Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell

  By now, the Inn of the Last Home was a veritable museum of objects from the disparate Krynnish cultures. This collection was one of the reasons Kitiara both liked and disliked hanging around the inn. She would stare at the different objects and daydream about whence they came, the things they had witnessed. But eventually those daydreams always led Kit back to the fact that she was stuck in Solace, far from any excitement. At that thought she might bury her head in her hands and groan in frustration, stalking out of the place, not to be seen around the premises for a week or so.

  But Kitiara always returned. Too young to have a taste for Otik’s ale and too cash-pinched to afford his hearty fare, she rarely bought much, just sat alone at a table and sipped one glass of pear juice for hours at a time. Her favorite spot was in a corner near the front door so that she could have first look at the travelers who climbed the long, winding stairs up to the treetop inn. One of them might have news of her father. One of them might be able to alleviate the tedium of Solace.

  Kitiara had stayed in the treetop community far longer than she had expected when she first returned from her adventures with Ursa and Stumptown—more than two years. She had waited in vain for a likely group of travelers to latch on to in order to leave again, ones that looked to be on their way to something more interesting than the next village.

  At first, Otik hadn’t really liked having such a young girl hanging about, but he grew to tolerate Kitiara—the main reason being he had given up trying to keep her out. If he escorted Kit out the front door, she edged in the back. If he watched both doors, somehow she slipped in through one of the windows. When she seemed gone for good and he had forgotten all about her, he would turn around and there she would be, sitting near a window, paying him not the least attention.

  Truth to tell, Kitiara was not bad for business. In the right mood she could play jackdaw with the best of them. She was a patient listener to stories of the road, and every inn needs its good listeners as well as its good storytellers.

  And Otik was at heart a gentle soul. He didn’t begrudge Kitiara time away from her home, which he knew was dominated by Rosamun’s sickbed. When there were no other customers, Otik would even strike up a conversation with Kit. He liked to talk about the origins of his souvenirs, occasionally taking one down from the wall and letting Kit caress it. She listened avidly to Otik’s little histories, gaining an education about the world that couldn’t have been obtained in school. The innkeeper treated Kit kindly, just as, years later, he would treat Tika Waylan, the orphaned daughter of one of his barmaids.

  It was plain to Otik that Kitiara would not be pining around his bar for long. At sixteen years of age, she was already shedding the gangliness and rough-edges of adolescence. Her face had emerged into an arresting angularity, narrowing from high cheekbones to a determined chin. The lower half of Kit’s face was softened by full, rosy lips. Her dark eyes were fringed with glossy lashes whose midnight color matched the cap of black, curly hair she continued to wear in a boyish cut.

  Careless of her appearance, she favored close-fitting tunics and leggings because they allowed her freedom of movement, seemingly unaware that they also showed off her natural grace and a slender figure that had begun to curve appealingly. Now, on the occasions she and Aureleen wandered through the marketplace or walkways together, appreciative stares were as likely to be directed at Kit as at her conventionally pretty friend.

  Yet any man who tried to flirt with Kit met a prickly response. As far as she could tell, most men wanted much more than they gave back, and Kitiara didn’t like that equation, even when it applied to her brothers—though, thank the moons, at eight years old they already seemed fairly able to take care of themselves. Raistlin’s magic studies were progressing well and occupied most of his waking moments. When Caramon wasn’t skipping school to practice his swordplay, he was tagging around after Gilon.

  As if she had conjured him up with her thoughts, Kitiara looked out through the front door Otik had propped open on this warm afternoon and saw her high-spirited brother running up and down the walkways outside the inn with a group of friends. He and another boy began mock-jousting with two long sticks. Caramon was obviously stronger and more agile with the stick, but, laughing, he let his friend best him and threw up his hands in mock surrender. Kitiara frowned. That boy had inherited too soft a nature from Gilon.

  A moment later, Caramon turned up at the inn’s entrance.

  “Hey, Kit, wanna buy me a glass of pear juice or some of those good potatoes Otik serves?” he said with a grin that even Kit in her current ill humor found difficult to resist.

