Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  Raistlin carried on, as if he hadn’t heard. “Why? Why nothing but water?”

  “You know why, Raist. The dwarf spirits take hold of me. Once I start, I can’t quit.…” Caramon paused, his face twisted in a puzzled frown. “Do you mean it’s the same? You …?”

  “I might not have been able to resist the temptation,” Raistlin said quietly.

  “But … what’s coming. Won’t we need you?”

  “We have Palin,” Raistlin said.

  Caramon’s flush vanished. He was pale, unhappy. “You can’t mean that, Raist. He’s young yet and he’s not high ranking—”

  “Neither was I, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “Neither was I.”

  Caramon swallowed. “Yes, but you … Well, you …”

  “Had help?” Raistlin sneered. “Yes, I had help. Fistandantilus was with me. And so will Palin have help. So will Palin …” He coughed, sank back down in his chair. “But don’t worry, my dear brother. Palin will have the choice, as did I.”

  Caramon did not find that knowledge at all comforting. He left his twin sitting at the table, watching the day dawn as hot as summer flame.

  Palin came down to breakfast to find the house in turmoil. His mother stood at the bar, cutting hunks of the warm, fruit-laced bread she always baked whenever anyone in her family was traveling. “Walking bread,” the boys called it, because they ate it while walking, though—as older brother Sturm once said jokingly—the bread was hard enough that it also could be walked on while eating.

  The smell conjured memories both vivid and painful. Palin was forced to stop on the staircase and hold fast to the staff until the blurring cleared from his eyes and the choke from his throat. He descended just as Caramon emerged, carrying a large knapsack, which he deposited at the door.

  “Father,” said Palin, in astonishment, “are you coming with us to Wayreth?”

  “He is coming with me, Palin,” Raistlin said, turning. “I’m glad you are up. I was just going to wake you.”

  “But, I’m going with you, too,” Palin protested. “I feel perfectly well. My shoulder is a little stiff, but I used more of that ointment this morning and the wound is healing—”

  “What wound?” Tika said sharply, looking up from her work.

  “A slight injury he suffered on his travels. Nothing serious,” Raistlin returned.

  “We’ll see about that. Caramon, finish cutting this bread and then put some in those sacks. As for you, young man, sit down there where I can take a look at you. I wondered why you kept your cloak on last night.”

  “Mother!” Palin felt his cheeks burn. He cast his uncle an embarrassed glance. “It’s all right, Mother, really. There’s no need to fuss over me—”

  “Tika,” Caramon broke in, “there isn’t time—”

  She turned, hands on her hips. “Are dragons going to attack us in the next five minutes, Caramon Majere?”

  “Well, no,” Caramon began. “But—”

  “Then there’s time.” Tika motioned to a chair. “Sit down, young man, and let me take a look at that shoulder. What did you do with the bloodstained robes? Hide them under your bed, like you used to when you were little?”

  Palin sent out a silent plea for reinforcements, but his father had already been routed and was leaving the field. His uncle, a ghost of a smile on his face, came over to take a seat across from Palin.

  “I need to give you instructions, Nephew,” Raistlin said. “Besides, sometimes it is pleasant to be ‘fussed over.’ ”

  Caramon halted in his bread-cutting, stared at his brother in amazement. Then, smiling a little sadly, shaking his head, the big man began stuffing the bread into sacks.

  Palin squirmed out of the sleeve of his robe, submitted to his mother’s touch.

  Tika poked and prodded and peered and sniffed, then, nodding, said, “It’s healing well enough, but it should be washed out. There’s little bits of fiber stuck to it. I’ll be back.”

  She went to the kitchen for hot water and a cloth.

  “And now, Nephew,” said Raistlin, “here are your instructions. Your father and I are going to Wayreth. I want you to return to Palanthas …”

  Palin opened his mouth to protest.

  “That young woman you mentioned,” Raistlin continued. “The one who claims to be my daughter. I want you to find her.”

  Palin shut his mouth on his protest. “Yes, Uncle,” he said instead, so quickly and with such eagerness that his father, lifting his head, gave his son a long, hard look. “Do you believe her story, then?”

