Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  “Good lad!” Caramon exclaimed in relief. “We’ll think of something. I’ll fight Takhisis herself to keep you safe. I won’t let these evil knights take you—”

  “Father, please!” Palin said sharply. “I’m not going to the Tower of Wayreth because I am going to the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas. I’m going to try to enter the Abyss. I’m going to try to find my uncle.”

  Caramon’s jaw went slack; he stared at his son in bewilderment. “But Raistlin’s not in the Abyss, Son. Paladine accepted his sacrifice. Your uncle was granted peace in eternal sleep.”

  “You don’t know that for certain, Father. The last you saw of him, he was inside the Abyss.”

  “But I saw him, Palin! I saw him asleep, as he used to sleep when we were children.”

  “It was a dream, Father, you said so yourself. You know what the bards say: that Raistlin is being held prisoner in the Abyss, tormented daily by Takhisis, his body torn and bleeding. That every day he dies in agony, only to be brought back to life and—”

  Caramon was no longer bewildered. It generally took the big man time to think through a problem, but there could be only one answer to this question. He rose to his feet.

  “I know what the bards say,” he said grimly. “I know that the bards have it that Sturm Brightblade traveled to the red moon! All nonsense! Raistlin is dead! He has been dead and at peace all these many long years! I forbid you to go. You will stay here, and we’ll negotiate with Lord Ariakan. Tanis will help us …”

  The Staff of Magius was warm in Palin’s hand, warm to the touch. The warmth surged through him like hot, spiced wine, gave him courage.

  “You want to believe Raistlin is dead, Father. To think otherwise means that you abandoned him.”

  The blow was struck, the arrow fired, the spear thrown.

  The wound inflicted was dreadful.

  Caramon went dead white; he might have lain down in the grave with his two sons. His breathing came fast and shallow. He opened and shut his mouth, not saying anything. The big body trembled.

  Palin bit his lip, held fast to the staff for support. He was aghast at what he’d done, what he’d said. He hadn’t meant to. The words had flown from his mouth before he could stop them. And now that they were sped, Palin could no more take the hurt back than he had been able to halt the life draining from his brothers’ bodies.

  “You don’t mean that,” Caramon said in a low, shaking voice.

  “No, Father, I don’t. I’m sorry. I know you would have risked anything to go back after Raistlin. I know the dream brought you comfort and that you sincerely believe in it. But, Father,” Palin continued, “you could be wrong.”

  You could be wrong …

  The words echoed in his head, took life and form and shape until he could almost imagine that he saw them burning in front of him, in front of his father.

  Caramon gulped, shook his head, seemed to be fumbling for arguments.

  He’s going to try to talk me out of this. I can’t let him, Palin realized. I might be too easily dissuaded. I remember what it was like, once before, in the tower. And that was only illusion, only my Test. But the fear, the terror, was real.

  “I’ve thought this out, Father. Steel Brightblade is sworn to accompany me. He will take me to the tower. Once I am there, I will talk with Dalamar, persuade him to let me try to pass the guardian. If he won’t”—Palin’s voice hardened—“I will try it myself. The specter let me pass once before—”

  “That was an illusion!” Caramon was angry now. “The wizards made it all up! You know that! They told you.”

  “Did they make up this, Father?” Palin thrust forward the Staff of Magius. “Is this illusion? Or is this my uncle’s staff?”

  Caramon glanced uneasily at the staff, did not answer.

  “The staff was locked inside my uncle’s laboratory, along with the Portal to the Abyss. Not even Dalamar himself can enter that room. Yet, somehow, the Staff of Magius left it. And it came to me. I’m going into that room, Father. I’m going to find my uncle. He’s going to teach me all he knows. Never again will anyone die because I am too weak to save them!”

  “You’re going to try to open the Portal yourself? And where is the true cleric who will help you? Have you forgotten? The Portal can be entered only by a mage of great power, in the company of a true cleric. That was why your uncle needed Lady Crysania …”

  “I don’t intend to open the Portal, Father,” Palin said, his voice low. “It won’t be opened from this side at all.”

