Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  There were some who maintained that this peace was good. It was about time the land was quiet, made safe for honest men. There were others who thought that this peace, bought in exchange for their freedom, was obtained at too high a price.

  Tika Waylan Majere shut the door on the last customer, dropped down the heavy wooden bar, and heaved a sigh. She did not immediately return to her work—and there was plenty of it mugs to be washed and dried, plates scraped and carried to the kitchen, tables to be cleaned. Tika stood at the inn’s door, her head bowed, twisting her apron in her hands. She stood so long, so silently, that Caramon left off wiping down the bar and came over to his wife.

  He put his arms around her. She leaned back against him, clasped her hands over his wrists.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

  Tika shook her head. “Nothing.” She sighed again. “Everything.” Her hand wiped across her eyes. “Oh, Caramon! I never used to be glad when I shut the inn up at night. I used to be sorry to see the last customer go. But now I’m sorry when I open it up in the morning. Everything’s changed! It’s all changed!”

  Turning around, she buried her face in her husband’s chest and began to sob. Caramon stroked her red hair soothingly.

  “You’re just tired, dear. The heat’s getting to you. Come, sit down. We’ll let this all go until morning. Dirty dishes won’t go anywhere, and that’s a fact. Here, you rest, and I’ll fetch you a glass of cool water.”

  Tika sat down. She didn’t really want a glass of water, which would be tepid at best. Nothing stayed cool in this heat, not even the ale. Their customers were learning to like warm beer. But waiting on her made Caramon happy, and so she sat and let him fuss over her, bringing in water and her favorite cookies and shooing away Raf, the gully dwarf, who had come in from the kitchen, eager to “clean” the plates, which he did by devouring all the leftover food.

  No one ever needed a garbage pail with a gully dwarf around.

  Tika could hear the disappointed Raf wailing in the kitchen. Caramon, his face grim, flung in a stale loaf of bread and slammed the door shut again. The wail subsided.

  Tika nibbled on a cookie. She wasn’t hungry, but if she didn’t eat, Caramon would continue to fuss and worry over her until she did. As it was, he smiled broadly, sat down beside her, and patted her hand.

  “I knew those cookies would tempt your appetite.”

  “They’re delicious, dear,” Tika said, lying. The cookies tasted like dust. Everything tasted like dust to her these days. But Caramon, seeing her eat, brightened with pleasure, and somehow his pleasure flavored the cookies. She found herself eating another one.

  “Oh, Caramon.” Tika sighed. “What are we going to do?”

  “About what?”

  “About … well, about … this.” She waved a hand vaguely.

  “About the dark knights? Not much we can do about them, my dear,” Caramon said solemnly. “They’ve improved business, I’ll give them that.” He was silent a moment, then said quietly, “Some people are saying this occupation isn’t such a bad thing.”

  “Caramon Majere!” Tika flared. “How could you?”

  “I didn’t say it,” Caramon pointed out. “I said some people were saying it. And they have a point. The roads are safe. When this heat lets up—and it’s sure to do so any day now—people will be traveling again. The knights are gentlemen. Not like the draconians who held the town during the last war. Ariakan didn’t send his dragons in to burn the place down. His soldiers don’t steal. What they buy they pay for. They don’t get drunk; they’re not rowdy. They’re—”

  “Not human,” Tika finished bitterly. “They’re like some weird gnome machine that’s taken it into its head to be human, but inside it’s still a machine. These knights have no heart, no feelings about anything. Yes, they’re polite to me, but I know perfectly well that if they were ordered to slit my throat for their Dark Queen’s glory, they’d do it in a moment.”

  “Well, there is that …” Caramon admitted.

  “And what about—” Tika’s storm was building, gaining in fury. She ate four more cookies. “What about the people who’ve just disappeared? People like Todd Wainwright.”

  Caramon’s face darkened. “Todd’s been begging for trouble for a year. He’s a brawling ruffian. I’ve either thrown him out or carried him out feetfirst more than once. You yourself told him not to come back here.”

