Prologue
It is always the map of believing,
the white landscape
and the shrouded farms.
It is always the land of remembrance,
of sunlight fractured
in old, immovable ice,
And always the heart,
cloistered and southerly,
misgives the ice, the drifting
for something perplexed and eternal.
It will end like this,
the heart will tell you,
it will end with mammoth and glacier,
with ten thousand years
of effacing night,
and someday the scientists
rifling lakes and moraines,
will find us in evidence,
our relics the outside of history,
but your story, whole and hollowed, will end
at the vanishing edge of your hand.
So says the heart
in its intricate cell,
charting with mirrors
the unchartable land
of remembrance and rivers and ice.
This time it was different:
the town had surrendered
to the hooded snow,
the houses and taverns
were awash in the fragmented light,
and the lake was marbled
with unstable ice,
as I walked through drifts
through lulling spirits,
content with the slate of the sky
and the prospect of calendared spring.
the winter proclaimed,
sooner or later
in dark, inaccessible ice,
and you are the next one
to hear this story,
winter and winter
occluding the heart,
and there in Wisconsin,
mired by the snow
and by vanishing faith,
it did not seem bad
that the winter was taking
all light away,
that the darkness seemed welcome
and the last, effacing snow.
He stood in the midst
of frozen automobiles,
cars lined like cenotaphs.
In a bundle of coats
and wool hats and mufflers
he rummaged the trunk
for God knows what,
and I knew his name
by the misted spectacles,
the caved, ridiculous
hat he was wearing,
And whether the courage
was spring in its memory,
was sunlight in promise
or whiskeyed shade,
or something aligned
beyond snow and searching,
it was with me that moment
as I spoke to him there;
in my days I am thankful
it stood me that moment
IV
as I spoke to the bundled
weaver of accidents,
the everyday wizard
in search of impossible spring.
Tracy, I told him, poetry lies
in the seams of the story,
in old recollections and prospect
of what might always and never be
(And those were the words
I did not say, but poetry lies
in the prospect of what should have been:
you must believe that I said these words
past denial, past history),
and there in the winter
the first song began,
the moons twined and beckoned
on the borders of Krynn,
the country of snow
resolved to the grasslands
more brilliant and plausible.
And the first song continued
through prospects of summer,
where the promise returns
from the vanished seed,
where the staff returns
from forgetful deserts,
and even the northern lands
cry out to the spirit,
this is the map
of believing fulfilled;
this is the map of belief.
vi
Where's my hat? You took it! I saw you. Don't tell me if 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've
always 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
Thaf s close....
Oh, very well. I'll write your blasted foreword.
But just this once, mind you. Here goes.
A long time ago, a couple of doorknobs named Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman decided to leave
their homes on Krynn and go out adventuring. I'm afraid there's some ken-der blood in those two. They
just couldn't resist traipsing off to visit other new and exciting worlds.
But Weis and Hickman are like kender and bad pennies -they keep turning up. And so here they are
again, all set to tell us about the wonderful things that are happening in Krynn.
Some of these stories we've heard before, but they have a couple of new ones, too, all about the children of
that small band of adventurers who are now known as the Heroes of the Lance.
Many years have passed since the war. The Heroes' children are growing up, going off on adventures of
their own, heading out into a world that, I'm sorry to say, still has plenty of danger and trouble left to
go around.
Now, as you read these stories, you will notice that sometimes Weis and Hickman contradict certain other
stories you may have heard. Some of you might find yourselves more
vu
than a little perplexed over their accounts of the Heroes' past lives-accounts that differ from other
accounts.
There is a perfectly simple explanation.
Following the War of the Lance, Tanis and Caramon and Raistlin and all the rest of the Companions
stopped being ordinary people and became Legends. We liked hearing about the Heroes' adventures so much,
we didn't want the stories to end. We wanted to hear more. To fill the demand, bards and legend-spinners came
from all over Krynn to tell the wondrous tales. Some of these knew the Heroes well. Others simply
repeated stories they'd heard told by a dwarf who had it from a kender who borrowed it from a knight who had
an aunt who knew the Heroes ...
You get the picture.
Some of these stories are absolutely, positively true. Others are probably almost absolutely,
positively true, but not quite. Still others are what we refer to in polite society 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 the stories, 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 lot of adventuring to
do. Come along! Forget your cares! Travel with Weis and Hickman through Krynn once again, if only
for a little while. They won't be here long, but they do 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
At the edge of the world
the juggler wanders,
sightless and pathless,
trusting the venerable
breadth of his juggler's hands.
