Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  “Still, it’s rumored that both the Qualinesti and the Silvanesti have assassins out after Porthios and Alhana.” Tanis sighed. “Once they were rulers of the mightiest elven nations on Ansalon. By their marriage, they forged an alliance between the two realms that would have made the elves one of the leading political powers on the continent. For the first time in centuries, a child is being born who is heir to both kingdoms! And there are those who have already sworn this child’s death!”

  Tanis clenched his fists. “What’s so damn frustrating is that the majority of elves want peace, not only with their cousins, but with their neighbors. It’s the extremists on both sides who are urging that we go back to the days of isolationism, close our borders, shoot any human or dwarf who comes in sight. The rest of the elves follow along because it’s easier to do that than to speak out, cause confrontation.”

  Tanis shook his head. “I don’t think their assassins would dare attack the inn, but, these days, you never know …”

  “We survived dragons,” Caramon said cheerfully. “We’ll survive elves and drought and whatever else comes along.”

  “I hope so,” Tanis said, now in a somber mood. “I hope so, my friend.”

  “Speaking of Qualinesti, how’s Gil doing?”

  Tanis was silent for long moments. The pain of Gil’s leaving had not diminished, though it had been many months since his son had run away from home, been tricked into becoming leader—or puppet ruler—of the elves of Qualinesti.

  Gilthas—named for Laurana’s ill-fated brother Gilthanas—was the child both had wanted but had believed they would never have. Laurana’s pregnancy had been difficult; Gilthas was a frail baby and was near death several times. Tanis knew he and his wife were overly protective of their son, refusing to allow him to visit the land of his parent’s birth, trying to shield him from a racially divided world that found it difficult to accept a child of mixed blood.

  When Porthios, Speaker of the Sun of the Qualinesti, left his land to risk his life fighting for the Silvanesti, extremists took the opportunity of his absence to brand him a traitor and choose a new Speaker. They decided on Gilthas, whose mother, Porthios’s sister, would be in line for the position, but who had abrogated her right by marrying Tanis Half-Elven.

  Believing that Gil, by virtue of his human blood, was a fool and a weakling, who could be manipulated into serving as a puppet king, the extremists persuaded the young man to run away from home and travel to Qualinesti. Once there, Gil proved tougher than the senators had imagined. They had to resort to threats of violence against Alhana Starbreeze, ruler of the Silvanesti and their prisoner, in order to convince Gil to become Speaker.

  Tanis had endeavored—with Dalamar’s help—to save his son, but the half-elf had failed.

  Or rather, Tanis told himself with sorrowful pride, I succeeded. Gil had chosen to stay, to serve his people, to do what he could to thwart the extremists and bring peace to the elven nations.

  But the pain of missing his son did not lessen over time and, to add to it, now an infuriated, vengeful Porthios was massing his forces to declare war on Qualinesti, a tragedy Tanis was trying to prevent. When he felt he could control his voice, he answered.

  “Gil’s well, or so I hear. I’m not permitted—on threat of death—to see him, you know.”

  Caramon nodded, his big face soft with sympathy.

  “Laurana’s still trying to enter Qualinesti. She’s been negotiating with them for months now. She says, in her last letter, that she thinks they’re beginning to relent. Gil’s having something to do with it. He’s stronger than they think. But”—Tanis shrugged, shook his head—“I miss him, Caramon. You can’t imagine …”

  Caramon, who missed his own boys, could well imagine, but he knew what Tanis meant. There was a difference. Tanis’s boy was a virtual prisoner of his own people. One day soon, Caramon’s boys would be coming home.

  The two continued to talk of times past and present, when they were interrupted by a soft tap on the door.

  Caramon jumped, startled. “Who in the Abyss is that? At this time of night! I didn’t hear anyone climb the stairs—”

  “You won’t,” Tanis said, rising to his feet. “That will be Porthios’s escort. And these soldier elves are silent even for elves. Moonlight shining on the grass makes more noise than they do.”

  Reaching the door, Tanis put his hand on the handle. Mindful of what he’d warned Caramon about assassins, Tanis gave a low whistle.