  “That may be true,” said Tika crisply, “but the Dark Queen’s soldiers didn’t take Todd away because he was a mean drunk. They took him away because he didn’t fit into their grand plan, because he was a troublemaker and a rebel.”

  “Still, things are more peaceful without him around,” Caramon argued. “They have to maintain law and order—”

  “Peace!” Tika sniffed. “Law and order. We’ve got that, all right. We have laws enough to choke a gully dwarf. And order. Some people fear change, fear anything different. They walk the safe, well-traveled path because they’re afraid to leave it. This Ariakan has carved a nice little rut in the road, and he expects everybody to walk in it. Anyone who doesn’t, who wants to take a side path or leave the road altogether, is spirited away in the middle of the night. You’d be safe and sound in the bottom of a dark, dry well, Caramon Majere, but I don’t suppose you’d accomplish much.”

  Caramon nodded. He’d said nothing during Tika’s tirade, but had very quietly set about slicing a loaf of bread, adding some cheese to it, and put it in front of his wife. Having finished the cookies, Tika began on the bread and cheese.

  “They’ve stopped the elven wars,” Caramon mentioned.

  Tika tore into a hunk of bread voraciously, chewed it as though she were chomping down on the detested knights. “By turning Tanis’s own son into one of their mindless machines,” she mumbled between bites.

  “If you believe Porthios,” Caramon said calmly. “He claims Gilthas is considering selling out to the knights to save his own skin. I’ve met young Gil, and I think better of him than that. He is Tanis’s son, remember, and Laurana’s, too. The dark paladins killed his father. I’m not certain what game the young man is playing, but I’ll bet it isn’t one the knights think he’s playing. Qualinesti hasn’t fallen yet.”

  Tika shook her head, but didn’t argue. Talking about Tanis still upset her; the night Laurana came to tell them the sad news of his death was etched vividly in her mind: the three of them sitting together in the darkness because they were afraid of lighting a lamp, speaking, through their tears, of old times.

  “Besides,” Caramon continued, unobtrusively slicing up more cheese and shoving it toward his wife, “bad times have a way of bringing people together—like we saw during the War of the Lance.”

  “Few examples and far between,” Tika muttered. “Most were too happy to run up the white flag, and Takhisis take their neighbors.”

  “Now, my dear, I have a better opinion of people than that,” Caramon said. “And how about a bit of dortberry pie to finish off?”

  Tika looked down, saw bread crumbs and cheese crumbs and cookie crumbs, and she began to laugh. Her laughter changed swiftly to tears, but they were tears of love, not sorrow. She patted her husband’s big hand.

  “I see your plan now, and, no, I don’t want any pie, not after all those cookies. I’ve eaten quite enough, thank you.”

  “About time, too. You’ve eaten more in ten minutes than you’ve eaten in ten days,” Caramon said severely. “You’ve got to keep up your strength, Beloved.” He gathered his wife in his arms. “I don’t want to lose you, too,” he added, in a husky voice.

  Tika leaned against her husband, feeling, as she always did, that he was her best solace, her greatest comfort. “You won’t lose me, dearest. I’ll start taking better care of myself, I promise. It’s just … I keep thinking about Palin.” She sighed, looked out the window, into the darkness. “If his grave were out there, with the other two boys, at least I’d know …”

  “His grave’s not there beca
use he’s not dead,” Caramon said.

  “Caramon,” Tika argued gently, “you know what Dalamar told us.… Palin and Tas went into that laboratory and never came out. It’s been over a month and no sight or sound of them.…”

  “He’s not dead,” Caramon said. He broke free of Tika’s embrace. “I’ll fix us each a cup of tarbean tea,” he said, and headed for the kitchen.

  Tika knew better than to go after him. Caramon had to work things out on his own. She heaved another sigh, then—looking at all the mess—sighed again and stood up. Wars and dark knights and evil dragons would come and they would go. Dirty dishes would be around forever.

  She was stacking plates when she heard the sound. Uncertain whether she’d heard rightly, what with the crockery clattering, Tika ceased her work, held her breath, listening.

  Nothing.

  She tried to identify the noise.