  But, as was her custom when he tried to set foot in the inn, Kitiara pounced on Caramon and tossed him out before even Otik could react.

  “Any more potatoes and you’ll be too larded up to lift your sword. Now get going or you’ll be late to meet Raistlin on his way back from Poolbottom!”

  Shooing Caramon out the door, Kitiara noticed two strangers climbing the stairs that ended at Otik’s doorway. That was not odd in itself, but these two strangers were as mismatched a pair as Kitiara had ever laid eyes on. Kit returned to her seat to await their entrance.

  Within a few moments, they were standing inside the front door, surveying the room. One was a behemoth, his hair braided in a dozen strands that fell down his neck to brush his shoulders, his head massive but with eyes tiny as bugs, sunken in fleshy sockets. Six and a half feet tall and, Kit guessed, three hundred pounds, he was tented in a great swath of multi-colored clothing. Her glance went immediately to his weapons—a scimitar, a knife, and a knobby short club, all slung conspicuously around his formidable girth. Over his back he carried a great wooden trunk, which he now flung down on the floor and pushed to one side. He said nothing, but his eyes glared around the room, alighting briefly and without interest on Kit.

  He was accompanied by a man who was even more curious for the fact that at first glance Kit might have thought he was a woman. This other one was tall—though not so tall as the giant—and slender, with alabaster skin, jet-black hair, and azure eyes. He was dressed in a tunic of sea blue, with a tooled belt cinching his narrow waist, weaponless, and carrying a leather pack that he dropped wearily to the floor on top of the trunk. He’s not much older than me, Kitiara thought, perhaps twenty. As he walked up to the bar, she noticed that he was wearing an unusual pendant with a dazzling green stone around his neck. Along with this uncommon piece of jewelry, Kit was astonished to notice a scent. He obviously was wearing some perfume or oil.

  The man carried himself with tremendous dignity, and she realized that he must be someone of privilege and station. More than that, he had a definite aura of gentility and sophistication unlike all the roughnecks and common folk she was used to. Kit had never seen such a man. Any traces of bad humor vanished from her face. Her eyes were alert, her expression intrigued.

  “Is lunch still being served?” asked the man as Otik bustled out from the kitchen to greet them.

  “A late lunch or an early dinner,” Otik said cheerfully. “It’s all the same to me. Set yourselves down, and I’ll be happy to accommodate.”

  Being well-traveled, the innkeeper was not as struck by their appearance as Kitiara. He rightly judged the young man to be a well-born noble from Northern Ergoth, accompanied by his slave.

  “I am Patric of Gwynned, and this is my manservant Strathcoe,” said the man. “I am told by everyone I have met that I should be sure to try your spicy fried potatoes.”

  His voice was forceful, accustomed to being obeyed. He continued to hold Kit’s interest.

  Patric’s comment about the spicy fried potatoes brought a smile to Otik’s face. “Some ale?” asked Otik. “Ale goes good—”

  “Fresh water, please,” Patric said, cutting him off. “Then, perhaps, some wine. You do serve wine, don’t you?”

  This last was said as Patric appraised the common room, taking in the sign over the bar that read, Healthy and hearty fare for the citizen and wayfarer.
/>
  Otik’s face clouded over at the stranger’s implication that he ran anything less than a first class establishment. “Of course we serve wine,” he said, letting a note of displeasure creep into his voice. “And what would you gentlemen like to eat besides spicy potatoes?”

  “Just potatoes, for now,” Patric said pleasantly. Clearly he had decided that he would test the mettle of Otik’s cooking before ordering anything else.

  Vaguely insulted but holding his tongue, Otik hurried off to prepare the order. As he did, the two men looked around and chose a big table near Kitiara.

  She had been watching them intently, but shifted her gaze to the window, feigning disinterest, as soon as they moved toward her. Yet she sensed that the younger man was distinctly aware of her presence. She, Patric, and the slave called Strathcoe were Otik’s only customers, and an unusual silence prevailed in the normally convivial inn.

  “Hey, Kitiara! I’m bored.” Caramon stood at the threshold again and was beckoning loudly to his sister. “It’s too early to meet Raist. Can’t we do something like go down and look at the horses in the stable?”