  His whistle was answered, in higher pitch. The tapping was repeated.

  Tanis opened the door.

  An elven warrior glided inside. He cast a quick glance around the room, then nodded to himself in satisfaction. Inspection concluded, he shifted his gaze to Tanis.

  “All is secure?”

  “All is secure. I introduce your host, Caramon Majere. Caramon, I introduce Samar, of House Protector.”

  Samar regarded Caramon with cool appraisal. Taking in the big man’s spreading paunch and jovial face, the elf didn’t seem much impressed.

  Those who first met Caramon often mistook his affable grin and slowness of thought as indicative of a simple mind. This wasn’t true, as Caramon’s friends had come to learn. Caramon never arrived at an answer until he had mentally walked clear around the question, studied it from all sides, examined it from every angle. When finished, he often reached some extremely astute conclusions.

  Caramon was not one to be intimidated by an elf, however. The big man gave back as good as he got, standing tall and self-assured. This was, after all, his inn.

  Samar’s cold face relaxed in a half-smile. “Caramon Majere, a Hero of the Lance. ‘A big man, but his heart is bigger than his body.’ So my Queen says. I bid you greeting in Her Majesty’s name.”

  Caramon blinked, somewhat confused. He nodded clumsily to the elf. “Sure, Samar. Glad to be of service to Alhana, I mean … Her … uh … Majesty. You just go back and tell her that everything’s all ready and she’s got nothing to worry about. But where’s Porthios? I thought—”

  Tanis trod on the big man’s foot, whispered, “Don’t mention Porthios to Samar. I’ll explain later.” More loudly he made haste to change the subject. “Porthios will be coming, too, Caramon. Under separate escort. You’re early, Samar. I didn’t expect—”

  “Her Majesty is not well,” Samar interrupted. “In fact, I must beg your indulgence, gentlemen, and return to her. Is her room prepared?”

  Tika came bustling down from upstairs, her face creased with anxiety. “Caramon! What is it? I heard voices. Oh!” She caught sight of Samar. “How do you do?”

  “My wife, Tika,” Caramon said proudly. After well over twenty years of marriage, he still regarded his wife as the most beautiful woman in the world, and himself as the luckiest man.

  Samar gave a gracious, if hurried, bow. “Madam. And now, if you will excuse, my queen is not well—”

  Tika mopped her face with her apron. “Have the labor pains started?”

  Samar flushed. Among the elves, such matters are not considered suitable subjects for conversation in mixed company. “I couldn’t say, Madam—”

  “Has her water broken?” Tika pursued the inquiry.

  “Madam!” Samar’s face burned. He was obviously scandalized, and even Caramon had gone red.

  Tanis cleared his throat. “Tika, I don’t think—”

  “Men!” Tika snorted. She grabbed her cloak from a hanger on the door. “And just how did you plan to get her up the stairs? Maybe she can fly? Or did you expect her to walk? In her condition? With the baby coming?”

  The warrior looked back down at the numerous stairs leading up to the inn. It was obvious he’d not given the matter any thought.

  “I … couldn’t say …”

  Tika brushed past him, already headed out the door, giving instructions as she left. “Tanis, start the kitchen fire and put the kettle on to boil. Caramon, run and get Dezra. She’s our midwife,” Tika explained to Samar, catching hold o
f his sleeve in passing and dragging him along. “I’ve told her to expect this. Come along, Samovar or whatever your name is. Take me to Alhana.”

  Samar pulled away. “Madam, you can’t! That is impossible. My orders are to—”

  Tika fixed her green eyes on him, her jaw set. Caramon and Tanis exchanged glances. Both knew that expression.

  “Uh, if you’ll excuse me, dear.” Caramon squeezed past, was out the door, and headed for the stairs.

  Tanis, grinning into his beard, left quickly, retreated to the kitchen. He could hear Tika’s voice.

  “If you don’t take me, I’ll go out there and stand in the middle of the market square and yell at the top of my lungs—”

  Samar was a gallant warrior. He had fought everything from ogres to draconians. Tika Waylan Majere disarmed him, routed him in a single skirmish.

