Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  “Mankind’s affairs are my affairs,” said Astinus. “How not? I have written them, lived them—every one of them—for centuries.”

  His writing slowed, finally ceased. He had, just that morning, begun a new volume. It was thick, leather-bound, its vellum pages blank, ready to receive laughter, tears, curses, blows, the cries of the newborn, the sighs of the dying. His fingers seemed permanently bent in a crook to hold his pen. His index finger stained bluish purple from the ink, Astinus thumbed through the blank pages until he came to the end.

  “Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “this book will be the last.”

  He picked up the pen, put it to paper. The pen made a harsh scratching sound, ink spluttered, blotting the page. Astinus frowned, tossed the split quill aside, selected a fresh one from a holder on his desk, and began writing again.

  “You knew, I think, the decision your nephew would make.”

  “I knew,” Raistlin said quietly. “That was why I sent Caramon back home. He would have interfered. Palin had to make his own choice.”

  “The right one—for him,” Astinus observed.

  “Yes. He is young, has never been truly tested. Life for him has been easy. He’s been loved, admired, respected. Whatever he wanted was given to him. He’s never known hardship. When he wanted to sleep, a bed was prepared for him, a bed with clean sheets in a warm and cozy room. Oh, true, he traveled with his brothers, but that—until the last—was more a holiday than anything else. Not like Caramon and me, when we were mercenaries before the war.”

  Raistlin mused. “Only once was he truly tested, during the battle when his brothers died. He failed—”

  “He did not fail,” Astinus remarked.

  “He thinks he did,” Raistlin said, with a shrug, “which amounts to the same thing. In reality, he fought well with what magic he had, kept his head in the midst of fearful chaos, remembered his spells during a time when one wonders how a man remembers his own name. But he lost. He was doomed to lose. Only when he held the black robes in his hand, only when he had to condemn a man to death unjustly, only then did he come to the sacrifice he must be prepared to make.”

  “He may well die in gaining such understanding.” Astinus, all this time, had not ceased to write.

  “That is the risk we all take. So the Conclave judged …” Raistlin frowned down at the books, as if he could read their contents and was not finding much of it to his liking.

  “As they judged once in your case, old friend.”

  “They tempted me … and I fell, for which I was reviled, for which I paid a heavy price. Yet, had I not fallen, it is very likely that the War of the Lance would have been lost.” Raistlin’s lip curled in a sneer. “How does that thread weave into the grand design?”

  “As do all threads,” Astinus said. “Look at the rug beneath your feet. Were you to turn the rug over, you would see what appears to be a confused tangle of many-colored strands of thread. But look at the rug from the top—the strands are neatly, tightly woven, merged together to form a strong fabric. Oh, it is frayed a bit at the corners, but—overall—it has worn well.”

  “It will need to be strong,” Raistlin said quietly, “to withstand what is corning. There is one more thing I would like you to do for me, my friend.”

  “And that is …?” Astinus did not look up, but his pen flowed across the paper.

  “I would like to see Lady Crysania,” Raistlin said.

  Now Astinus lifted his gaze; now the pen stopped. The historian was rarely astonished by anything, since he had seen, heard, felt everything. This request, however, took him by surprise.

  “See Lady Crysania? Why?” Astinus demanded. “What would you say to her? That you are sorry for what you did to her? For the way you used her? That would be a lie. Did you not tell your brother that you would do what you did all over again?”

  Raistlin turned. A hint of color stained the pale, wan cheeks. “I used her. What of the way she used me? We were two of a kind, just clad in different color clothes.”

  “She loved you …”

  “She loved her ambition more.”

  “True,” Astinus agreed. “And she finally saw that, but only when she could see nothing else. What would you say to her? I am curious, particularly since this meeting you propose will never come about.”

  “Why not?” Raistlin demanded sharply. “All I have to do is walk over to the temple grounds. They cannot—dare not—keep me out.”

