Margaret Weis: Dragons of Summer Flame

Usha didn’t hear any more. She knew Prot, knew he was talking out of desperation. A silent, reclusive, mild, and gentle man, those words were the most he’d spoken to her in months, and he was likely speaking these just to comfort both of them. She knew this because, when he picked up a doll with which she’d played as a child, he suddenly ceased talking, drew it to his breast, and held it as he had once held her.

Usha’s eyes filled with tears. She turned away swiftly so that he wouldn’t see her cry.

“So, I’m being sent to Palanthas, am I? Good. You know I’ve wanted to leave for a long time now. I have my journey all planned. I was thinking of going to Kalaman, but”—she shrugged her shoulders—“Palanthas will do. One place is as good as another.”

She hadn’t been thinking of going to Kalaman at all. The city’s name was the first that popped into her head. But she made it sound as if she’d planned this trip for years. The truth was, she was frightened. Terribly, horribly frightened.

The Irda know where I was last night! she thought, feeling guilty. They know I was out on the beach. They know what I was thinking, dreaming!

Her dreams had conjured up the images of the knights: their youthful faces, their sweat-damp hair, their strong and supple hands. In her dreams, they had met her, talked to her, swept her away on their dragon—headed ship. They had sworn they loved her; had forsaken the battle and the sword for her. Silly, she knew. How could any man love someone so ugly? But she could dream she was beautiful, couldn’t she? Usha blushed hotly to think of her dreams now. She was ashamed of them, ashamed of the feelings they woke inside her.

“Yes, we both know it’s time for you to leave,” the Protector said, somewhat awkwardly. “We’ve talked about it before.”

True, Usha had talked of leaving for the past three years. She would plan her journey, decide what she would take, even go so far as to set a day. A tentative day, a vague day: “Midsummer’s Eve” or “the Time of the Three Moons.” The days came and the days left. Usha always remained. The sea was too rough or the weather too cold or the boat inadequate or the omens unfavorable. Her Protector always mildly agreed with her, as he agreed with everything she said and did, and no more was said. Until the next time Usha planned her trip.

“You’re right. I was meaning to go anyway,” she said, hoping that the quiver in her voice would be taken for excitement.

“I’m already half packed.”

She swiped a hand over her eyes and turned to face the man who had raised her from infancy. “Whatever are you doing, Prot?” Her childish name for him. “You can’t imagine I’m going to Palanthas carrying my doll, do you? Leave it here. It will be company for you while I’m gone. You two can talk to each other until I come back.”

“You won’t be coming back, Child,” said Prot quietly.

He did not look at her, but fondled the well-worn doll. Then, silently, he handed the doll to her.

Usha stared. The quiver formed into a lump, and the lump brought more tears to her eyes. Snatching up the doll, she hurled it across the small room.

“I’m being punished! Punished for speaking my mind! Punished because I’m not afraid of that man! The Decider hates me! You all hate me! Because I’m ugly and stupid and... and human! Well!” Usha wiped her tears with the backs of her hands, smoothed her hair, drew in a deep, shaking breath. “I wasn’t planning on coming back anyway. Who would want to? Who cares about a dull place where no one talks to anyone for months at a time? Not me! I’ll leave tonight! Now! The hell with packing! I don’t want anything from you ever! Ever! Ever again!”

She was crying now—crying and watching to see the effect of her tears at the same time. The Protector was gazing at her helplessly, just as he always did whenever she wept. He would give in. He always gave in. He would do anything to placate her, soothe her, give her whatever she wanted. He always had.

The Irda are not accustomed to displaying their own emotions, unless such emotions are extraordinarily strong. Consequently, the Irda were baffled by the tempestuous vagaries of human temperament. They could not bear to see anyone in a state of strong emotional throes. It was embarrassing, unseemly, undignified. Usha had learned, early on, that tears and tantrums would win her anything she wanted. Her sobs increased in volume; she choked and gulped and secretly exulted. She would not be sent away. Not now.

I will leave! she thought resentfully, but only when I’m good and ready!

She’d reached the painful hiccuping stage and was thinking that it was time to quit and give Prot a chance to humbly apologize for upsetting her, when she heard something astonishing.

The door shutting.

Usha gulped, fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. When she could see, she stared around in astonishment.

The Protector was gone. He’d walked out on her.

Usha sat alone in the silent, empty little house that had been hers for however many years had passed since they’d brought her here as a tiny baby. She’d once tried to keep track, marking off the years from the day on which Prot said she’d been born. But she’d quit counting at about thirteen. It had been a game up until then, but at that age—for some reason—the game had become hurtful. No one would tell her much about her parents or why they weren’t around. They didn’t like to talk about such things. It made them sad every time she brought up the subject.

No one could tell her who she was... only what she wasn’t. She wasn’t an Irda. And so—in a fit of pique—she’d ceased to mark the years, and when they had started to be important to her again, she’d lost track. Had four or five years passed? Six? Ten?

Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered.

Usha knew then that this time tears wouldn’t help.

The next day, around sun’s zenith, the Irda came together again—twice in two days, something practically unprecedented in their history—to bid the human “child” good-bye.

Usha was armored by anger now, anger and resentment. Her farewells were distant and formal, as if she were bidding good-bye to some estranged cousin who’d happened to drop in for a visit.

“I don’t care.”

Those were the words the Protector heard her say—none too softly—to herself. “I’m glad I’m leaving! You don’t want me. No one ever did want me. I don’t care about any of you. It’s not as if you cared about me!"

But the Irda did care. The Protector wished he could tell her that, but such words came with difficulty, if at all. The Irda had grown quite fond of the carefree, singing, laughing child, who had jolted them out of their studious contemplation, forced them to open their sealed and locked hearts. If they had spoiled her—and they had spoiled her, the Protector knew—it had been unintentional. It made them happy to see her happy and, therefore, they had done everything possible to keep her that way.

He was beginning to think—dimly—that this may have been a mistake. The world into which they were shoving her so roughly did not care anything about Usha. Whether she was happy or sad, dead or alive, were not the world’s concerns. It occurred to him now—a bit late—that perhaps Usha should have been disciplined, taught to handle such indifference.

But then, he had never truly thought he’d have to set the wild, singing bird free. Now the time was at hand and, although there were no overt displays of emotion, the Irda showed their feelings in the only way in which they knew how—they gave her gifts.

Usha accepted the gifts with ungracious thanks, taking them and stuffing them into a leather pouch without ever giving them so much as a glance. When the giver attempted to explain what the gift did, Usha brushed the explanation aside. She was hurt, deeply hurt, and she intended to hurt every one of them back. The Protector really couldn’t blame her.