  “Raistlin!” Caramon shouted. “You expect Raistlin to open it for you! This is madness!” He shook his head. “The dark knights have set a ransom impossible to fulfill. You owe them nothing! Don’t worry,” he added grimly, “between us, Tanis and I will deal with Sir Brightblade out there.”

  “I gave my pledge of honor, Father, that I would not escape,” Palin returned with asperity. “Would you have me break it, you who always taught me that my spoken pledge was my bond?”

  Caramon gazed steadily at his son; tears glimmered on his lashes. “You think you are clever, don’t you, Palin? You’ve driven me into a comer, used my own words against me. Your uncle used to do that. He was good at it. He was good at getting his own way, no matter who he hurt. Go then. Do what you will. I can’t stop you, anymore than I could stop him.”

  With that, Caramon rose and, with dignity, walked past his son and out of the room.

  Chilled, shaken, Palin remained seated. His father was right, of course. Palin had often used his quick wits and his glib words to run circles around his slower-thinking father and brothers, like a dog baiting a chained bear. And they had always given way. It was after one such cajoling that his brothers had permitted him—against their better judgment—to ride with them to Kalaman. He’d pleaded, argued, manipulated. They had given way. And now, because they’d been preoccupied over protecting him instead of concentrating on their fighting, they were both dead.

  His wound throbbed. Palin stared at the chair in which his father had been sitting, and remembered.

  Run. It was the sensible thing to do.

  Fleeing the oncoming enemy would have been sensible, and the small band of knights and their young mage talked about running, in those few flurried moments in which they had time to talk.

  The black-prowed ships stood out to sea. Boats filled with men plied to shore. The wings of innumerable blue dragons cut off the light of the sun. On the beach, where they had ridden for the pleasure of the day, to enjoy the beauty of the seascape, the small band of Solamnic Knights, caught in the open, was vastly outnumbered.

  “If we flee, we will get separated, scattered,” their commander said to them, shouting his words to be heard over the crashing surf.

  “And where can we go that the dragons will not follow us?” Tanin said. “They’ll chase after us and pick us off, one by one, and mock forever the cowardice of Solamnic Knights! I say we stand and fight.”

  “We will stay,” Palin said firmly.

  “No, Palin, not you.” Tanin turned to him. “You travel light. Your horse is swift. This is no place for you. Ride back to Kalaman. Warn them of what is coming.”

  “What? Me ride off and leave you two, my brothers, to fight alone?” Palin was outraged. “You really think I’d do that?”

  Tanin and Sturm had exchanged glances. Sturm shook his head, averted his gaze, stared back out to the sea filled with boats that were full of men. They did not have much time. Tanin rode close to Palin, grasped his arm.

  “Sturm and I knew the risks when we took the oath of knighthood. But not you, Palin …”

  “I won’t leave,” Palin said grimly. “You’re always sending me home, Tanin, whenever there’s trouble. Well, not this time.”

  Tanin, his face flushed in anger, leaned over his saddle. “Damn it, Palin! This isn’t some fight against the neighborhood bully! We’re going to die! And how do you think Father and Mother are going to feel when they have to bury all three of their sons
? Especially you, their youngest?”

  For a moment, Palin could say nothing. He had a mental image of turning tail, racing away, forced to tell his parents shamefacedly, “I don’t know what happened to my brothers …”

  Palin lifted his head. “Would you leave me behind, Tanin?”

  “No, but—” Tanin tried to argue.

  Palin continued. “Am I less honor-bound because I am a wizard? We take oaths of our own. By the magic and by Solinari, I will stay and I will fight this evil with you, though it cost me my life.”

  Sturm smiled wryly. “He’s got you, there, Tanin. Not much you can say against that.”

  Tanin hesitated. Palin was his responsibility, or so he considered it. And then, suddenly, he held out his hand. “Very well, my brothers.” His gaze included Sturm and Palin. “This day we fight for Paladine and”—he smiled slightly—“and for Solinari.”

  The three brothers clasped hands, then separated to join the other knights, who were deploying along the sandy beach.