  “You may walk over there any time you want, but it will avail you little. Have you forgotten what dire calamity faces the world? Lady Crysania has been called to fight her own battle against Chaos, as have many others. Your story, Palin’s story, Steel Brightblade’s story, are just one of many that I am currently writing.”

  “The great tangle,” Raistlin murmured, scraping his foot across the rug. “Does Lady Crysania go alone?”

  “No. Another is with her, a man devoted to her. He travels with her, though she is not aware of his true nature. That, too, is another story. Again, assuage my curiosity. Would you ask her for forgiveness?”

  “I would not,” Raistlin returned coldly. “Why should I? She got what she wanted. I got what was due me. We are even.”

  “So, you would not apologize to her. You would not ask for forgiveness. What, then, did you want to say to her?”

  Raistlin was silent long moments. He had turned back to the bookshelves, was staring now at the shadows that surrounded the books, staring at a time that would never happen.

  “I wanted to tell her that sometimes, in my long sleep, I dreamt of her,” he said softly.

  13

  The note. Usha’s plan.

  A disturbance in the library.

  sha had bathed—a cat’s bath, as Prot would have called it, meaning that she had given herself a lick and a promise. But at least she had been able to wash away the stench of the sewer and the smell of the tavern’s grease and stale ale, which had been almost as bad. She had changed her clothes, too, though she had been almost as startled and very nearly as fearful at the change of clothing she found on her bed as Palin had been of the change he had found on his.

  Her old clothes, the clothes the Irda had made for her, clothes that she had thought were packed away in a small wooden box in the small, shabby room over the tavern—her old clothes were here. And here, too, was the pouch containing her only possessions—the magical artifacts of the Irda. The sight of her clothes and especially the pouch frightened her. Someone had not only gone to fetch them, apparently, but someone had gone to fetch them before they could have possibly known she was going to be here!

  Usha didn’t like that. She didn’t like this place. She didn’t like the people. The only person she did like was Palin, and she liked him so much that the feeling was more frightening than anything else.

  “Why do I keep lying to him?” she asked herself miserably. “One lie on top of another. All tiny and harmless to begin with, they seem to be growing in size.”

  A tiny pile of sand had changed to a mountain of boulders. She had to labor to keep them in place, for if one shifted, they would all fall, tumble down and crush her. Yet the mountain of lies was now a barrier, was keeping her separated from Palin.

  She loved him, wanted him for her own. This past month, she had dreamt of him, reliving their brief time together in the dreadful tower.

  Other men, like Lynched Geoffrey, had tried to win her love. Usha had at last begun to realize that people found her pretty. And Usha could at last let herself believe. She looked into a mirror and no longer saw herself as ugly, perhaps because the images of the incredibly beautiful Irda had begun to fade in her mind, like summer roses pressed between the pages of a book.

  As other men fell in her estimation, Palin rose. And though she told herself constantly that she would never see him again, the sight of a mage in white robes always quickened her heartbeat.

  “How strange,” she muttered, “that when he did come in, I was too busy and harassed to
take note.”

  She paused a moment to relive the memory, the wonderful, thrilling warmth that had surged through her when she had heard him speak her name, speak it with such love and longing.

  “And I repaid him with more lies,” she said, berating herself. The words came so glibly to her tongue, they were out before she knew it. “But I can’t bear the thought of losing him again!” She sighed. “And now here is this uncle of his.…”

  Usha put on her old clothes reluctantly, wary of their mysterious appearance. But it was either wear these or dress again in the muck-stained skirt, the food-spattered blouse. While she dressed, she formed a resolve.

  “I’ll find Palin. I’ll take him away from this place before he has a chance to talk to his uncle, before he can find out that I’m not … the person he thinks I am. I’ll be doing this for his own good,” Usha convinced herself.

  A soft tap on her door interrupted her castle-building.

  “Usha? It’s me, Tas. Open up! Quick!” The voice had a squeezed quality to it, as though it were coming through the keyhole, which, upon investigation, Usha discovered it was.

  She opened the door so fast that Tas lost his balance, tumbled inside.

