Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  Few shed tears for Lynched Geoffrey. Usha was certainly not one of them. He had found her lodging in a room above a tavern, had fixed her up with a job waiting tables in the tavern, and had then thrown himself on her bed and told her exactly what he expected in return for his magnanimity. She had refused his advances with anger and indignation.

  Not being one to take “no” for an answer, Lynch might have forced his desires on her, but, having a bit of larceny planned for later in the evening, he had decided that he couldn’t afford the time it would take to make the girl come to appreciate him. He had left her then, but he continued from that day on to press his odious attentions on her.

  It didn’t take Usha long to learn, to her horror, that these people were not fishers of fish, but of other people’s property. She had also learned—at the point of a knife—that once admitted into the guild’s secrets, no one left with the knowledge—alive.

  “Unless you can magic yourself out, Raistlin’s Daughter!”

  The last had been spoken in a sneering tone by Lynched Geoffrey, smarting from Usha’s continual rebuffs. The name drew a laugh, and she was baptized “Raistlin’s Daughter” by a cleric of Hiddukel, who solemnized the ceremony by dumping a mug of ale over her head. From then on Usha was termed Raistlin’s Daughter, the appellation always accompanied by either a laugh or a sneer.

  Usha had no recourse, no one to help her. Dougan Redhammer had vanished. She hoped he would come back to see her. She wanted to demand of him why he had given her over to these terrible people. But he never appeared, never returned. Not that even he would have been able to do anything for her. The thieves never let her out of their sight. Someone, somewhere, was always watching her.

  There were even eyes in her room. A crow often came to visit her. The bird flew uninvited in through the open window of her wretched lodgings. Once Usha left her window shut, preferring the room’s heat to putting up with her black-feathered visitor. Undeterred, the crow pecked on the outside of the glass until Usha was forced to let the bird in or risk the landlord’s ire. Once in her room, the crow would hop about, pecking at and picking up any object it happened to find. Fortunately, she had hidden inside the straw mattress the magical objects given to her by the Irda. The bird never discovered those, but neither did Usha, fearful of those beady yellow eyes, dare bring the artifacts out into the open.

  She took the thieves’ “training,” which she was afraid to refuse. The first skill she learned was the fine art of pocket picking. This was taught by a truly horrible old woman who hung small bells on her clothes and then ordered Usha to attempt to remove some object—a purse, a silken handkerchief, a necklace or brooch—without causing any of the bells to ring. If Usha failed, if a single bell chimed a single note, the old woman whacked Usha a stinging blow with a cane on whatever part of her body happened to be within striking range.

  Usha was next taught how to move through a darkened room filled with objects and not bump into anything or make a single sound. She was taught how to focus on her objective, to complete it, no matter what distractions were going on around her. She learned to scale walls, climb ropes, slide through windows. She was not a very apt pupil, until the realization came to her one night that she could use all this knowledge to escape the very people who were teaching it to her.

  The thieves had been pleased with her progress ever since.

  That had been almost a month ago. This day, the day Lynched Geoffrey was hanged, was the day she decided she would make good her escape.

  The guild hall was awash in defiance, bravado, and liquor. The thieves were prepared to fight, either to the last drop of blood or the last drop of dwarf spirits, whichever ran out first.

  The time passed slowly. The day was long, hot and sweltering, and boring. Heads began to ache from the consumption of too much courage.

  Night’s shadows fell, bringing renewed spirit and energy. The thieves always took heart in darkness. Their spies had nothing to report. The streets around the guild hall were quiet. The knights were said to be going about their business. They were not assembling, not being called to arms. Most thought that this was merely an attempt to lull the thieves into complaisance. They hunkered down and waited.

  Usha was among their number in the guild hall. She’d been given a weapon, a small dagger, but she didn’t plan on using it. She had discovered, during one of Lynched Geoffrey’s drunken ramblings, the existence of a secret passage, which led from the guild, underneath the wall, to the harbor. She had cleaned out her lodgings, brought along her few possessions, some clothes and the Irda magical artifacts. These she wrapped in a bundle and kept under her table, at her feet. When the knights attacked, she planned to escape during the confusion.