  “No,” Raistlin returned coldly, “but her connection with the Irda intrigues me.”

  “I’ll be glad to find her for you, Uncle,” Palin said, ignoring his father’s grin, his teasing whistle, “but are you certain she’s still in Palanthas?”

  “According to Dalamar, she is. That sorceress companion of his keeps in contact with her. She’ll know where the young woman can be found.”

  “You and Dalamar discussed this, then. Why didn’t you include me?”

  “You were resting,” Raistlin said. “We did not want to disturb you. Here.” He reached into a pocket of his black robes, withdrew an ordinary-looking ring, and handed it to Palin. “Take this. Dalamar has arranged for your transportation back to Palanthas.”

  “He arranged,” Palin repeated with a sigh. Taking the ring, barely glancing at it, he thrust it into a pouch, “Because I could not do so myself. But, you, Uncle. You could cast the Span Land and Time spell. I would like to hear it, even though I can’t yet cast it—What is it, Father? What do you want?”

  Palin had gradually become aware of his father, frowning at him and shaking his head.

  “Your uncle’s not feeling well this morning, Son,” Caramon said sternly. “Do what he tells you and don’t badger him.”

  Palin noted that Raistlin did look extremely pale. “I didn’t mean—Of course, if you’re not well …”

  “I am well,” Raistlin retorted, “at least as well as I ever am. You deserve to know the truth. I have no magic anymore, Nephew. It was taken from me. That was the condition I was forced to make in order to return to this plane of existence.”

  “And you didn’t want to return. You came because of me. Uncle, I—”

  “Do not pity me,” Raistlin snarled. The golden eyes glared fiercely, hotter than the sun.

  Palin, startled, fell silent.

  “I take it as a compliment,” Raistlin said, his anger cooling. “It is a sign that she fears me still. But enough talk. Caramon, we should be on our way. Go say your good-byes to Tika and give her my thanks for the hospitality. I want to have a few words in private with Palin.”

  “Sure, Raist,” Caramon said, but he didn’t move. He glanced uncertainly at his son.

  “Go along, Caramon,” Raistlin repeated. He was about to add something further, but his words were cut short by a spell of coughing. “Go!” he gasped. “Don’t you see how you upset me?”

  Caramon hesitated, looked from his son to his twin brother. Then he left, reluctantly, heading for the kitchen.

  When they were alone, Raistlin beckoned Palin to come nearer. He spoke in a whisper, his throat raw from coughing. “When you have located this young woman, I forget her name—”

  “Usha,” Palin said softly.

  “Don’t interrupt me! I barely have breath enough to speak as it is. I repeat, when you have found her, take her with you to the Great Library. I will meet you there the day after tomorrow, on midnight of Midsummer’s Eve.”

  “I understand, Uncle,” Palin replied, subdued. “Midnight of Midsummer’s Eve. I will be there.”

  Raistlin relaxed, breathed easier.

  “And now, Nephew, you had best go say your own good-byes and be on your way. The ring is simple to use. Put it on your finger, form an image of Palanthas in your mind, and the spell will carry you there.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Palin said, adding bitterly, “Of course it’s simple. I couldn’t handle anything complica
ted.”

  Raistlin regarded him silently a moment, then, reaching out, he rested his wasted hand on Palin’s bare shoulder. The archmage’s touch was unnaturally hot, almost burning. Palin flinched beneath it, forced himself to hold still as the thin fingers bit into his flesh.

  Raistlin bent near and his whispering words brushed against Palin’s cheek. “You will be made the offer, as I was. You will be given the choice.”

  “When?” Palin grasped his uncle’s hand. “Soon? How will I know?”

  “I can say no more.” Raistlin straightened, drew back. “I have said more than I was supposed to. Choose wisely, Nephew.”

  “I will,” Palin said, standing. “I’ve thought about this a long time. I know what choice I will make.”

  “Good for you, Nephew,” Raistlin said, smiling, and there was a chill in the smile.

  Shivering, feeling again the touch of the cursed blade, Palin drew his robe up around his injured shoulder.

  “And now, go fetch your father, young one,” Raistlin ordered. “Time moves, and we are standing still.”