  “Hullo, Usha. Do you mind if we shut the door? Bertrem seems to be awfully fond of me, because he told me under no circumstances was I to leave my room and wander about the library without him. But I don’t like to bother him. He’s so busy. He went to tell Astinus we were ready.”

  Usha hesitated in shutting the door. “Where’s Palin? Can you take me to his room?”

  “Sure,” said Tas cheerfully. “It’s two down from yours and one up from mine.” He padded, soft-footed, over to the door and peered out. “We don’t want to disturb Bertrem,” he said in a loud whisper.

  Usha wholeheartedly agreed with this sentiment. Seeing no one in the hall, the two slipped out and ran to Palin’s room.

  The door was shut. Usha tapped on it timidly. “Palin!” she said in a soft voice. “Palin, it’s Usha and Tas. Are you … are you dressed?”

  No answer.

  “I think I hear someone coming!” Tasslehoff said, tugging on Usha’s sleeve.

  Usha started to tap again, but the door moved beneath her hand, began to swing open.

  “Palin?” Usha called.

  Tas marched inside. “Palin, I—Oh. You can come in, Usha. Palin’s not here.”

  “Not here!” Usha darted inside, looked around the room. Her search didn’t take long, for the room was very small. Robes of soft black fabric lay on the floor, as if they had been picked up, then dropped. The room smelled of the sewer muck, which his boots had tracked across the floor. And there was even the round print of mud left by the bottom of the staff.

  “Look, here’s a note.” Tas pointed to a ripped piece of paper, such as mages use for copying spells, which was lying on top of the black robes. “It’s for you,” the kender reported, picking it up. “I’ll read it …”

  Usha snatched the note, began to read it feverishly.

  The note appeared to have been written in a great hurry; the writing was almost illegible. The paper was stained with ink blots and other marks that might have been tears. Usha read the few, very few, words scribbled on it, and a chill, as of a biting winter wind, made her shiver all over.

  “Usha!” Tas was alarmed. She had turned so very pale. “Usha, what is it? What’s the matter?”

  Silently, with hands that seemed to have gone numb from the cold, Usha handed the kender the note.

  “ ‘Usha, I love you with all my heart. Always remember …’ I can’t read that part, it’s all smudged. Something, something … ‘gone to the High Clerist’s Tower’ … something … ‘Steel … love …’ ” Tas paused, aghast. “He’s gone to the High Clerist’s Tower!”

  “That’s the dark knight’s stronghold, isn’t it?” Usha asked hopelessly, knowing the answer.

  “It is now,” Tas said, subdued. “It didn’t use to be. I wonder why Palin went there? And without taking us?”

  “He went to throw his life away!” Usha said, frightened and angry at the same time. “That’s what the note says. He gave his word to that … that horrible knight, Brightsword or whatever his name was. We have to go after him, stop him!” She started for the open door. “The knights will kill him. Are you coming with me?”

  “You bet,” said Tas promptly, “but he probably wouldn’t have walked, Usha. It’s something I’ve noticed about mages. They don’t take to exercise. And if Palin has magicked himself into the middle of the stronghold of the Knights of Takhisis, he’s going to be in a lot of danger. I think we’d better go tell Raistlin—”

  Usha slammed shut the door, turned, stood with her back against it. “No. We won’t tell anyone.”

  Tas halted, amazed. “Why not, Usha? If Palin’s truly gone to the High Clerist’s Tower, he’s going to need rescuing, and while I’m pretty good at rescuing people myself, I’ve found that it almost always helps to have a wizard with you.… Oh, I forgot! You’re a wizard, aren’t you, Usha?”

  Usha didn’t appear to be listening. “Tas, have you ever been to the High Clerist’s Tower?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Tas matter-of-factly. “I’ve been inside it many times. The first time was when Flint and I were there and Kitiara attacked it and then the dragons flew in and were all trapped and I broke the dragon orb, completely by accident. And Sturm died and Laurana took the dragonlance.”

  He paused, gave a little sigh, then added, “Anyway, I know my way around the High Clerist’s Tower quite well. I’m especially familiar with the location of the jail.”