  “No, Madam!” Samar begged. “Please! No one must know we are here. I’ll take you to my queen.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Tika was gracious in victory. “Now, get a move on!”

  8

  Dragon flight.

  Dragon counsel. Captor and captive.

  he blue dragon and its riders left Valkinord after the sun had set. They flew over Ansalon in darkness, in silence.

  The night sky was cloudless and it was cool up here above the wispy clouds, if nowhere else on Ansalon. Steel took off his helm, which was shaped in the image of a skull, and shook out his long black hair, let the wind from the dragon’s wings dry the sweat on his head and neck. He had removed most of the heavy plate armor he wore in battle, retaining only the breastplate beneath a dark blue traveling cloak, attaching leather bracers to his arms and above his tall leather boots on his legs. He was heavily armed, for he was venturing into enemy territory. A longbow, a quiver of arrows, and a throwing lance were attached to the dragon’s saddle. On his person he bore a sword—his father’s sword, the ancient sword of a Knight of Solamnia, the sword that had once belonged to Sturm Brightblade.

  Steel’s hand rested on the hilt of the sword—a habit he’d grown into. He stared down into the darkness, trying to see something besides darkness. Lights from a village, perhaps, or red moonlight, reflected off a lake. He saw nothing.

  “Where are we, Flare?” he demanded abruptly. “I’ve seen no signs of life since we left the coast.”

  “I shouldn’t suppose you wanted to,” the dragon retorted. “Any life we met here would be hostile to us.”

  Steel shrugged off such considerations, implying they could take care of themselves. Trevalin had spoken of “immense danger,” since they were traveling over enemy territory, but the threat, in reality, was small. Their main danger was from other dragons, silver and gold. Those few who had remained on Ansalon when their brethren had returned to the Isle of the Dragons were, according to reports, concentrated in the north, around Solamnia.

  Not many people in this part of the country would risk battling a dark knight and a blue dragon. Flare, though small for her race—being only about thirty-eight feet long—was young, fierce, and tenacious in battle. Most blue dragons are excellent magic-users; Flare was the exception. She was too impetuous, lacked the patience needed to cast spells. She preferred to fight with tooth and claw and her devastating lightning breath, which could shatter castle walls and set forests ablaze. Flare tended to have a low opinion of wizards and had not been pleased at the prospect of transporting one. It had taken Steel a considerable amount of pleading, cajoling, and a deer haunch to at last persuade the dragon to permit Palin to ride upon her back.

  “He won’t, though, you know.” Flare had smirked while devouring the tidbit. “He’ll take one look at me and be so scared that he’ll soil those nice white robes of his.”

  Steel had been afraid that this would be the case. The bravest warrior in the world can be unmanned by dragonfear, the terror and awe that dragons inspire in their enemies. Palin had indeed turned deathly pale at the sight of the dragon, with her sparkling blue scales, flaring eyes, and rows of tearing teeth, dripping with the blood of her treat.

  At first, Steel had thought he had lost the young man, that they’d have to find another, slower means of travel. But the sight of the bodies of his brothers, strapped onto the back of the saddle, had lent the young mage courage. Palin had pressed his lips together and walked resolutely to the dragon’s side, and—with Steel’s help—had mounted.

  Steel had felt the body of the young mage shiver, but Palin forbore crying out or saying a word. He held himself upright, with dignity—courage for which Steel gave the young man credit.

  “I know where I am, in case you think I’m lost,” Flare added softly. “Sara and I flew this route … that night. The night she came to Caramon Majere. The night she came to betray you.”

  Steel knew the night to which the dragon referred, and he maintained stern silence. In the seat behind him—the knight had exchanged his one-man saddle for one that accommodated two people—Palin stirred and muttered incoherent words. Not even dragonfear could contend with exhaustion. The mage had fallen into a sleep that was bringing him little comfort apparently, for he flinched, cried out sharply, loudly, and began to flail about.

  “Silence him,” warned the dragon. “You may see no signs of life on the ground beneath us, but it is there. We are flying over the Khalkist Mountains. The hill dwarves dwell here. Their scouts are alert and cunning. We show up black against the starlit sky. They would easily identify us and pass the word along.”

