Margaret Weis: Dragons of Summer Flame

“I doubt if that could be the case,” said the other knight. “I can’t imagine any god treating his favorites like this.”

“Morgion, perhaps,” said the other, with a wry grin.

The knight grunted. “Well, we’ve certainly done no harm just by looking at them. The Gray Knights can’t fault us for that. Send out the brutes to scout the rest of the island. Let’s go back to the shore. I need some fresh air.”

The two knights walked back to the beach. Sitting in the shade of the tree, waiting for the other patrols to return, they passed the time talking of the upcoming invasion of Ansalon, discussing the vast armada of black dragon-prowed ships, manned by minotaur, that was speeding across the Courrain Ocean, bearing thousands and thousands more barbarian warriors. All was nearly ready for the two-pronged invasion of the continent, which would take place on Summer’s Eve.

The Knights of Takhisis did not know precisely where they were attacking; such information was kept secret. But they had no doubt of victory. This time the Dark Queen would succeed. This time her armies would be victorious. This time she knew the secret to victory.

The brutes returned within a few hours, made their reports. The isle was not large, perhaps five miles long and as many miles around. The brutes found no other people. The tribe of man-beasts had all slunk off, probably hiding in their mud huts until the strange beings left.

The knights returned to their shore boat. The brutes pushed it off the sand, leaped in, grabbed the oars. The boat skimmed across the surface of the water, heading for the black ship that flew the standard of the Knights of Takhisis: the death lily, the skull, and the thorn.

The knights left behind an empty, deserted beach.

But their leave-taking was noted, as their coming had been.

The black dragon-prowed ship vanished over the horizon. When no trace of it could be seen, the watchers climbed down from the trees.

“Will they come back? Is it safe?” asked one of the man-beasts of another, a female.

“You heard them. They’ve gone to report that we are ‘harmless,’ that we pose no threat to them. And that means,” the female added, after a moment’s thought, “that they will be back. Not now. Not soon. But they will return.”

“What can we do?”

“I don’t know. We came together to live on this isle to keep our secret safe. Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps it would have been better to remain scattered throughout the world. Here we are vulnerable to discovery and attack. There we could at least hide among the other races. I don’t know,” she repeated helplessly. “I can’t say. It will be up to the Decider.”

“Yes.” The male appeared relieved. “That is true. And he will be awaiting our return with impatience. We should go quickly.”

“Not like this,” warned his companion.

“No, of course not.” He gazed unhappily back out to sea, peering through unkempt shaggy hair. “It’s all so terrible, so frightening. Even now I don’t feel safe. I keep seeing that ship looming on the horizon. I see the dark knights. I hear their voices—the spoken and the unspoken. Talk of conquest, battle, death. Surely...” He was hesitant. “Surely we should warn... someone on Ansalon. The Solamnic Knights perhaps.”

“That is not our responsibility,” the woman returned sharply. “We must look out for ourselves, as we have always done. You can be certain,” she added, and her tone was bitter, “that in a similar circumstance, they would have no care for us. Come, return to your true form and let us go.”

The two muttered words of magic, words that no wizard on the continent of Ansalon could understand, let alone speak: words every wizard on Ansalon would have given his very soul to possess. None ever would or could. Such powerful magic is born, not acquired.

The shambling, filthy husk of the man-beast fell away, as the ugly shell of the chrysalis falls away to reveal the beautiful dusk-faery imprisoned within. Two extraordinarily beautiful beings emerged from the disguises.

It is difficult to describe such beauty. They were tall, slender, delicate-boned, with large, luminous eyes. But there are many on this world who can be described as such, many on this world considered beautiful. And what may be beautiful to one is not beautiful at all to another. A dwarf male considers a dwarf female’s side-whiskers most alluring; he thinks the smooth faces of human women are denuded and bland. Yet, even a dwarf would realize these people were beautiful, no matter that they did not embody his idea of beauty. They were as beautiful as the sunset on the mountains, as the moonglade on the sea, as the morning mist rising from the valleys.

A word transformed the crude animal hides they wore into fine-spun, shimmering silk. Another word altered the very tree in which the two had been hiding, relaxed the contorted limbs, smoothed the gnarled trunks. The tree stood straight and tall; deep green leaves rustled in the ocean breeze. Flowers exuded sweet-smelling perfume. At another word, all the trees underwent this same transformation.

The two left the beach, headed inland, following the direction the knights had taken to reach the mud-hut village. The two did not speak; they were comfortable in their silence. The words they’d just exchanged were probably more than either had spoken to another of their race in years. The Irda enjoy isolation, solitude. They do not even like to be around each other for long periods. It had taken a crisis to start a conversation between the two watchers.

Therefore the scene the two found, on their return, was almost as shocking as the sight of mud huts and clay cooking pots had been to the knights. The two Irda saw all their people—several hundred or more—gathered beneath an enormous willow tree, a circumstance almost unparalleled in the history of the Irda.

The ugly, misshapen trees were gone, replaced by a dense, lush forest of oak and pine. Built around and among the trees were small, carefully conceived and designed dwellings. Each house was different in aspect and appearance, but few were ever larger than four rooms, comprising cooking area, meditative area, work area, sleep area. Those dwellings that were built with five rooms also housed the young of the species. A child lived with a parent (generally the mother, unless circumstances dictated otherwise) until the child reached the Year of Oneness. At that time, the child moved out and established a dwelling of his or her own.

Each Irda household was self-sufficient. Each Irda grew his own food, obtained his own water, pursued his own studies. Social interchange was not prohibited or frowned upon. It simply didn’t exist. Such an idea would never occur to an Irda or—if it did—would be considered a trait peculiar to other, lesser races, such as humans, elves, dwarves, kender and gnomes; or the dark races, such as minotaur, goblins, and draconians; or the one race that was never mentioned among the Irda: ogres.

Irda join with other Irda only once in their lives, for the purpose of mating. This is a traumatic experience for both male and female, for they do not come together out of love. They are constrained to come together by the magical practice known as the Valin. Created by the elders of the race in order to perpetuate the race, the Valin causes the soul of one Irda to take possession of the soul of another. There is no escape, no defense, no choice or selection. When the Valin happens between two Irda, they must couple or the Valin will so torture and torment them that it may lead to death. Once the woman has conceived, the Valin is lifted, the two go their separate ways, having decided between themselves which would be responsible for the child’s welfare. So devastating is this experience in the lives of two Irda, that this rarely happens more than once in a lifetime. Thus few children are born to the Irda, and their numbers remain small.