Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  He shut his eyes, concentrated. He was no longer in the sewers of Palanthas. He was no longer in danger from the knights. He was no longer in a hurry. He was no longer near the woman he would give his life to possess. He was with the magic.

  Palin lifted the loop of leather, began to move it in slow circles directly underneath the grate. At the same time, he spoke the words of magic, placing proper emphasis on each syllable. And as he spoke, he waited, tensely, nervously, eagerly for the rush of warmth, centered at his heart, which would spread throughout his body. The warmth meant that the magic had taken hold of him, was working through him. The warmth was addicting, intoxicating, came only to a chosen few.

  He felt the warmth begin and he knew the exquisite joy, the exhilaration of the power tingling in his blood. The magic sparkled and danced within him, like bubbles in wine, rising to the surface of his being. It was a simple spell he cast; any mage of low rank could perform it. Yet even the simplest spell brought this reward, cost this price. For after the words were spoken, the bubbles burst. The warmth receded, leaving behind weariness, depression, and an all-consuming desire to experience the sensation again.

  For now, Palin reveled in his art. He moved the loop beneath the grate, spoke the words. The grate began to rise slowly in the air. Palin controlled its levitation by the motions of his hand; every time he drew a complete circle, the grate rose a fraction more. When the grate was high enough to permit a person to climb out, Palin ceased the hand-motion. The grate held still, hovering in the night air.

  “Tas! Usha!” he called softly. “Now! Quickly!”

  Tas clattered up the ladder, his pouches jouncing around him. Usha came up behind. Palin crawled through the opening; not an easy task, considering that he was forced to keep the loop of leather underneath the grate the entire time. He crouched on the street, his hand beneath the grate, as Tas hauled himself out of the sewer.

  “Keep watch!” Palin ordered the kender, who scooted across the street and ducked behind a bush.

  Usha came next, scrambling up and out with ease.

  Tas motioned to her, and Usha ran to join him.

  Palin began to lower the loop of leather, moving it downward in a slow spiral. And then he heard footsteps, marching in rhythm.

  He didn’t dare hurry. Withdrawing the loop now would cause the grate to fall to the street with an ear-splitting clang. The footsteps were some distance yet, but drawing nearer. Palin moved as swiftly as he could, which seemed torturously slow. The booted feet drew nearer, nearer.

  “Palin!” Tas ventured a loud whisper. “Do you hear—?”

  “Hush!” Palin hissed. The grate was almost in place. It was touching his hand now.

  This was the difficult part. Once the loop was removed, the grate was free of the spell, would start to fall. He had to “catch” the grate, hold it, renew the spell, all in the space of a very few seconds. Carefully, he drew his hand out from underneath it and, with a swift motion, reversed the loop, held it downward, and shifted his hand above the grate.

  The footsteps were closer, probably only half a block away now. The buildings were still blocking the knights’ view, but when they emerged into the street in front of the library, they would be able to see him, a dark shadow in the bright moonlight.

  He heard a rustle in the bushes, heard Tas whisper sharply, “No! Wait here, Usha! It’s too dangerous.”

  Palin lowered the grate into place. The warmth faded from his blood, leaving him suddenly weak, chilled, and empty. For a brief moment, flight seemed useless, a waste of energy. Far easier just to stay here, let the knights capture him.

  Palin was accustomed to these feelings of despair and lethargy that came after the magic. He knew better than to give way to them. The knights were very close now. He dove for the shadow of the bush just as the knights emerged into view.

  Moonlight glinted off their dark armor. They tramped past, silent, efficient. The three hiding in the bushes kept still, afraid to breathe, fearful that the rapid beating of their hearts might be too loud, give them away.

  The knights were gone. Once again the street was empty.

  The white marble facade of the Great Library of Palanthas, with its columned portico and narrow, dark windows, was one of the oldest structures on Krynn, held in reverence and respect by all who came near it. People who walked its grounds spoke in hushed tones, not because silence was imposed on them, but because the very air rustling the trees seemed to whisper the secrets of the ages kept locked inside the library. Palin had the impression that, if he took the time to listen, he might hear one of them.