  “Good,” said Usha, “because that’s where we’re going. I have an idea.”

  Walking over, she picked up the black robes, shook them out, slid them over her head. Flushed and breathless, she smoothed her hair, adjusted the robes around her slender body. The robes were a good fit; she and Palin were nearly the same height. She tied them around her waist with a black, silken cord.

  “How do I look?” she asked. “Like a black-robed wizard?”

  “Well,” said Tas, hating to throw cold water on this expedition, but bound to bring up objections, “the knights don’t have black-robed mages, only gray.”

  “That’s true.” Usha was downcast.

  “But!” Tas lit up with excitement. “They do have black-robed clerics! I’ve seen them walking around town!”

  “You’re right! I’ll be a cleric of Takhisis.” Usha paused, regarded the kender in perplexity. “What about your disguise?”

  “I could wear black robes, too!” Tas said eagerly.

  “Hush,” Usha said, frowning, “I’m thinking.”

  The meaning of the word “hush” being generally unknown in the kender language, Tas prattled on. “Once a cleric of Morgion—that’s the god of pestilence and disease—came to Kendermore, looking for converts. Eiderdown Pakslinger had always wanted to be a cleric, so he volunteered. The cleric said Eiderdown wasn’t really the type Morgion had in mind, but he’d give him a try. Well, the very week that Eiderdown put on the black robes, almost every kender in Kendermore came down with a severe cold in the head. You never heard such sneezing and coughing and nose-blowing!

  “The sickest of all was the cleric of Morgion. He was laid up for a week, wheezing his lungs out. Eiderdown took credit for the whole epidemic. And even though the head cold was something of a nuisance and we all ran out of handkerchiefs, we were really proud of him—poor Eiderdown had never been much of a success at anything before this. Eiderdown said he thought he’d try his hand at bunions next, and maybe ringworm after that. But the cleric of Morgion, once he quit sneezing, took Eiderdown’s black robes away from him and left the village rather suddenly. We never did know why—”

  “I can’t think of anything,” Usha said, giving up. “If anyone stops us—which, hopefully they won’t—we can just say you’re my prisoner.”

  “It’s a role I’ve had a lot of practice at,” Tas said solemnly. “How are we go
ing to get to the High Clerist’s Tower? It’s an awfully long walk from here.”

  “We’re not walking. I have my magic items all here with me. And I know how to use them,” Usha added with a touch of wonder and pride. “Sally Dale showed me. You go look to see if anyone’s out there.”

  Tas opened the door, looked up and down the hall. He thought he saw the flutter of brown robes, vanishing around a corner, and he waited for someone to come, but no one did. Eventually, Tas reported the way clear. The two left Palin’s room, hurried back to Usha’s.

  Once inside, she began rummaging through her pouch.

  Always being willing to help, Tas began rummaging through the pouch, too. Usha found what she wanted. Lifting the object out carefully, she closed the pouch.

  She reopened the pouch to remove Tas’s hand, which had inadvertently stayed behind, then she exhibited what she held. It was a small figurine of a horse, made out of clay, covered with a shining white glaze that seemed to glow in the candlelight. Tas caught his breath. It was truly the most lovely, wonderful thing he’d ever seen.

  “What does it do?”

  “When I breathe on it, it will take us to the High Clerist’s Tower with the speed of the wind. Or at least that’s what Sally said she thought it would do.”

  Usha held the small horse to her lips, breathed into the tiny nostrils.

  The nostrils flared, the horse took a deep breath, and suddenly a real, enormous horse materialized in the room.

  The beast was shining white, as if it were still covered with glaze, and it whinnied and trumpeted and stamped its hooves in impatience.

  Usha gasped. Sally Dale had said nothing about summoning a full-blown animal! Usha didn’t have time to marvel—not with the noise the horse was making. Tasslehoff was already clambering onto the animal’s back. He helped Usha, who had never ridden any sort of beast in her life and was appalled at the size of the horse. She felt unsafe and unsteady on the horse’s bare back.