  Once away from this heinous place, she would find her boat and flee this doomed city. Her one regret was in leaving Palin, but she had heard nothing from him in weeks and was beginning to conclude, with an aching heart, that her faith in the gods had been misplaced. She would never see him again.

  It was nearly midnight in Palanthas, and no army massed in the streets. It began to occur to the thieves that the knights weren’t going to attack after all.

  “They’re afraid of us!” someone cried.

  That boast, the ale, and the dwarf spirits were passed around freely.

  The thieves, in truth, had nothing to fear, at least for the moment. Lord Ariakan was not afraid of the Thieves’ Guild. He fully intended to clean out the “maggots’ nest” as he said to an aide: The intention was on his list—at the bottom of his list. The thieves were an annoyance, an irritant, nothing more. At this critical time, engaged in battle for the control of all of Ansalon, he would not, he said, “waste the manpower needed to clean out a dung heap.”

  The thieves knew nothing of this, however. They were convinced that they had scared off the vaunted Knights of Takhisis. They spent the night drumming on each other’s backs, congratulating themselves. So loud and boisterous was the celebrating that they did not, at first, hear the knock on the door.

  Murf, the gully dwarf, who, for some reason known only to the gods, could drink a great deal and never get drunk, was the only one to hear soft scratching on the door. He thought it was rats, scrabbling in the alleyway. Feeling a bit hungry, after all the spilled ale he’d been lapping off the floor, the gully dwarf hurried to secure his dinner. He slid open the peephole, peered outside. He saw nothing but thick, velvety blackness.

  Thinking this was just the night, the gully dwarf flung open the door.

  A hooded figure, robed in black velvet, stood in the doorway. The figure stood so still that Murf, eager to find his dinner, did not see the robed person. The gully dwarf fell to his hands and knees and began to search for supper.

  The robed and hooded person appeared to be accustomed to gully dwarves and their ways. He waited patiently until Murf, thinking he’d seen a rat run underneath, reached out to lift the black robes and take a look.

  A booted foot trod upon the gully dwarf’s hand, pinned it to the ground.

  Murf did what any gully dwarf would do under similar circumstances. He let out a shriek that sounded like some gnomish invention letting off a full head of steam.

  At the sound of the scream, which might have been heard in Solace, the thieves dropped their mugs and grabbed their weapons. Their current leader, a rogue known as Widower Mike, due to the fact that all his wives kept unaccountably dying on him, ran to the door. Six brutish followers clattered on his heels.

  Everyone in the guild hall had fallen silent, was staring at the door in suspicion and alarm. Their spies, who should have warned them of the approach of this visitor before he even stepped foot in their alley, had been strangely silent. Widower flung the door wide. Light from torch and candle illuminated the alley. Usha, looking out, saw what could only be a black-robed wizard.

  Panic seized her. Dalamar had found her! She wanted to run, but she couldn’t move. Her feet were too cold and numb to support her; her whole body shook. She could do noth
ing but stare.

  The man lifted his hand, which was thin and wasted, and drew a letter in the air.

  Widower grunted. He glanced back at his followers. “He knows the sign,” he said, and they lowered their weapons, though they did not sheathe them. Several of the guild’s mages had their hands in their pouches or were unrolling scrolls, prepared to defend the membership should this intruder abuse their hospitality.

  Murf continued to howl, though the mage had removed his foot.

  “Shut your gob!” ordered Widower, and he kicked the gully dwarf. “Some lookout you are!” he muttered unjustly, since Murf was the only one who had been cognizant of the stranger’s presence.

  “What do you want, wizard?” Widower asked. “And the answer better be good, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I’m looking for someone,” came the voice from the depths of the hood. “I intend you no harm and may mean you some good.”