  Footsteps on the stairs. Footsteps that were soft, stealthy.

  She did not hear the sound again, though she kept quiet for a long time. Shrugging, deciding that it must have been the cat, she began stacking dishes again. She had gathered them all on a tray, had picked the tray up, was holding it in her hands, on the way to the kitchen, when she heard metal scraping against wood.

  Turning, she watched the bar across the door rise, completely of its own accord. It lifted. The door began to swing open.

  Tika dropped the tray—with a crash—and reached for a skillet. Swiftly, she darted behind the door. Any dark knights who tried to take her or her husband or her little girls would get a cracked head for their pains.…

  “What the—?” Caramon came barging out of the kitchen.

  “Shh!” Tika put her finger to her lips, raised the skillet.

  Someone opened the door a crack, stepped inside. Tika couldn’t get a good look; he was wearing a gray cloak, despite the heat. She could see only her target, the back of his head. She aimed …

  Caramon gave a great roar and surged forward, knocking aside tables and smashing chairs.

  “Palin!” Tika whispered. Too stunned to move, she collapsed back against the wall and watched, with tear-filled eyes, her husband fold their son in his embrace.

  “Where’s Mother?” Palin asked, searching around.

  “Hiding behind the door,” Caramon said through his own tears. “Getting ready to whomp you one!”

  Tika, flushing, flourished the skillet, then dropped it with a clang and ran to her son.

  “Palin, dear Palin!” She wept and laughed. “All these days I’ve prayed for you to come back to us safely and, when you do, I nearly bean you! I thought you were … one of them.”

  “It’s all right, Mother,” Palin said, hugging her close. “I understand. I know what’s happening around here. We’ve spoken to Dalamar.”

  “We?” Tika glanced past him.

  Palin stepped back to face his parents. “Mother, Father. Someone else is with me, someone you haven’t seen in a long, long time. He wanted me to tell you first. He … wasn’t certain he’d be welcome.…”

  With a wild, pain-filled cry, Caramon rushed for the door, flung it wide.

  A figure clad in black robes, dark against the darkness, stood on the stoop. At the sight of Caramon, the figure drew back the cowl covering his head. Light streaming out of the inn glistened on golden skin, shone in hourglass eyes.

  “Raist!” Caramon cried, and swayed on his feet.

  Raistlin looked long at his brother, did not move from his place outside the door.

  “Caramon,” he said at last, softly, and the name seemed wet with his heart’s blood. “Caramon, can you … can you …” He began to cough, but he struggled to continue to talk. “Forgive …”

  Caramon reached out, drew his brother inside. “Your room is ready for you, Raist. It always has been.”

  2

  Regrets. Instructions.

  Choices.

  he rising sun, fierce and fiery, even this early in the day, glittered in the stained-glass windows of the inn. The twin brothers sat watching it. Tika had long ago gone to bed, as had Palin—still somewhat weak from his wound. Caramon and Raistlin had stayed up. They were awake all night, talking first of the distant past, of past times, of past mistakes and past regrets.

  “If you’d known how it would turn out, would you have chosen differently, Raist?” Caramon asked.

  “No,” Raistlin returned with a hint of his old irritability. “For then it would not have been me doing the choosing.”

  Caramon didn’t quite understand, but he was accustomed to not understanding his brother and he didn’t let it worry him. He understood enough. He began to tell his brother about the family.

  Raistlin sat hunched in a corner of the booth, nursing in his hands a cup of the tea that soothed his cough. The archmage listened to Caramon’s stories, saw Palin and his brothers clearly in his mind, knew things about them that Caramon did not. All those years spent on that distant plane, peaceful in his deathlike slumber—such visions had been Raistlin’s dreams.

  It was not until the very darkest hour before the dawn that the two spoke of the present … and of the future.

  Now Caramon gazed, troubled and disturbed, out the window, watching the sun rise through the brittle brown leaves of the vallenwood.

  “The end of all things, you say,” Caramon murmured. “Of all things,” he repeated, turning to face his brother. “I know I’m going to die. Everything, even the elves, has to die. But … I always knew that this”—he made a gesture that encompassed window, tree, grass, dirt, and cloudless sky—“would still be here when I’m gone. You’re saying nothing … nothing would remain?”