  3

  Brothers. Together again.

  ong ago, during the reign of the Kingpriest of Istar, the world was ruled by the forces of good—at least, that is what they termed themselves. Some people questioned whether prejudice, intolerance, hatred, and persecution were truly virtues of Paladine, but the Kingpriest had covered these sins in fine, expensive white robes until not even he saw the corruption beneath.

  The Kingpriest and his followers feared all who were different from themselves. This was a long list and grew daily, but magic-users were at the top. Mobs attacked wizards of any allegiance, stormed their towers, torched their schools, stoned them or burned them at the stake. The wizards, with their power, could have fought back, but they knew that to do so would bring more bloodshed and mayhem. They chose to retreat, and they left the world to hide in the one place that was safe: the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth.

  And that was where the wizards went now, except—ironically—they were not fleeing the forces of light. They were fleeing the forces of darkness.

  It is said that you never find the Tower of Wayreth if you go hunting for it. The tower finds you, and whether or not that is good or bad depends on your motive in coming. You may fall asleep in a field of grass one night, only to wake up and find a wilderness surrounding you the next morning. What that wilderness decides to do with you is up to the mages in the tower.

  All creatures are wary of the tower. Not even dragons—of any color or allegiance—will fly near it. The black dragon, sent by Dalamar to bear Raistlin and Caramon swiftly and safely over the Kharolis Mountains to the general vicinity of the tower, would go no closer than the road.

  The black dragon set them down, stood restless and uneasy, flapping its wings and craning its neck, sniffing the air and apparently finding whatever it smelled little to its liking. It clawed the ground and eyed Raistlin askance, anxious to leave, but careful to show the archmage no disrespect. Caramon helped his brother dismount, removed the two knapsacks. The dragon lifted its head, looked eagerly to the sky.

  “You have leave to go,” Raistlin told the creature, “but do not go far. Keep watch along this road. If we do not find what we seek, we will need your services again.”

  The dragon inclined its head; red eyes flashed. It spread black wings and, powering itself off the ground with its hind legs, leapt into the air and soared back northward.

  “Ugh,” complained Caramon, grimacing and tossing the two knapsacks onto the ground in disgust. “The smell! Like death warmed over. Takes me back to that time in Xak Tsaroth, when the black dragon captured you and would have finished all of us if it hadn’t been for Goldmoon and the blue crystal staff.”

  “Did it? I don’t remember,” Raistlin remarked offhandedly. Bending over, he searched through his own knapsack. He picked out two or three pouches, which he himself had packed before they had left, and hung them on his belt.

  Caramon was staring at him in astonishment. “You don’t remember? Bupu and the Highbulp and Riverwind dying and coming back to life and—”

  Raistlin stood on the dusty road, gazing out across a field of dry, parched wheat. He looked long and hard, searching for something, apparently not finding it. He frowned, his lips compressed, and he shook his head.

  “Time,” he muttered. “Time is slipping away! What can those fools be doing?”

  “You don’t remember Xak Tsaroth? Any of that?” Caramon persisted.

  Raistlin turned his head to his brother. “What were you saying? Oh. The war.” He shrugged. “I remember some, now that you mention it. But it all seems to have happened to another person, not to me.”

  Caramon regarded his brother sadly, uneasily.

  Raistlin shrugged again, turned away. “We have more pressing problems, my dear brother. The forest is not here.”

  “Seems to me it’s never here when you want it,” Caramon grumbled. “Act as if we don’t want it. Mark my words, you’ll find it standing right on top of us. I wonder if there’s a creek around anywhere, one that hasn’t dried up. I’ve got to wash this dragon slime off my hands before I vomit.”

  He gazed around. “Maybe that grove of trees over there. See, Raist? Near that giant willow? Willows grow where it’s wet. Shall we head that way?”

  “One way is as good as another, it seems,” muttered Raistlin, in an ill humor.

  The two left the road, struck out across the field. The way was difficult. Stalks of the dry, dead wheat thrust up out of the baked ground, jabbed through the leather soles of Caramon’s boots, tore at the dragging hem of Raistlin’s robes. The heat of late afternoon was stifling; the sun beat down mercilessly. Dust raised by their passing flew up into their faces, set Caramon sneezing and caused Raistlin to cough so that he was forced to lean on his brother’s arm in order to remain standing.