  That was all Palin remembered clearly. The battle had been brief, hard-fought, bitter. The blue-painted barbarians, wildly shrieking, jumped from their boats and ran up the shore, their mouths open wide, as if to drink the blood of their enemies, their eyes gleaming with battle-lust. They broke upon the knights like a tidal wave, battling with unnerving ferocity, delighting in the slaughter.

  The knights, more disciplined, better warriors, cut down the first row of attackers; one of Palin’s fireball spells exploded right in the barbarians’ midst, blasting flesh, leaving corpses scorched and smoldering.

  But there was a second wave and a third, men trampling the bodies of their comrades in order to reach the knights who had slain them. Palin remembered his brothers closing ranks in front of him, trying to protect him—or at least, he thought he remembered that. About that time, something struck him on the head—a thrown spear, perhaps, partially deflected by one of his brothers.

  That was the last he saw of them alive.

  When Palin came to his senses, the battle was over. Two dark knights stood guard over him. He had longed to ask of the others, but had forbore, dreading to know the truth.

  And then Steel came and Palin knew …

  Palin sighed, stood up. He went to the door to Raistlin’s Room, looked out into the hallway, down the stairs that led into the common room, which was all but deserted. Steel was there alone, sitting rigid, upright in a chair, refusing to let his guard down, refusing to sleep, though the gods knew he must have needed it.

  Palin stared into the common room and missed seeing his brothers, missed their laughter, missed their teasing, which had once driven him to distraction. He would have given all the wealth in Ansalon to sit through another of Tanin’s “elder-brother” lectures, to hear Sturm’s chortling laughter. He missed the little sisters, whose teasing drove him wild. Due to the arrival of the elves and the possibility of trouble, Caramon and Tika had sent the girls to stay with Goldmoon and Riverwind, tribal leaders in Que-shu. Yet he was truly thankful that the little girls, Laura and Dezra, were not here to see their older brothers buried in the ground. Bad enough that they would come home and find the graves. At that moment, their carefree childhood would end.

  Tanis Half-Elven came up the stairs, paused at the top.

  “You’ve made up your mind to go, so Caramon tells me.”

  Palin nodded. “Where is Father?”

  “With your mother. Leave him be, Palin,” Tanis advised gently. “Let him work this out in his own way, his own time.”

  “I didn’t mean—” Palin began, swallowed, then started over. “I have to do this, Tanis. My father doesn’t understand. No one understands. It’s his voice. I hear his voice …”

  Tanis regarded Palin in concern. “You’ll stay for the burial rites?”

  “Of course,” Palin answered. “But after that, we will leave.”

  “Before you go anywhere, you must rest and eat and drink. You and Steel Brightblade both,” Tanis said, “if I can convince him that he’s not going to be poisoned or stabbed in his sleep. How like his father he is!” Tanis added, accompanying Palin into the common room. “How many times have I seen Sturm Brightblade, sitting just like that, dead tired, but too proud to admit it.”

  Steel rose to his feet as the two approached. Whether he stood out of respect for Tanis or out of wariness or both was uncertain. His face was stern and implacable, gave no hint of his thoughts or feelings.

  “It is time we were away,” he said, looking at Palin.

  “Sit down,” Palin said. “I’m not leaving until after my brothers are properly buried. There’s food and drink. The meat’s cold, but so is the ale. I’ll fix a room for you. You can sleep here tonight.”

  Steel’s face darkened. “I have no need—”

  “Yes, you do,” Palin returned. “You’ll need your rest, where we’re going. Travel to Palanthas will be safer for us after dark anyway.”

  “Palanthas!” Steel frowned. “Why should we want to go to Palanthas—a stronghold of the Solamnic Knights? Unless this is some sort of trap—”

  “No trap,” Palin said, sinking wearily into a chair. “We’re going to Palanthas because the Portal is there, in the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas.”

  “We want the wizards to agree to open the Portal. This countermands my orders,” Steel returned.

  “I am going to open the Portal,” Palin said. “With my uncle’s help,” he added, noting that Steel appeared highly dubious.

  Steel made no reply. He studied Palin, appeared to consider the question.