He wanders the edge
of a long-ago story, juggling moons,
parading the fixed
anonymous stars in his passage.
Something like instinct
and something like agate
hard and transparent
in the depths of his reflexes
channels the objects
to life in the air:
stilettos and bottles,
wooden pins and ornaments
the seen and the unseen-all reassemble
translated to light and dexterity.
It is this version of light we steer by:
constellations of memory
and a chemistry born
in the blood's alembic,
where motive and metaphor
and the impulse of night
are annealed by the morning
into our countenance,
into the whorls
of our surfacing fingers.
viii
Something in each of us yearns for this balance, for the vanished chemistries that temper the steel. The best of
all jugglery lies in the truces that shape our intention out of knives, out of filament out of half-empty bottles
and mirrors and chemistries, and from the forgotten ore of the night.
Kitiara's Son
Chapter One the Strange Request Of A Blue Dragon Rider
It was autumn on Ansalon, autumn in Solace. The leaves of the vallenwood trees were the most beautiful
they'd ever been, so Caramon said-the reds blazing brighter than fire, the golds sparkling more brilliantly
than the newly minted coins that were coming out of Palanthas. Tika, Caramon's wife, agreed with him.
Never had such colors been 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, more beautiful than the year
before. It never fails."
The customers laughed with her, and a few teased the big man, when he came back into 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 falling 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 the disbelievers
out onto the porch and shoved their faces in a leafy branch to prove his point.
The customers-longtime residents of Solace-admitted he was right. The leaves had never before looked so
lovely. At which Caramon, as gratified as if he'd painted the leaves 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 have liked to ascribe the
increase in
CDargatet W«is xab Cracy (jicknun
trade to the leaves; there were many who made the pilgrimage to Solace, in these days of relative peace, to
see the wondrous vallenwood trees, which grew here and nowhere else on Krynn (despite various claims to
the contrary, made by certain jealous towns, whose names will not be mentioned).
But even Caramon was forced to agree with the practical-minded Tika. The upcoming Wizards' Conclave
was having more to do with the increased number of guests than the leaves-beautiful as they were.
A Wizards' Conclave was held infrequently on Krynn, occurring only when the top-ranking magic-users
in each of the three orders-White, Red, and Black-deemed it necessary that all those of all levels of magic,
from the newest apprentice to the most skilled sorcerer, gather to discuss arcane affairs.
Mages from all over Ansalon traveled to the Tower of Wayreth to attend the conclave. 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 of various magical items and artifacts. Several members of the
dwarven race were honored guests. A group of gnomes arrived, encumbered with blueprints,
hoping to persuade the wizards to admit them. Numerous kender appeared, of course, but they were
gently, albeit firmly, turned away at the borders.
The Inn of the Last Home was the last comfortable inn before a traveler reached the magical Forest
of Wayreth, where stood one of the Towers of High Sorcery, ancient headquarters of magic on the
continent. Many mages and their guests stopped at the inn 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 without bothering to stop anywhere in
between."
Tika could only laugh and shrug and agree with her husband that, yes, it must be the leaves, and so
Caramon went about inordinately pleased with himself for the rest of the day.
Neither made mention of the fact that each mage who came to stay in the inn brought with him or
her a small token of esteem and remembrance for Caramon's twin brother, Raistlin. A mage of great
power, and far greater ambition, Raistlin had turned to evil and very nearly destroyed the world.
But he had redeemed himself at the end by the sacrifice of his own life, over twenty years ago. One small
room in the inn was deemed Raistlin's Room and was now filled with various tokens (some of them
magical) left to commemorate the wizard's life. (No kender were ever permitted anywhere near this
room!)
The Wizards' Conclave was only three days away, and this night, for the first time in a week, the inn
was empty. The mages had all traveled on, for the Wayreth Forest is a tricky place-you do not find the
forest, it finds you. All mages, even the highest of their rank, knew that they might spend at least a day
wandering about, waiting for the forest to appear.
