.”Once the helm was removed, the frightening, formidable dragon rider disappeared.In its place stood a woman of perhaps middle age; it was hard to tell how old she wasby looking. Her face was lined, but with sorrow more than years. Her braided hair wasgray, prematurely gray, it seemed. Her eyes were not the cruel, hard, merciless eyes ofthose who serve Takhisis, but were gentle and sad and frightened.“And we believe you, my lady,” said Tika, with a defiant glance at the silentCaramon—a glance that, to be honest, the big man didn’t deserve.Caramon was always slow to react, not because he was thick-witted (as even his bestfriends had once thought, in his youth), but because he always considered each new orunusual occurrence from every conceivable angle. Such rumination gave him theappearance of slowness, and frequently drove the quick-thinking among his comrades(including his wife) to distraction. But Caramon refused to be hurried and often cameup with some astonishingly insightful conclusions in consequence.“You’re shivering, my lady,” Tika added, while her husband stood flat-footed, staringat nothing. Tika left him be. She knew the signs of her husband’s mind at work. Shedrew the woman dose to the fire pit. “Sit here. I’ll stir up the blaze. Would you likesome hot food? It will take me only a minute to whip up the kitchen fire—”“No, thank you. Don’t bother about the fire. It’s not the cold that makes me shiver.”The woman said the last in a low voice. She fell more than sat on a bench.Tika dropped the poker she was using to stoke the fire. “What is wrong, my lady?You’ve escaped some dreadful prison, haven’t you? And you’re being pursued.”

The woman lifted her head and looked at Tika in wonder, then the woman smiledwanly. “You are near the mark. Does so much show in my face?” She put a tremblinghand to her lined and faded cheek.“Husband.” Tika stood up briskly. “Where’s your sword?”“Huh?” Jolted from his thoughts, Caramon jerked his head up. “What? Sword?”“We’ll wake the sheriff. Turn out the town militia. Don’t worry, my lady.” Tika wasbusily untying her apron. “They won’t take you back—”“Wait! No!” The woman appeared more frightened of all this activity on her behalfthan she was of whatever danger threatened her.“Stop a minute, Tika,” Caramon said, resting his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Andwhen Caramon spoke in that tone, his headstrong wife always listened. “Calm down.”He turned to the dragon rider, who had jumped to her feet in alarm. “Don’t worry,my lady. We won’t tell anyone you’re here until you want us to.”Breathing a sigh of relief, the woman sank back down onto the bench.“But, darling—” Tika began.“She came here on purpose, my dear,” Caramon interrupted. “She didn’t stop at theinn just for a room. She came on purpose to find someone living in Solace. And I don’tthink she escaped some evil place. I think she left.” His voice grew grim. “And I thinkthat when she leaves here, she’s going back—of her own free will.”The woman shuddered. Her shoulders hunched, her head bowed. “You are right. Ihave come to find someone in Solace. You, an innkeeper, you would know where Icould locate this man. I must talk to him tonight. I dare not stay long. Time ” Herfingers, in their blue gloves, twisted together. “Time is running out.”Caramon reached for his cloak, which hung on a peg behind the bar. “Who is it? Tellme his name, and I’ll run to fetch him. I know everyone living in Solace ”“Wait a moment.” The prudent Tika stopped him. “What do you want with thisman?”“I can tell you his name, but I cannot tell you why I want to see him, more for hissake than my own.”Caramon frowned. “Will this bring whatever danger you’re in down on him as well?”“I can’t say!” The woman avoided looking at him. “Perhaps. I’m sorry for it, but ”Slowly, Caramon shook his head. “I can’t wake a man in the middle of the night andtake him to what may be his doom—”The woman lifted anguished eyes. “I could have lied to you. I could have told youthat all will be well, but I don’t know that. I know only that I bear a terrible secret andI must share it with the one other person alive who has the right to know it!” Shereached out, caught hold of Caramon’s hand. “A life is at stake. No, sir, more than alife! A soul!”“It’s not up to us to judge, sweetheart,” said Tika. “This man, whoever he is, mustdecide for himself.”“Very well. I’ll go fetch him.” Caramon flung his cloak around his shoulders. “What’sthe name?”“Majere,” said the woman. “Caramon Majere.”“Caramon!” repeated Caramon, astounded.

The woman mistook his astonishment for reluctance. “I know I’m asking theimpossible. Caramon Majere—a Hero of the Lance, one of the most renowned warriorsof Ansalon. What could he have to do with the likes of me? But, if he won’t come, tellhim ” She paused, considering what she might say. “Tell him I’ve come about hissister.”“His sister!” Caramon fell back against the wall. The thud shook the inn.“Paladine help us!” Tika clasped her hands together tightly. “Not Kitiara?”

Chapter TwoKitiara’s SonCaramon took off his cloak. He intended to hang it on the peg, but missed. The cloakslid to the floor. He didn’t bother to pick it up. The woman watched all this withgrowing 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 andbeyond. “What would I gain by lying?” He flushed, patted his broad belly, andshrugged. “I know I may not look much like a hero ”The woman smiled suddenly. The smile made her seem younger. “I was expecting agreat 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. Shedescribed you to me—‘a big man, more brawn than brains, always thinking of wherehis 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 isdead. My half-sister, I should say. And you know that Kitiara was a Dragon Highlord, inleague 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 livedwith 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 tofind 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 youhear my story? If you choose not to believe me ” She shrugged. “Then I will leaveyou in peace.”“I’ll make some tarbean tea,” said Tika. She left for the kitchen, first laying her handon h

DRAGONLANCE SAGA: THE SECOND GENERATION 1994 TSR, Inc. 2001 Wizards of the Coast LLC All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized