Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  Usha didn’t hear any more. She knew Prot, knew he was talking out of desperation. A silent, reclusive, mild, and gentle man, those words were the most he’d spoken to her in months, and he was likely speaking these just to comfort both of them. She knew this because, when he picked up a doll with which she’d played as a child, he suddenly ceased talking, drew it to his breast, and held it as he had once held her.

  Usha’s eyes filled with tears. She turned away swiftly so that he wouldn’t see her cry.

  “So, I’m being sent to Palanthas, am I? Good. You know I’ve wanted to leave for a long time now. I have my journey all planned. I was thinking of going to Kalaman, but”—she shrugged her shoulders—“Palanthas will do. One place is as good as another.”

  She hadn’t been thinking of going to Kalaman at all. The city’s name was the first that popped into her head. But she made it sound as if she’d planned this trip for years. The truth was, she was frightened. Terribly, horribly frightened.

  The Irda know where I was last night! she thought, feeling guilty. They know I was out on the beach. They know what I was thinking, dreaming!

  Her dreams had conjured up the images of the knights: their youthful faces, their sweat-damp hair, their strong and supple hands. In her dreams, they had met her, talked to her, swept her away on their dragon-headed ship. They had sworn they loved her; had forsaken the battle and the sword for her. Silly, she knew. How could any man love someone so ugly? But she could dream she was beautiful, couldn’t she? Usha blushed hotly to think of her dreams now. She was ashamed of them, ashamed of the feelings they woke inside her.

  “Yes, we both know it’s time for you to leave,” the Protector said, somewhat awkwardly. “We’ve talked about it before.”

  True, Usha had talked of leaving for the past three years. She would plan her journey, decide what she would take, even go so far as to set a day. A tentative day, a vague day: “Midsummer’s Eve” or “the Time of the Three Moons.” The days came and the days left. Usha always remained. The sea was too rough or the weather too cold or the boat inadequate or the omens unfavorable. Her Protector always mildly agreed with her, as he agreed with everything she said and did, and no more was said. Until the next time Usha planned her trip.

  “You’re right. I was meaning to go anyway,” she said, hoping that the quiver in her voice would be taken for excitement. “I’m already half packed.”

  She swiped a hand over her eyes and turned to face the man who had raised her from infancy. “Whatever are you doing, Prot?” Her childish name for him. “You can’t imagine I’m going to Palanthas carrying my doll, do you? Leave it here. It will be company for you while I’m gone. You two can talk to each other until I come back.”

  “You won’t be coming back, Child,” said Prot quietly.

  He did not look at her, but fondled the well-worn doll. Then, silently, he handed the doll to her.

  Usha stared. The quiver formed into a lump, and the lump brought more tears to her eyes. Snatching up the doll, she hurled it across the small room.

  “I’m being punished! Punished for speaking my mind! Punished because I’m not afraid of that man! The Decider hates me! You all hate me! Because I’m ugly and stupid and … and human! Well!” Usha wiped her tears with the backs of her hands, smoothed her hair, drew in a deep, shaking breath. “I wasn’t planning on coming back anyway. Who would want to? Who cares about a dull place where no one talks to anyone for months at a time? Not me! I’ll leave tonight! Now! The hell with packing! I don’t want anything from you ever! Ever! Ever again!”

  She was crying now—crying and watching to see the effect of her tears at the same time. The Protector was gazing at her helplessly, just as he always did whenever she wept. He would give in. He always gave in. He would do anything to placate her, soothe her, give her whatever she wanted. He always had.

  The Irda are not accustomed to displaying their own emotions, unless such emotions are extraordinarily strong. Consequently, the Irda were baffled by the tempestuous vagaries of human temperament. They could not bear to see anyone in a state of strong emotional throes. It was embarrassing, unseemly, undignified. Usha had learned, early on, that tears and tantrums would win her anything she wanted. Her sobs increased in volume; she choked and gulped and secretly exulted. She would not be sent away. Not now.

  I will leave! she thought resentfully, but only when I’m good and ready!

  She’d reached the painful hiccuping stage and was thinking that it was time to quit and give Prot a chance to humbly apologize for upsetting her, when she heard something astonishing.

  The door shutting.

  Usha gulped, fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. When she could see, she stared around in astonishment.

  The Protector was gone. He’d walked out on her.

  Usha sat alone in the silent, empty little house that had been hers for however many years had passed since they’d brought her here as a tiny baby. She’d once tried to keep track, marking off the years from the day on which Prot said she’d been born. But she’d quit counting at about thirteen. It had been a game up until then, but at that age—for some reason—the game had become hurtful. No one would tell her much about her parents or why they weren’t around. They didn’t like to talk about such things. It made them sad every time she brought up the subject.

  No one could tell her who she was … only what she wasn’t. She wasn’t an Irda. And so—in a fit of pique—she’d ceased to mark the years, and when they had started to be important to her again, she’d lost track. Had four or five years passed? Six? Ten?

  Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered.

  Usha knew then that this time tears wouldn’t help.

  The next day, around sun’s zenith, the Irda came together again—twice in two days, something practically unprecedented in their history—to bid the human “child” good-bye.

  Usha was armored by anger now, anger and resentment. Her farewells were distant and formal, as if she were bidding good-bye to some estranged cousin who’d happened to drop in for a visit.

  “I don’t care.”

  Those were the words the Protector heard her say—none too softly—to herself. “I’m glad I’m leaving! You don’t want me. No one ever did want me. I don’t care about any of you. It’s not as if you cared about me!”

  But the Irda did care. The Protector wished he could tell her that, but such words came with difficulty, if at all. The Irda had grown quite fond of the carefree, singing, laughing child, who had jolted them out of their studious contemplation, forced them to open their sealed and locked hearts. If they had spoiled her—and they had spoiled her, the Protector knew—it had been unintentional. It made them happy to see her happy and, therefore, they had done everything possible to keep her that way.

  He was beginning to think—dimly—that this may have been a mistake. The world into which they were shoving her so roughly did not care anything about Usha. Whether she was happy or sad, dead or alive, were not the world’s concerns. It occurred to him now—a bit late—that perhaps Usha should have been disciplined, taught to handle such indifference.

  But then, he had never truly thought he’d have to set the wild, singing bird free. Now the time was at hand and, although there were no overt displays of emotion, the Irda showed their feelings in the only way in which they knew how—they gave her gifts.

  Usha accepted the gifts with ungracious thanks, taking them and stuffing them into a leather pouch without ever giving them so much as a glance. When the giver attempted to explain what the gift did, Usha brushed the explanation aside. She was hurt, deeply hurt, and she intended to hurt every one of them back. The Protector really couldn’t blame her.

  The Decider made a touching speech, to which Usha listened in stone-cold silence, and then the time was at hand. The tide was right; the wind was right. The Irda murmured their prayers and good wishes. Usha turned her back on them all and stalked away through the forest, heading toward the beach, clutching t
heir gifts tightly against her chest.

  “I don’t care! I don’t care!” she repeated over and over in what the Protector hoped was a strengthening mantra.

  He was the only one who accompanied her to the boat. She refused to speak to him, and he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he’d misjudged her. Perhaps she was one of the unfeeling, uncaring humans. About halfway to the beach, when the two of them were alone together in the woods, Usha stumbled to a halt.

  “Prot! Please!” She threw her arms around him, hugged him close, a show of affection she hadn’t made since she’d left childhood behind. “Don’t send me away! Don’t make me go! I’ll be good! I won’t cause any more trouble! I love you! I love you all!”

  “I know, Child, I know.” The Protector—his own eyes misting over—patted her awkwardly on the back. He had strong memories of doing this for her when she was a baby, cradling her in his arms, trying his best to give her the love her mother would never be able to give.

  When Usha’s sobs quieted, he held her at arm’s length, looked into her eyes.