  “Much good it would do them or anyone,” Steel remarked, but he knew better than to annoy the dragon, and so he twisted around in the saddle and laid a firm, restraining hand on the mage’s arm.

  Palin quieted at the touch. Sighing heavily, he shifted to a more comfortable position. The two-person saddle had been designed to carry two knights into battle, one wielding steel, the other either magic or clerical spells, useful in counteracting the magical attacks of the enemy. The saddle was fashioned of lightweight wood covered by leather and was equipped with pouches and harnesses intended to hold not only weapons but spell components and artifacts. The riders were separated by a shelf, covered with padded leather. Inside was a drawer, meant to hold scrolls, supplies or other paraphernalia. Palin rested his head on this shelf, his bloodstained cheek on one arm. His other hand, even in his sleep, kept hold of the Staff of Magius, which—by his instruction—had been lashed to the saddle beside him.

  “He relives the battle,” observed Steel. Seeing the mage settled, the knight removed his hand and turned back to face the rushing wind.

  The dragon indicated what she thought of this remark with a snort and flick of the blue-scaled head. “It was a rout. Don’t dignify it by terming it a ‘battle.’ ”

  “The Solamnics fought valiantly,” Steel returned. “They held their ground. They did not run, nor did they dishonor themselves by surrendering.”

  Flare shook her mane, but made no comment, and Steel was wise enough not to press the issue. The dragon had fought in the Dragon Wars, twenty-six years ago. In those days, the soldiers of the Dark Queen never missed an opportunity to ridicule or disparage their enemy. Any Dragon Highlord who had dared praise the Solamnic Knights, as Steel had just done, would have been stripped of his rank, possibly his life. Flare, as well as most of the other dragons loyal to Takhisis, was having difficulty adjusting to the new way of thinking. A soldier should respect his enemy—she agreed with Lord Ariakan on that. But praising them went just a bit too far in her mind.

  Steel leaned forward to pat the dragon on the neck, indicating that he respected her view and that he would offer no further comment.

  Flare, who was quite fond of her master—she doted on him, in fact—showed her appreciation by changing the subject. Though, as might be noted from the topic she chose, blue dragons are not lauded for their tact.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything of Sara?” Flare asked.

  “No,” Steel answered, his voice hard and cold, keeping his emotions in check. “And
you know you are not supposed to mention her name.”

  “We’re alone. Who’s going to hear us? Perhaps we’ll learn something of her during our visit to Solace.”

  “I don’t want to hear anything of her,” Steel replied, still in the same harsh tones.

  “I suppose you’re right. If we did happen to find out where she was hiding, we’d be forced to capture her, return her. Lord Ariakan may praise the enemy all he likes, but he has no use for traitors.”

  “She is not a traitor!” Steel said, his chill melting in the flash of his temper. “She could have betrayed us any number of times, but she remained loyal—”

  “To you,” said Flare.

  “She raised me when my own mother abandoned me. Of course she loved me. It would be unnatural if she did not.”

  “And you loved her. I mean no disparagement,” Flare added, feeling Steel shift uncomfortably in the saddle. “I loved Sara, too, if we dragons can be said to love mortals. She treated us as intelligent beings. She consulted us, asked our opinions, listened to our advice. Most of the time. The one time I could have helped her, she didn’t come to me.” Flare sighed. “A pity she could never understand our cause. She should have been given the Vision. I suggested as much, but, of course, Lord Ariakan paid no attention to me.”

  “I’m not certain, from what I’ve heard, that my own true mother would have understood our cause,” Steel said caustically.

  “Highlord Kitiara?” Flare chuckled, amused at the thought. “Yes, she was one to walk her own path and Takhisis take anyone who stood in her way. What a fighter, though! Fearless, daring, skilled. I was among those who fought with her at the High Clerist’s Tower.”

  “Not a battle that does her much credit,” Steel commented dryly.

  “True, she was defeated, but she rose from the ashes to strike down Lord Ariakus and gain the Crown of Power for herself.”