  The voice didn’t sound like Dalamar’s, but then it was so soft and whispering, it was hard for Usha to tell. She was taking no chances. She had recovered her senses and her courage. She began to stealthily creep away, to seek the safety of the back exit and secret passageway.

  She had not gone far, however, when a hand closed over her arm. One of the thieves swiveled around, peered up at Usha with bloodshot eyes.

  “Pour me more ale!”

  Fearing that if she refused, she’d draw attention to herself, Usha did as she was commanded. Keeping her head down, she grasped the ale pitcher in her hand and was starting to pour when the robed figure spoke again.

  “I am searching for my daughter.”

  Usha began to tremble. She dropped the pitcher with a crash.

  “Hey! He’s lost his daughter!” Widower said, laughing. “Should I let him in, Sally Dale?”

  He cast a questioning glance backward. A tall woman, wearing a red tunic and numerous pouches slung from her belt, nodded her head.

  The man entered. Widower slammed shut the door behind him, threw the bolt.

  “Take yer hood off. I like to look a man in the eyes,” Widower demanded jocularly.

  Slowly the man lifted both hands. Slowly he removed the hood that covered his head. He opened his eyes wide and turned their gaze on Widower, who appeared to be extremely sorry that he’d made the suggestion.

  The mage’s face was gaunt, the skin stretched taut over high cheekbones. He was not yet middle-aged, but his hair was white. His face had a golden tint to it, glistened with a metallic sheen in the firelight. The eyes were his most forbidding feature, for their pupils were formed in the shape of an hourglass.

  Widower blanched, grimaced, and said thickly, “By Hiddukel, wizard, you’ve got a face out of a nightmare! I pity that daughter of yours if she looks like you.”

  “You would do well to pity any child of mine,” the mage said softly. His golden eyes slid without interest over every person in the room until they came to Usha.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  Usha couldn’t answer. She had lost the power of speech. She could not even draw a breath. Pinpoints of flame flickered before her eyes.

  “Her?” Widower shrugged. “Why we call her Raistlin’s … Raist …” The word ended in a startled hiss.

  The hiss was echoed in a gasp from Sally Dale.

  She ran forward, caught Widower by the arm. Nearly squeezing his limb off, she spoke a name urgently in his ear.

  Widower went livid. He backed away. The name was whispered sibilantly from one thief to another, making it sound as if the guild hall were alive with snakes.

  Sally Dale prodded Widower, who gulped and gabbled, pointed at Usha. “There’s your daughter, Master! Take her! We ain’t laid a finger on her. I swear it. No matter what she says. We didn’t know, Master. Who would have thought? I didn’t mean … Don’t take offense …”

  “Be gone,” Raistlin commanded. “Get out. The lot of you.”

  His voice was soft, yet it reached into dark corners, stole up among the rafters, settled like choking smoke over the room.

  Widower gave a weak laugh, ventured to protest. “Get out? Us? I say, Master, that’s hardly fair. Why don’t you leave? It’s our guild hall.…”

  Raistlin frowned. The golden eyes narrowed, glinted. His hand slid toward a pouch he wore on his belt.

  Sally Dale shook Widower, shook him until his bones rattled. “You fool! This is Raistlin! Raistlin Majere! The wizard who fought the Dark Queen herself! He could blast this hall to Lunitari if he chose, and us along with it!”

  Widower still hesitated. He eyed Raistlin.

  The archmage, for his part, remained calm. He drew a pouch from his belt, began to slowly open it.…

  The hall emptied. The thieves ran for the doors, the windows, for every conceivable nook and cranny.

  Within minutes, Raistlin and Usha were alone.

  Usha stood terrified. Her gaze was fixed, fearfully, upon the man whom she had claimed as father.

  Raistlin drew from the pouch a handful of herbs. Going to a table, near Usha, he selected the cleanest cup he could fine, sifted the herbs into the cup.

  “Bring hot water,” he told Usha.