  “The journey will be dangerous,” Palin continued. “I intend not only to open the Portal, but to try to enter it, enter the Abyss. I’m going to find my uncle. You can come along or not, as you choose. I should think,” he added offhandedly, “that you might like the chance to speak to your queen in person.”

  Steel’s dark eyes suddenly caught fire, burned. Palin had said something that pricked through the cold armor, touched flesh. His reply was characteristically terse, laconic.

  “Very well. We will go to Palanthas.”

  Palin sighed. He had won two hard-fought battles. Victorious, he could now give himself up to sleep. He was too tired to even go to his room. He laid his head down on the table. Just as he was sliding under sleep’s soothing waves, he heard a voice, whispering …

  Well done, young one. Well done!

  I await your coming.

  12

  Usha’s claim. Dalamar is not convinced.

  A starting discovery.

  hat was truly the most wonderful meal I’ve ever eaten,” said Tasslehoff Burrfoot. “I feel positively stuffed.”

  He was leaning back in his chair, with his feet on the table, examining the silver spoons. They were quite remarkable silver spoons, each of them marked with intricate designs that Tas guessed were elven.

  “Maybe Dalamar’s initials,” he said to himself drowsily.

  He really had eaten too much, but then it had all tasted so good! His fingers stroked the spoon lovingly. He fully intended to return it to the table, but his fingers absentmindedly carried the spoon to his shirt pocket and deposited it there. Tas yawned. Truly a delightful meal!

  Usha evidently felt the same. She lay sprawled in a chair, her legs outstretched, her hands folded over her stomach, her head lolling to one side, her eyes half-closed.

  She was warm and safe and wonderfully content. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything like that!” she murmured, yawning.

  “Me neither,” said Tas, blinking his eyes, trying hard to stay awake. With his topknot, he looked very much like a tufted owl.

  When Dalamar and Jenna entered the room, both Tas and Usha smiled up at them in a hazy, surfeited torpor.

  The wizards exchanged a conspiratorial glance. The dark elf made a cursory examination of the room, swiftly catalogued its contents.

  “Only one spoon missing,” he remarked. “And the kender’s been left alone in this room for over an
hour. I believe that must set some sort of record.” Reaching down, he plucked the silverware from Tas’s pocket.

  “I found it on the floor,” Tas said and, without really knowing what he was doing, sleepily ran through an entire litany of kender counsel for the defense. “It fell into my pouch by accident. Are you sure it’s yours? I thought you didn’t want it anymore. You just walked off and left it. I was going to wash it and give it back to you.”

  “Thank you,” said Dalamar, and replaced the spoon on the table.

  “You’re welcome,” said Tas, smiling, and closed his eyes.

  Dalamar turned to Usha, who—grinning foolishly—waved her hand at him. “Great meal.”

  “Thank you. I understand you carry a letter for me,” Dalamar said.

  “Oh, yeah. Here. Here somewhere.” Usha slid her hand into one of the pockets of her silken trousers. Retrieving the scroll, she waved it blithely in the air.

  “What did you put in that cider, my love?” Jenna whispered to Dalamar. Retrieving the scroll, she examined it carefully.

  “Is this it, child? Are you certain?”

  “I’m not your child,” Usha said crossly. “You’re not my mother and you’re not much older than I am, so quit giving yourself airs, lady.”

  “Whose child are you?” Dalamar asked casually, accepting the letter.

  He did not open it at once, but stood regarding Usha thoughtfully, searching for some resemblance between her and his shalafi—a man whom the elf had admired and loved, feared and hated.

  Usha gazed up at him from lowered eyelids. “Whose child do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know,” Dalamar returned, seating himself in a chair near Usha’s. “Tell me about your parents.”

  “We lived in the Plains of Dust,” Usha began.

  “You did not.” Dalamar’s voice was sharp, flicked across Usha like a whip. “Don’t lie to me, girl.”

  She flinched, sat up straighter, regarded him warily. “I’m not lying …”

  “Yes, you are. These magical items”—Dalamar tossed the pouch into Usha’s lap—“are of Irda make. I recognize them.” He held up the letter. “Undoubtedly this tells me the truth …”