  But he didn’t have time to listen. Not only was it nearing the hour of his meeting with his uncle, the knights would be coming back this way in a very short time. The enormous double front doors were new, replacing the old doors that had been damaged years before during the Battle of Palanthas. Made of bronze and bearing a book—the symbol of Gilean—the doors were shut, looked extremely imposing. Palin pushed on them. They were, as he had expected, locked.

  “Probably barred from the inside,” he muttered. “There must be a way—”

  “What about this, Palin? Maybe this does something.”

  Tasslehoff was holding on to a length of rope dangling down from the dark recesses of the portico.

  “Tas, don’t—”

  Whatever Palin had been going to say was boomed out of his head by the clang of a large bronze bell. Its resonating notes thundered through the still night air, reverberated up and down the street.

  “Oops!” Tas said, and let go of the rope.

  The bell began to swing back and forth, clanging madly, the sound nearly deafening them. Lights flared in the library windows. Lights flared in the windows of buildings up and down the street. A smaller door, set within the great doors, opened tentatively.

  “What is it? Fire?” demanded a cracked voice. A tonsured head peered fearfully into the darkness. “Where is the fire?”

  Palin had caught hold of the bell cord, stilled the ringing of the bell. “There is no fire, Brother. I’m—”

  A strange expression contorted the elderly monk’s face. He stared at the mage’s white robes, stained and filthy; at Usha, her dress hiked up around her waist, her shoes covered with muck; and at Tasslehoff, dripping slime from his topknot. The monk put his hand over his nose.

  “The library’s closed,” he said in a loud voice and started to shut the door.

  “Wait!” Tasslehoff interposed his small body in the doorway. “Hullo, Bertrem! Remember me? I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot. I was here before—”

  “Yes,” said Bertrem in frozen tones, “I remember. The library is most definitely closed. Come back in the morning. After you have bathed.” Retreating, he started to shut the door, paused, added hastily, “All but the kender,” and, pushing Tas out, Bertrem pulled on the door.

  “Please! You must let us inside!” Palin thrust his staff into the door, stopping it a crack. “I’m sorry we smell like this, but we’ve been down in the sewers—”

  “Thieves!” Bertrem shrieked, trying unsuccessfully to drag the door closed. He raised his voice. “Help! Help! Thieves!”

  “Someone’s coming!” Usha warned.

  “We’re not thieves!” Palin was growing desperate. “I’m supposed to meet my uncle here. He told me to wait for him in the office of Astinus. Let me see Astinus!”

  Bertrem was so shocked he nearly let loose of the door. “Assassins!” he howled. “Assassins here to murder the master!”

  “Knights!” Usha hissed. “Heading this way!”

  “Bertrem!” A voice called from within the library.

  Bertrem jumped, paled, glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Yes, Master?”

  “Let them in. I’ve been expecting them.”

  “But, Master …”

  “Do you force me to repeat myself, Bertrem?”

  “Yes, Master. I m-mean, no, Master.”

  Bertrem swung the door open. Backing up, he held th
e sleeve of his robe over his nose, motioned the three to come inside.

  The interior of the library was shadowy, lit only by an oil lamp Bertrem had set on a table so he could answer the door. The speaker whom the monk addressed as “Master” could not be seen.

  “Shut the door, Bertrem,” ordered the voice. “When the knights come to inquire about the commotion, tell them that you were sleepwalking, that one of the things you do when you sleepwalk is ring the bell. Is that understood, Bertrem?”

  “Yes, Master.” Bertrem sounded subdued.

  “This way,” continued the voice from the shadows. “Quickly. History passes unrecorded while I stand idle in this drafty hall. Light your staff, young mage. Your uncle is waiting for you.”

  Palin spoke the word, and the staff lit the vast hall. The light shone on rows of bound leather volumes and stacks of scrolls placed neatly and carefully on long shelves that extended as far as the eye could see, were swallowed up by the darkness, much as the history they contained was swallowed up by the past.

  The light also fell on the author of the books, the writer of the scrolls.

