Read Online Dragonlance 10 - The Second Generation by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman - Free Book Online Page A

floor. The door opened. A young man entered. Caramon nearly fell through the curtain in an attempt to see. Tanis waved at the big man, urged him back, but the half-elf himself had his eye plastered to the hole.
    The young man had his back to them. Taking off his wet cloak, he unbuckled his sword belt from around his waist. He leaned the sword, sheathed in its black scabbard—decorated with an axe, a skull, and the black lily—against the wall. He took off his breastplate, then removed his helm with a quick, impatient gesture that made Tanis's heart constrict with painful memories. He'd seen Kitiara remove her helm with that very gesture.
    Leaning over Sara, the young man kissed her cheek and placed a hand on her shoulder. "How are you, Mother? You don't look well. Have you been ill?"
    Sara had trouble answering. She shook her head. "No, just busy. I'll tell you later. You're wet to the bone, Steel. Go warm yourself. You'll catch your death."
    Steel untied a leather thong and shook out a quantity of dark hair. Both the hidden watchers recognized those dark curls. Kitiara had worn her hair short; her son wore it long, tumbling over his broad shoulders. As he stepped over to the fire and held his hands out to the blaze, the flames lit his face… His face…
    Caramon gave a great, wheezing gasp.
    "What was that noise?" Steel glanced around sharply.
    Caramon clapped his hand over his mouth and moved away from the curtain. Tanis, hardly daring to breathe, held perfectly still.
    "It's the wind, rattling that broken window," Sara responded.
    "I fixed it the last time I was here," Steel said, frowning. He took a step toward the curtain.
    "Well, the latch is loose again," Sara said. "Come, eat your dinner before it gets cold. You can't do anything to mend the latch while this storm lasts."
    Steel cast a last glance at the curtained room, then turned and walked back to the fireplace. Shifting his position slightly, Tanis could continue to see what was happening. Steel took a bowl and ladled out broth and meat. A puzzled look crossed his face. He sniffed at the bowl.
    Tanis shook his head and gestured toward the living room, warning Caramon to make himself ready. The two of them, catching the younger man off guard, might stand a chance. Lifting a spoon, Steel tasted the broth, grimaced, and tossed the bowl's contents back into the pot.
    Sara, stricken, stared at him. "What—what's the matter?"
    "'Eat it before it gets cold,'" Steel repeated. He was fondly teasing, mimicking her voice. "Mother, I'd have to set that stew out in the storm for it to get much colder. It's not cooked yet!"
    "I… I'm sorry, dear."
    Sara was limp with relief, and so was Tanis. But he was worried about her. She was trembling, her face ashen. Steel couldn't help but notice.
    "What is it, Mother?" he asked, once again serious. "What's wrong? I heard you were out this night. What were you doing?"
    "I… I was ferrying a couple of spies… from the continent—"
    "The continent!" Steel's dark brows came together in a frown. "Spies! This is not safe, Mother. You take too great a risk. I'll speak to Lord Ariakan—"
    "It's all right, Steel," Sara said, regaining her composure. "He didn't send me. I took the task upon myself. It was either that or let some stranger ride Flare. I couldn't permit that. You know how temperamental she can be."
    Turning her back on the young man, Sara picked up the poker and stirred the fire. Steel watched her, his countenance dark and thoughtful. "I find this talk of ferrying spies odd, Mother. I didn't think you were that committed to our cause."
    Sara paused in her work. "It's not the cause, Steel," she said in a low voice, her eyes on the flames.
    "You know that well. I do this for you."
    Steel's lip curled. His expression was suddenly hard and cold. Tanis, watching, knew that look. So did Caramon. The big man tensed to jump.
    "You ferry spies for me, Mother?" Steel's tone was mocking, suspicious. Flinging the poker down on the