  “Child, I wasn’t supposed to tell you this. But I can’t let you go, thinking that we don’t love you anymore, that you’ve disappointed us in some way. You could never do that, Usha. We love you dearly. I want you to believe that. The truth is … we are going to work magic—very powerful magic, in an effort to keep the evil knights from returning. I can’t explain, but this magic might be harmful to you, Usha, because you are not an Irda. It might endanger you. We are sending you away because we are concerned about your safety.”

  A lie, perhaps, but a harmless one. In truth, Usha was being sent away because she might endanger the magic. The human, Usha, was the one flaw in the perfect crystalline structure of enchantment the Irda planned to use to contain the power of the Graygem. The Protector knew that this was the true reason the Decider had decreed that Usha be sent away.

  Usha sniffed. The Protector wiped her nose and face, as he had done for her when she was a little girl.

  “This … this magic.” Usha swallowed. “It will keep you safe? Safe from the evil?”

  “Yes, Child. So the Decider says, and we have no reason to doubt his wisdom.”

  Another lie. The Protector had now told more lies in this one day than he had in a lifetime that spanned centuries. He was extremely amazed to find he was good at it.

  Usha made a feeble attempt at a smile. “Thanks for being honest with me, Prot. I’m … I’m sorry I was so beastly to the others. You’ll tell them for me. Tell how much I’ll miss them and how I’ll think of you—all of you—every day.…” The tears threatened again. She gulped, shook them out of her eyes.

  “I’ll tell them, Usha. Now, come. Sun and tide wait for no one, or so the minotaur say.”

  They walked to the beach. Usha was very quiet. She looked dazed, disbelieving, numb.

  They reached the boat—a large, two-masted sailboat of minotaur make and design. The boat had been obtained by the Irda several years ago, for use in the acquisition of the Graygem. That task accomplished, the Irda had no more use for the boat and had given the Protector permission to teach Usha how to sail it. Though he had dreaded it, he’d always feared this day must come.

  Usha and the Protector carefully stowed her two packs—a small one holding personal items that could be slung over her back, and a larger pouch, which held the Irda’s gifts. Usha wore what the Irda deemed sensible clothes, suitable for traveling in the heat: pants made of light green silk, loose and flowing, gathered around the ankles, held in place by an embroidered band; a matching silk tunic, open at the neck, tied around her waist with a gold sash; and a vest of black velvet, hand-embroidered in vibrant colors. A green silk scarf covered her head.

  “All those packs … You look just like a kender.” The Protector attempted a small joke.

  “A kender!” Usha forced a laugh. “You’ve told me stories about them, Prot. Will I get to meet one, do you think?”

  “Easier to meet them than to get rid of them. Oh, yes, Child.” The Protector smiled at old memories. “You will meet the lighthearted, light-fingered kender. And the grim and dour dwarves, the cunning and crafty gnomes, bold and handsome knights, silver-voiced elves. You’ll meet them all.…”

  As he spoke, the Protector watched Usha’s gaze turn from him. She looked out across the sea. The expression on her face altered, no longer dazed, numb. He saw the hunger now, the eagerness to see and hear and taste and touch life. On the horizon, white clouds massed, building higher and higher. Usha was seeing not clouds, but cities, white and shining in the sun. He had the feeling that if the ocean had been made of slate, she would have run across it then and there.

  The Protector sighed. The human side had seized control of the orphan child at last. Excitement glistened in her eyes; her lips parted. She leaned forward in unconscious yearning, ready—as were all humans—to rush headlong into the future.

  He knew, far better than she—for he was one of the few Irda to have walked the world—what dangers Usha, in her innocence, faced. He almost warned her; the words were on his lips. He had told her of knights and kender. Now he must speak of cruel draconians, evil goblins, humans with corrupt souls and hearts, dark clerics who committed unspeakable acts in the names of Morgion or Chemosh, black-robed wizards with life-draining rings, rogues, thieves, liars, seducers.

  But he didn’t tell her. The warnings were never given. He did not have the heart to dim her glow, tarnish her bright radiance. She would learn soon enough. Hopefully the gods would watch over her, as it was said they watched over slumbering children, stray animals, and kender.

