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. Even the whispers fell silent at its
command. "Palin?" it murmured softly, speaking questioningly, it
seemed, to itself ... or to someone else. . . .
A decision was reached, apparently, because the voice became
firm. "Palin. Come forward."
"No!" Caramon grasped his son.
"Let him go!" Dalamar ordered, glancing around with a
furious look. "I told you this might happen! It is our chance!" He
gazed coldly at Caramon. "Or are you afraid of what you might
find?"
"I am not!" Caramon returned in a choked voice. "Raistlin is
dead! I have seen him at peace! I don't trust you mages! You're not
going to take my son from me!"
Palin could feel his father's body trembling near his, he could
see the anguish in his father's eyes. Compassion and pity stirred
within the young man. There was a brief longing to stay safe
within his father's strong, sheltering arms. But these feelings were
burned away by a hot anger that surged up from somewhere inside
of him, an anger kindled by the magic.
"Did you give Tanin a sword, then bid him break it?" Palin
demanded, breaking free of his father's grip. "Did you give Sturm
a shield and tell him to hide behind it? Oh, I know!" Palin
snapped, seeing Caramon, his face flushed, about to speak. "THAT
is different. THAT is something you understand. You've never un-
derstood me, have you. Father? How many years was it before I
persuaded you to let me go to school, to study with the Master who
had taught my uncle? When you finally relented, I was the oldest
beginning student there! For years, I w
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