  “When Chaos comes to destroy this ‘plaything of the gods,’ the ground will open, fire will spew up from the cracks. A wind with the fury of a thousand storms will roar down from the heavens, fan the flames. Fire dragons, ridden by fiendish warriors, will ride over the land, and soon the fire will consume everything. Lakes will evaporate, oceans boil. The air itself will be scorched; people will die just breathing it. No one, nothing will survive.”

  Raistlin spoke in a calm, detached voice that was utterly convincing, utterly frightening. His words sent a thrill of horror through Caramon.

  “You sound like you’ve seen it,” he said in a low voice.

  “I have,” Raistlin returned. His gaze shifted. He had been staring into the steam rising from the tea. Now he turned his gaze toward his brother. “You have forgotten what I see with these cursed eyes of mine. I see time as it moves forward and, thus, I have seen time stop.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be like that,” Caramon argued. “I’ve learned that much. The future is what we make it.”

  “True,” Raistlin agreed. “There are alternatives.”

  “And?” Caramon persisted, eternally hopeful.

  Raistlin stared back into the cooling tea. “I have told you the worst that can happen, my brother.” He was thoughtful, silent, then added, “Or perhaps that was the best.”

  “What?” Caramon was shocked. “The best? People being burned alive! Oceans boiling! That’s the best?”

  “It depends on how you look at it, my brother.” Raistlin shoved the tea away. “I can’t drink that. It’s grown cold.” Coughing, he drew his robes closer around him, though it was already stifling inside the inn.

  “We can’t just sit here and do nothing!” Caramon protested, rising and heading for the kitchen. He returned with a kettle of hot water. “We’ll fight, fight alongside the gods, if need be.”

  “Oh, yes,” Raistlin said. “We will fight. And many of us will die. We might even win. And that could be the greatest loss of all.”

  “I don’t understand, Raist—” Caramon began.

  “ ‘I don’t understand, Raist …’ ” Raistlin mimicked.

  Caramon flushed uncomfortably, looked down at his feet.

  Raistlin sighed. “This time, Caramon, I don’t understand either. No, don’t fix me any more tea. We haven’t time. We have a lon
g journey ahead of us.”

  “We? You … you want me to come?” Caramon asked hesitantly.

  “Of course,” Raistlin replied brusquely. “I need the support of your strong arm. And you are the only one who ever knew how to brew this properly.” He waved his thin hand at the teacup.

  “Sure, Raist. I’ll go anywhere with you. Where are we going?”

  “To the Tower of Wayreth. Dalamar will meet us there. He is calling a Wizards’ Conclave.”

  “Then we’ll be taking Palin with us …”

  “No, Palin is going on another errand. He must journey to Palanthas.”

  “Alone?” Caramon frowned. “But he would be in danger on the road—”

  “He is not going by the road,” Raistlin interrupted irritably.

  “Ah, then you’re going to magic him there,” Caramon said.

  “No, I am not,” Raistlin said shortly. “Speaking of Palin, I must have a word with him. Come, come, my brother,” Raistlin continued, noting Caramon still standing there, the teakettle in his hand. “Make haste! Every minute that passes is another minute closer to disaster. We need to be ready to leave in an hour.”

  “Sure, Raist,” Caramon said, and he started to return to the kitchen.

  In the doorway, he paused, watched his brother. Raistlin rose slowly to his feet, leaning on the table to help himself up. Once, long ago, he would have leaned on his staff. Pausing, he picked up the bag containing the tea mixture and hung it from the belt around his thin waist. No other bags dangled from his belt, no smell of rose petals clung to him. He carried no scroll case, no book …

  And then, for once, Caramon understood.

  “They’ve taken away your magic, haven’t they, Raist?” he said softly.

  Raistlin was silent for long moments, then said—oddly, “I notice you drink nothing stronger than water, my dear brother.”

  “Yes,” Caramon said steadily. “But what—?”