  She blinked, startled by the command, but hastened to do as she was bidden. Hurrying to the fireplace, she lifted the black kettle and brought it back to the table. Carefully, trying to control her shaking hand, she poured the water into the cup.

  Steam, perfumed with smells of catnip, mint, and other, less pleasant, odors, spiraled up from the cup.

  Raistlin sipped the tea quietly. Usha replaced the kettle, took a moment to gather her courage, then came back and sat down across from the mage.

  He raised his head. The black robes rustled; she smelled spice, roses, death.

  She shrank away, lowered her gaze. She couldn’t bear to look into that cold, metallic face.

  A chill hand touched the top her head, and she shuddered. The touch was gentle, but the fingers were cold. Not corpselike, the fingers were alive. But it was reluctant life. Long ago, or so she had heard, the fire that had burned within this man had been so hot as to consume him and all who came around him. Now the flame was quenched, the ashes scattered. It could no longer be rekindled.

  His hand lingered on the top of her head, smoothed the silvery hair. Then the fingers slid down her face, touched her chin. Raistlin’s hand lifted her chin, forced her to look into the strange, misshapen pupils of his golden eyes.

  “You are no child of mine,” he said.

  The words were frozen hard. But as fish live beneath the surface of an ice-bound lake, as life is maintained in the depths of chill darkness, Usha heard beneath the awful pronouncement a wistful sadness.

  “I could be,” she said, aching.

  “You could be the child of any man,” Raistlin remarked dryly. He paused, regarded her intently. His fingers on her chin sent a chill over her. “You have no idea who your real father is, do you?” He appeared puzzled. “Why did you choose me?”

  Usha swallowed. She longed to pull away from his touch, which was starting to burn as ice burns the skin. “The kender … told me about the legend. I thought … Everyone seemed to respect you … I was alone and …” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I never meant any harm.”

  Raistlin sighed. “The harm would not have come to me. You nearly brought it upon yourself. I wondered …” He didn’t finish his sentence, let the matter drop. He sipped his tea.

  “They would never tell me,” Usha said, feeling the need to explain further. “They said it didn’t matter.”

  “By ‘they’ you mean the Irda.”

  She nodded. He started to say something more, but suddenly he broke into a fit of hoarse coughing that shook the frail body and flecked his lips with blood.

  “Are you all right? Let me get you something.” Usha rose to her feet.

  Raistlin’s hand grasped her wrist, held her fast. He continued to hold on to her as he coughed and gasped for air. Each spasm caused his hand to constric
t around hers painfully, but she did not flinch or try to pull away. At length, the coughing fit passed. He drew in a shattered breath, blotted the blood from his lips on the sleeve of his black robe.

  “Sit down,” he commanded in a voice that was nearly inaudible.

  She sank down into her chair. His grip on her arm relaxed. He let go of her, but his hand rested upon her arm and she did not pull away. Instead, she edged closer. She felt a warmth in that hand that had not been there before, and she understood that he had drawn it from her, from her youth, her vitality.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “I am called Usha,” she replied.

  “Usha …” he repeated softly. “Do you know what it means?”

  “Why, no,” she said, blinking. “I never thought about it. I never supposed it meant anything. It’s … just a name.”

  “A name that comes from another world, another time. Usha means ‘the dawn.’ I wonder …” Raistlin mused, gazing at her. “Did the one who named you know the meaning? Did he or she have foreknowledge of what was to come? It would be interesting to find out.”

  “I could be your daughter.” Usha wasn’t interested in her name. She wanted to be this man’s daughter, wanted it as much for him as for herself now. He wore his loneliness and isolation as he wore the black robes, proudly, defiantly. Yet still his wasted hand lingered near hers. “I have golden eyes, eyes the same color as yours.”

  “So did your mother,” he replied.

  Usha stared at him. A hunger rose in her, a desperate need for the sustenance for which she’d been starving all her life. The Irda had attempted to feed that hunger with sugar buns and candied fruit and all manner of sweets and confections. They had not understood. They had not realized she needed simple fare on which to grow and thrive.