  “Later,” said Kitiara sharply, waving him out the door.

  “You’re not doing anything,” the eight-year-old protested, putting on his best pleading look.

  “Later” said Kitiara, glaring at him.

  It was a look and a tone Caramon knew better than to cross. Sulking, he backed out the door.

  As he did, the stranger called Patric turned and looked directly at Kitiara. Their eyes locked. Kit shivered, feeling an intensity in his gaze that she hadn’t encountered since—well, since her dealings with El-Navar. Flustered, she looked away, annoyed with herself for doing so. She forced herself to raise her eyes and found Patric still watching her. This time Kit returned his steady gaze. Finally he broke the tension by acknowledging her with a nod.

  “Will you indulge us by sharing our table?” he asked. “My servant is not much for conversation, and we have been on the road for many weeks.”

  “Yes,” Kit said, surprised to find herself eager to join them. Otik, coming around to the table with a pitcher of water and two goblets, raised his eyebrows in surprise, gaining a sideways dirty look from Kitiara in response.

  As she went to their table, Patric stood and bowed slightly from the waist, then pulled a chair out for her. His slave, arms folded imperiously, did not acknowledge her presence with words or gestures. Yet up close, under these circumstances, Kit did not find him so imposing.

  Otik returned to the kitchen and came back a moment later with two plates of fragrant potatoes. He set them down on the table with obvious pride.

  “Anything for you?” Patric asked Kitiara, but she shook her head at Otik, who retreated to the bar where he could keep an eye on his guests.

  The young noble tasted a few small mouthfuls of his food, sipping water in between. The man-mountain slave evinced no such delicacy. He set to work, noisily and with evident satisfaction, on his plateful of potatoes.

  “These are quite good,” Patric said to Kit with an apologetic smile, as if entrusting her with a great confidence. “And certainly Strathcoe has no quibbles. I think I will order some more food and drink. I fear I have ruffled the innkeeper’s feathers by my hesitation. Perhaps this will smooth them. Are you sure you can’t be tempted?”

  “No, no thank you,” Kit said, striving for a nonchalant tone. “And don’t worry about Otik’s feelings being hurt. Nothing really upsets him except a kender trying to leave without paying his bill.”

  As Patric called Otik over to the table to order a bottle of the local wine and some buck stew for his servant, Kit cursed herself for feeling so tongue-tied in the presence of the young noble’s glib charm.

  For a while the only sound at the table was the slurping and chewing of Strathcoe, whose eyes darted back and forth between the two of them as he devoured his food.

  “You must forgive Strathcoe,” said Patric. “He was not properly raised, but he has many sterling qualities. His bad ones are, at worst, amusing.” He smiled.

  Patric sipped his wine before speaking again. “He can’t speak, poor wretch. My father had his tongue cut out for some bad behavior—I forget what. He was demoted to serving me. He is quite loyal, a good fighter, and a stalwart traveling companion. Although he can’t speak, we communicate very well. I tell the jokes, and he laughs at them.”

  Kitiara looked at Strathcoe skeptically, but the big man had obviously heard and understood everything Patric said, because he bobbed his head up and down enthusiastically with a big smile spread across his face. It changed his aspect entirely, so that for a moment, before the smile disappeared, he appeared almost a jovial bear.

  Patric smiled also, looking directly at Kitiara. “You know our names. What is yours?

  “Kitiara Uth Matar, daughter of Gregor Matar.” Kitiara spoke the name proudly, color rushing to her cheeks. Then she smiled, lopsidedly as ever.

  “From far away I have heard of Otik’s potatoes and of his ale, although ale is not to my taste,” said Patric, looking intently into her eyes. “But I had not heard that the young women of Solace were so beautiful.”

  Kitiara caught her breath, and her color deepened. Never before had she been so aware of the smudges on her face and hands. Such talk from the men who filled Otik’s place Kitiara had heard often, but the words had been spoken roughly, half-jestingly, and she had turned them aside in kind. She searched her brain for something to say, yet no words came.

  Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Patric dropped his glance and changed the subject.