  The Protector helped Usha into the boat. “Magic will guide the craft to Palanthas. All you need do, Child, is keep the setting sun on your left cheek. Fear no storm. The boat cannot be capsized. Should the wind die, our magic will be your sea breeze, help speed the boat on its way. Let the waves rock you to sleep. When you awake in the morning, you will see the spires of Palanthas shining in the sun.”

  Together they raised the sail. All during this process, the Protector was distracted, arguing with himself, trying to reach a decision. At length, he made it.

  When the craft was ready to launch, the Protector settled Usha in the stern, repositioning her possessions neatly around her. This done, he drew forth a scroll of parchment tied with a black ribbon. The Protector handed the scroll to Usha.

  “What is this?” she asked, regarding it curiously. “A map?”

  “No, Child. It is not a map. It is a letter.”

  “Is it for me? Does it”—her face brightened with hope—“does it tell me about my father? Why he left me? You promised one day you would explain, Prot.”

  The Protector flushed deeply, taken aback. “It … um … does not, Child. You know the story already. What more could I add?”

  “You have said he left me after my mother’s death, but you never said why. It’s because he didn’t love me, isn’t it? Because I was the cause of my mother’s death. He hated me—”

  “Where did you ever get that notion, Child?” The Protector was shocked. “Your father loved you dearly. You know what happened. I’ve told you.”

  Usha sighed. “Yes, Prot,” she said. All their conversations about her parentage ended like this. He refused to tell her the truth. Very well, it didn’t matter. She’d find her own truth.

  The Protector tapped the letter, anxious to change the subject of their conversation.

  “The missive is not for you, but when you have lost sight of our island, you may open this and read it. The one to whom you are to deliver it may have questions which only you can answer.”

  Usha regarded the letter with a puzzled expression. “Then who is it for, Prot?”

  The Protector was silent a moment, wrestling with himself. Shaking his head to rid himself of doubt, he answered. “There is a powerful wizard who dwells in Palanthas. His name is Dalamar. After you have read this letter, take it to him. It is right that he should know what we plan. In case …”
He stopped himself, but Usha was quick to catch on.

  “In case anything goes wrong! Oh, Prot!” She clung to him, now that the moment of parting was at hand. “I’m afraid!”

  You will be, Child, all your life. That is the curse of being human. He leaned over, kissed her on the forehead.

  “Your mother’s blessing—and your father’s—will go with you.”

  He climbed out of the boat. Pushing the boat off the shore, he sent it skimming over the waves.

  “Protector!” Usha cried, reaching out her hand as if to seize him.

  But the water, or the magic, or both, carried the boat swiftly away. The lapping of the waves on the shore drowned her words.

  The Protector stood on the sandy beach as long as the boat was in sight. Even after the tiny white speck had disappeared over the horizon, he stood there still.

  Only when the tide had risen, washed away all trace of Usha’s footprints on the sand, did the Protector turn around and leave.

  4

  A letter to dalamar.

  sha, alone on the boat, watched the slender form of the Protector grow smaller and smaller, watched the shore of her homeland dwindle to nothing more than a black line across the horizon. When the Protector and the shoreline were out of sight, Usha gave the tiller a shove, to turn the boat around, sail it back.

  The rudder would not respond. The wind blew strong and steadily. Irda magic kept the boat sailing toward Palanthas.

  Usha cast herself down in the bottom of the boat and indulged in her grief, cried until she nearly made herself sick.

  The tears did nothing to ease the pain in her heart. Instead, they gave her the hiccups, caused her eyes to itch and burn, her nose to run. Fumbling for a handkerchief, she found the letter the Protector had given her. She opened it without much enthusiasm—expecting it to be another justification for getting rid of her—and began to read.

  My Usha. You lie asleep as I write this. I look on you—resting peacefully, your arm flung over your head, your hair mussed, the stains of tears on your cheeks—and I am reminded of the child who brought joy and warmth to my life. I miss you already, and you are not even gone!