  His face was neither old nor young nor yet middle-aged. It was smooth, unlined, as blank as the paper on which he wrote constantly, endlessly, recording the passage of time on Krynn. No emotion marked the face; no emotion touched the man. He had seen too much to be moved by any sight. He had described the birth of the world. He had written of the rise of the House of Silvanos, the crafting of the Graygem, the construction of Thorbardin, the heroics of Huma in the Second Dragon War, the Kinslayer War, the formation of the Knights of Solamnia, the founding of Istar. He had continued to write during the terrible destruction of the Cataclysm, when the walls of the library shuddered around him.

  He had written of the fall of the Knights of Solamnia, the rise of the false priests, the return of dragons, the War of the Lance.

  Some said that he had, long, long ago, been a monk in the service of Gilean. During his service, he had begun to write his now famous history. Gilean had, so it was told, been so impressed with the work that he had rewarded the mortal man with immortality—as long as he continued writing.

  Others said that he was the god Gilean himself.

  Those who came into his presence could rarely recall his features, but they never forgot his eyes: dark, roving, all-seeing, without pity, without compassion.

  “I am Astinus, Child of the Irda,” he replied, though Usha had not asked the question—aloud.

  Usha stared, shook her head. “I’m not …”

  The eyes gazed at her relentlessly. She gave up her denial. “How did you know?” Held by the eyes, fascinated, she crept forward. “What do you know?”

  “Everything.”

  “Do you know the truth about me?” Usha faltered, with a sidelong glance at Palin.

  “Ask yourself that question, Child of the Irda,” Astinus replied off-handedly. “Do not ask me. This is not the place to talk,” he added, with a glance at the door. “The knights will be here any moment. Come along.”

  He turned to his right, proceeded down a hallway. They left Bertrem standing guard—not very happily—at the closed door. The bell rang loudly. The three hastened their steps.

  “Hullo, Astinus,” Tasslehoff said, trotting along at the chronicler’s side, not at all daunted by the imposing presence. “Do you remember me? I remember you. I just saw the god Gilean in the Abyss. Are you really Gilean? You don’t look much like Gilean, but then Fizban didn’t look like Fizban either. Well, rather, he did look like Fizban, he just didn’t look like Paladine. Dougan Redhammer looked a lot like Reorx, but then I’ve noticed that dwarves haven’t much imagination. Have you noticed that? Now if I were a god—”

  Astinus came to a sudden halt. A flicker of emotion passed over his face. “If kender were gods, the world would certainly be an interesting place. Though none of us would ever be able to find anything in it.”

  “Where is my uncle?” Palin inquired, eager and not eager for him to meet Usha.

  “He waits for you in my private quarters. But”—Astinus flicked a glance over at Palin—“surely you do not intend to meet him in that condition.”

  Palin shrugged. “I am certain that my uncle would understand. We had no choice—”

  Astinus came to a halt in front of a closed door. He pointed. “In there you will find water for washing yourself and a change of clothes.”

  “I thank you, sir, for your thoughtfulness,” Palin began, “but my uncle told me to hurry—”

  He was talking to Astinus’s back. The chronicler had turned away from him. “I have clothes for you as well,” he said to Usha and Tas. “Castoffs that we donate to the poor, but they are clean and serviceable. You two, come with me.”

  Astinus said, over his shoulder as he walked away, “I will return in a few moments, Palin Majere. When you are dressed, I will take you to your uncle. Come, Child of the Irda. You, as well, Master Burrfoot.”

  “Did you hear what he called me?” Tas was saying proudly to Usha as they followed Astinus. “Master Burrfoot.”

  Palin supposed Astinus was right. Raistlin would not want to meet a nephew who smelled as if he’d been feasting with gully dwarves.

  Palin opened the door, walked into the room—a small cell, similar to those in which lived the Aesthetics, the monks who devoted their lives to the service of the library and its master. Sparsely furnished, the room contained a bed and a washstand on which stood a pitcher of water, a washbowl, and a lighted candle. The end of the bed was lost in the shadows, but a lump was probably his change of clothing.