And so the mages were gone, and none of the regulars had yet come back. The townsfolk, both of
Solace and neighboring communities, who stopped by the inn nightly for either the ale or Tika's spiced
potatoes or both, stayed away when the mages came. Magic-users were tolerated on Ansalon, (unlike the
old days, when they'd been persecuted), but they were not trusted, not even the white-robed mages, who
were 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 had been trouble. The regular customers had
complained loudly and bitterly, and one had even 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 Caramon angry, and it was still
talked of to this day, though not in Caramon's presence. The drunk was carried out of the inn feetfirst, after
his friends had removed his head from a fork in a tree branch grown into the inn.
After that, whenever a conclave occurred, the regulars took their business to other taverns, 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, "we get to go to
bed early."
They had been married some twenty-two years, and Caramon was still firmly convinced that he
had married
the most beautiful woman in Krynn. They had five children, three boys: Tanin, twenty years old, at the
time of this story; Sturm, who was nineteen; sixteen-year-old Palin; and two small girls, Laura and
Dezra, ages five and four. The two older boys longed to be knights and were always off in search of
adventure, which is where they were this night. The youngest boy, Palin, was studying magic. ("If s a
passing fancy," Caramon said. "The boy'll soon outgrow it.") As for the little girls ... well, theirs is
another story.
"If 11 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 give herself away by
laughing, and replied, with a sigh, "Yes, the gods be praised. I'm so tired, I'll probably fall asleep before my
head hits the pillow."
Caramon looked anxious. He dropped the cloth he was using to dry the freshly washed 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 if s just the two of us, and I thought we
might... 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 to supervise, and the accounts to settle ..."
Caramon's shoulders slumped. "Well, that's all right," he mumbled. "Why don't you just go on to
bed, and I'll finish-"
Tika threw down her broom. Laughing, she flung her arms around her husband-as far 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 bed and 'talk,' but
you just remember that 'talking' was what got us the boys and the girls in the first place! Come on." She
tugged playfully at his apron. "Douse the lights and bolt 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 heavy wooden 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, she blew 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 sorry if s late, but I am
alone and in desperate need."
"If 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 of another 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 wandering about 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't say that.
Maybe she's going to visit a sick relative and darkness caught her on the road or-"
Tika lit the candle. "Go ahead. Open up."
"I'm coming," the big man roared. Heading for the door, he paused, glanced back at his 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 down on the table.
Tika had red hair and, though its color had grayed and softened with age, her temper had not.
Caramon dropped the subject of hot food.
"She's probably real tired," he said, hoping to pacify his wife. "Likely she'll go straight 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 have second thoughts about letting her in.
She was heavily cloaked and booted and wore the helm and leather gloves indicative of a dragon rider.
That in itself was not unusual; many dragon riders passed through Solace these days. But the
helm and cloak and gloves were a deep blue, trimmed in black. The light caught a glint of blue scales,
glistening on her leather breeches and black 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 the war, the people of Solace remem-
bered clearly the blue dragons that had burned and leveled their town, killed many of their kin. And
there were veterans who'd fought in the War of the Lance-Caramon and Tika among them-who
recalled with hatred the blue 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 a room 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. Awaiting Caramon's answer,
she glanced over her shoulder twice, looking not at the ground, but at the skies.
Caramon turned to his wife. Tika was a shrewd judge of character-an easy skill to acquire, 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 final look over
her shoulder, then hastily slid inside, keeping out of the direct light. Caramon himself 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 woman flinched at the
sound of the bar thudding into place. She'd been trying to unlatch the clasp
10
of the pin that held her cloak together-a large brooch wrought of mother-of-pearl that gave off a
faint and eerie glow in the dimness of the candlelit inn. Her hands shook, 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 the woman's hand for
Tika to view the pin. He found, now that he studied it, that he was loath to touch it.
Tika peered at the brooch. Her lips tightened. Perhaps she was thinking her infallible judge 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 lily is reputed by
elven legend to spring up from the graves of those who have met their deaths by violence. The
black lily is said to grow from the heart of the murdered victim and, if plucked, the broken stem
will bleed.
The dragon rider snatched her hand away, slid the brooch back into the black fur that trimmed
her cloak.
"Where've you left your dragon?" Caramon asked grimly.
"Hidden in a valley near here. You needn't worry, Inn-keep. She's under my control and
completely loyal to me. She won't harm anyone." The woman withdrew the blue leather helm she
wore to protect her face during flight. "I give you my word."
Once the helm was removed, the frightening, formidable dragon r...
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