  “We have been on the road for nine weeks. It’s a ritual of travel I undertake every year. This year we have been gone longer than expected. We are now on our way to the coast, where a ship is waiting to take us home. Gwynned is on the western coast of the island of Northern Ergoth.”

  Kit knew where Northern Ergoth was, of course, but she was not so sure about Gwynned—at least a month’s sea crossing, she was sure of that. “What do you look for on your travels? Adventure?” Kitiara asked eagerly.

  “No, no,” said the young noble hurriedly. “Sometimes adventure comes, unbidden, but I don’t look for it. I look for …” For the first time, Kitiara saw him search for words. “For edification, for peace, for …” He hesitated again. “For escape.”

  Kitiara considered what this well-born young man needed to escape from, and what it must be like to travel at will, without worry of expense.

  “Oh, you are an adventurer. I can see that,” Patric continued, idly fingering the pale green pendant around his neck. “I don’t think badly of it, but why do people seek adventure? Usually, for riches or power. Where I come from, my father is the ruler of a vast territory. I am his heir. In time I will have riches and power. I am in no hurry for them, and in the meantime I have no thirst for adventure.”

  He sat up straight and thrust his chin forward at this last statement, as if defying Kit to find fault with it. As if someone in his life did, she thought to herself.

  Meeting no challenge in her eyes, Patric looked down, suddenly reflective.

  Throughout his brief soliloquy, Kitiara’s attention had been drawn to his green pendant, which was webbed in a delicate silver filigree and spun in constant motion on its chain. She couldn’t put a name to the stone, but it was exquisite. Probably very valuable, she thought.

  “You admire my chrysanth,” Patric said, naming it for her.

  “It’s very beautiful,” Kitiara admitted.

  “The fact that you like it shows that you have superior taste. It belonged to my mother, and before her, to my mother’s mother.”

  For a moment, Patric fingered the necklace again, pensively. When he dropped it, he looked up, invigorated. He grinned at Kit, and she grinned back.

  “Our travels have been arduous this year, and I would like to rest before the last leg of my journey home. Solace seems a hospitable place. If we stayed, could I impose on you to show us some of the local sights?”
/>
  Strathcoe grunted, set aside his plate, his heavy-lidded eyes lowered to watchful slits.

  “Strathcoe agrees that it’s a good idea,” said Patric.

  Kitiara had to grin. “How can you tell what he is saying?” she teased.

  “I told you, we communicate well,” Patric said rakishly. “It’s a talent I have with people who are strong of heart.” Impulsively, he reached over and grabbed Kitiara’s hand. “Will you be our guide?”

  Kitiara blushed again. Her hand tingled in his warm, moist grip. Then she pulled it away and stood up from the table.

  “If you want to take your chances on accommodations at this fleabag, suit yourself.” Here she cast a sidelong glance at Otik, who started sputtering protests and shaking his finger in her direction.

  Barely able to keep from laughing, Kit continued. “And I don’t know what sights you expect to see in Solace,” she said, shaking her head with mock seriousness and looking at Patric, whose eyes had not left Kit’s face. “But I’ll be your guide,” she finished softly.

  Across the table Strathcoe nodded and beamed.

  Kitiara pushed back her chair and strode toward the door, conscious of Patric’s eyes on her.

  “What time?” he called out after her.

  “Not too early,” she replied over her shoulder.

  All the way home Kitiara pondered the young noble in the sea-blue tunic. He was a man who obviously had led a soft, privileged life—the kind of man she normally would disdain. Who knew if he could even wield a sword?

  Yet something about him had touched her. His intensity? His vulnerability? His obvious liking for her? She wasn’t sure. Kitiara just knew that she was looking forward to meeting him in the morning.

  Her ruminations took her all the way back to the cottage. She opened the door to more than the usual chaos.

  The smell of burned food filled her nostrils. Rosamun was crying out in the adjoining room, but Kit could hear her aunt intercede in soothing tones. Her mother’s unmarried sister, a nervous sparrow of a woman named Quivera, had been staying with them to care for Rosamun, who seemed to spend most of her time hallucinating these days. Kit was relieved of the burden of her mother somewhat, but Quivera paid little attention to the other needs of the household.