  Palin barely glanced at the clean clothes. He approached the washbowl, now suddenly eager to strip off these filthy robes and wash away the muck and the stench that was starting to make him sick to his stomach.

  After his ablutions, feeling much better, he bundled the dirty robes in a corner, turned to put on the clean clothes.

  Palin halted, stared, sucked in a breath. He grabbed hold of the robes, held them close to the light, thinking that his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  No mistake. No trick, at least not one his eyes played.

  The robes Astinus had given Palin were black.

  10

  The choice.

  alin’s first thought was that Astinus was playing some sort of joke. Recalling the passionless eyes, Palin discarded that notion. The black cloth was soft to the touch and felt oddly warm in his hand. Palin’s words, spoken to Raistlin in the Tower of High Sorcery, returned forcibly to him.

  I know the work will be arduous and difficult, but I will do anything—sacrifice anything to gain more power.

  And was this the answer? Was this the sacrifice his uncle intended?

  A knock sounded. Before Palin could respond, the door swung open. Astinus stood in the doorway. He held a large book in his arms, a quill pen in his hand.

  “Well,” he commanded, “why are you wasting time? Put them on.”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” Palin said. “What does this mean?”

  “Mean? What do you think it means? You have already made your decision. Put them on.”

  “Decision? What decision? I never intended this. I don’t want to take the Black Robes. I don’t want to use my magic for gain or to harm others or force others to work my will—”

  “Don’t you?” Astinus was calm. “I should think that allowing a man to die in your place was a decision worthy of the black robes.”

  Palin protested. “Die? In my place? You must have made some sort of mistake. I never—” He stopped. “My god! You mean Steel! But, no! Surely the knights wouldn’t put him to death. He must have explained the circumstances to them. There was nothing he could have done. Didn’t they believe him?”

  Astinus entered the room. Walking up to Palin, the chronicler opened the great book he held, indicated a line written at the bottom of the page.

  This day, First Watch rising, Steel Brightblade was executed. He died in place of Palin Majere, who gave hi
s word of honor to return, and broke it.

  “First Watch rising,” Palin murmured. He lifted his gaze from the book to Astinus. “It’s not First Watch yet! It can’t be. How—”

  “It is several hours until sunrise,” Astinus said, shrugging. “Sometimes I anticipate events. It makes the work easier, especially if there is no chance for change.”

  “Where?” Palin demanded. He held fast to the black robes. “Where is he to die?”

  “In the High Clerist’s Tower. He dies without honor, stripped of his rank. He will lay his head upon a block of blood-crusted stone. Lord Ariakan himself wields the sword that will sever Steel Brightblade’s head from his body.”

  Palin stood silent, unmoving.

  Astinus continued, relentless. “Brightblade’s corpse will not be entombed, but will be thrown from the walls, for the carrion birds to feast on. He will be used as an example to other knights. This is what happens to those who fail to obey orders.”

  Images came to Palin: Steel kneeling at his brothers’ grave site, Steel fighting at his side in the Shoikan Grove, Steel saving his life …

  “But, what does it matter?” Astinus droned on sonorously. “The man is evil. He has given his soul to the Dark Queen. He has killed his share of good men, Knights of Solamnia. He deserves to die.”

  “Not in shame and dishonor.” Palin stared at the book in Astinus’s hands, at the writing on the page. “First Watch. It’s too late. I would stop the execution if I could, but it’s not possible. It takes days to reach the High Clerist’s Tower from Palanthas. I could never arrive in time to prevent the execution.” He was ashamed of himself, but he felt a vast sense of relief.

  A voice whispered in Palin’s mind. Robe yourself in black. When that is done, I will open the spellbook of Fistandantilus to you. You will have earned it.

  A bitter taste, worse than the smell of the sewers, was in Palin’s mouth. He ran his hand over the black cloth. It was soft to the touch, soft and warm, would envelop him, protect him. “I’ve done nothing, Uncle! It’s not my fault. I never thought Steel would come to harm because of me. And even if I wanted to go, I could never get there in time.”