  “You wait here, Raist,” Caramon said at last, when they were little more than halfway to the grove. “I’ll go on.”

  Raistlin coughed, shook his head, clutched his brother’s arm.

  “What is it?” Caramon asked anxiously.

  Raistlin gasped for breath, managed to whisper, “Hush! I heard … something.”

  Caramon glanced around swiftly. “What? Where?”

  “Voices. In the grove.” Raistlin drew a breath, choked.

  “You’re swallowing too much dust,” Caramon said in concern. “What do we do? Go back?”

  “No, my brother. That would look suspicious. We’ve made noise enough for an army of dwarves. We’ve been seen and heard. Now it is our turn. I want to get a look at whoever it is who is looking at us.”

  “Probably the farmer who owns this field,” Caramon said. His hand crept to his side. Unobtrusively, he loosened his sword in its sheath.

  “Come to do what? Harvest dead plants?” Raistlin asked caustically. “No. There’s some reason the Forest of Wayreth is staying away from us when it knows I have great need to enter. I think this may be it.”

  “I wish you had your magic,” Caramon growled, clomping through the dried-up field. “I’m not the swordsman I used to be.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Your sword would avail you little against these. Besides, I am not defenseless. I had anticipated we might run into trouble.” As he spoke, Raistlin reached into one of the pouches. “Ah, I was right. Look, in the shadows of those trees.”

  Caramon turned, squinted. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be either. What is it?”

  “Knights of the Thorn, the gray-robed wizards of Takhisis, six of them.”

  “Damn!” Caramon swore softly. “What do we do?” He looked back at his brother.

  Raistlin had drawn his black hood well down over his face. “We use our brains instead of brawn, which means that you keep your mouth shut. Let me do the talking.”

  “Sure, Raist,” Caramon said, smiling. “Just like old times.”

  “More than you know, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “More t
han you know.”

  The two walked on together; Raistlin leaned on Caramon’s arm—but not his sword arm. They entered the grove.

  The Gray Knights were waiting for them. Rising from the grass where they had been sitting, the knights formed a semicircle that almost immediately closed around them.

  Raistlin lifted his head in feigned astonishment. “Why, greetings, Brethren. Where did you spring from?”

  Removing his hand from his brother’s arm, Raistlin slid both hands into the sleeves of his black robes. The mages tensed. But since Raistlin kept his hands in his sleeves, and addressed the knights as “brethren,” they relaxed somewhat.

  “Greetings, Black Robe,” said one of the knights, a woman. “I am Nightlord Lillith. What business have you here?”

  “The same as you, I imagine,” Raistlin returned pleasantly. “I’m seeking to enter the Forest of Wayreth.”

  The Gray Knights exchanged frowning glances.

  The Nightlord, obviously their leader, said, “We hear that Dalamar the Dark has called a Wizards’ Conclave. We were hoping to attend.”

  “And so you should,” Raistlin returned. “You would hear much that would astonish you, receive timely warnings—if you would listen. However, I doubt that’s the true reason you want to attend the Conclave. How many of your brethren lie hidden around here?” He glanced about with interest. “Twenty? A hundred? Is that enough, do you think, to take the tower?”

  “You mistake us,” the Nightlord said imperturbably. “We pose no threat to you—our brethren, Brother.”

  Lillith bowed. Raistlin bowed in return. Straightening, the Nightlord pursued the conversation, all the while staring at Raistlin intently, trying to see the face that was hidden in the shadow of the cowl.

  “What do you mean, timely warnings? Warnings against what?”

  “Imminent peril. Ultimate destruction. Certain death,” Raistlin said coolly.

  The Nightlord stared, startled, then she laughed. “You dare to threaten us? The rulers of all Ansalon? How amusing. Tell Dalamar so, when you see him.”

  “That is not a threat,” Raistlin said. “It is a certainty. And Dalamar did not send me. Caramon, why do you stand there gawking? You came here for water. Go and fetch it.”