Dragons of the Highlord Skies dc-2

by Margaret Weis

  Each of the gates was guarded by the armies of a different Highlord, each dedicated to one of the colors of chromatic dragons. Thus there was a red gate, a blue gate, a green gate, and so on. Each gate had traps that mimicked the breath weapon of the dragon it honored. The corridor leading to the red gate was lined with the stone heads of red dragons that would breathe fire on any hapless interloper, incinerating him before he was halfway down the corridor. The Gate of the Blue Dragon crackled with lightning, that of the green dragon spewed poisonous gas.

  “I know the phrase to disarm the traps,” Kit said over her shoulder. “Every Highlord does.”

  “Ariakas ordered the phrases changed after you were arrested,” said Iolanthe.

  Kitiara halted. Her hands clenched. She stood a moment, cursing beneath her breath, then turned to face the witch.

  “Do you know the new password?”

  Iolanthe smiled. “Who do you think worked the magic?”

  Kitiara didn’t trust this witch. She didn’t understand what was going on. She found it difficult to believe Iolanthe’s story that Queen Takhisis had sent her, yet how could the witch have known about Kit’s prayer? Like it or not, Kit was going to have to put her life into this woman’s hands, and Kit did not like it!

  “So what is your plan?” she asked.

  Iolanthe shoved a bundle of cloth at Kit. “First, put this on.”

  Kit shook out the folds of the black velvet robes worn by the dark priests. A sensible idea, she had to admit. She fumbled her way into the garb, trying to shove her head into the sleeve hole in her haste, and then putting the robes on backward. With Iolanthe’s help, Kit managed to sort it out. The black, smothering folds enveloped her.

  “Now what?”

  “We will attend the midnight rites in the Dark Abbey,” Iolanthe explained. “There we will mingle with the crowd and leave with them, for the dragon traps will be disabled to allow them to pass. We must hurry,” she added. “The service has already started. Fortunately, the Abbey is not far from here.”

  They left the storeroom; the glow from Iolanthe’s magical ring lit the way through Ariakas’s chambers. The main door stood slightly ajar.

  “What about the guards?” Kit asked in a whisper.

  “Dead,” Iolanthe replied dispassionately.

  Kit peered cautiously around the door. By the light of the witch’s ring, she saw two piles of stone dust-the remnants of two baaz draconians. Kitiara regarded the witch with new respect.

  Iolanthe lifted the hem of her robes to keep them out of the dust and stepped gingerly over the remains, her mouth twisting in disgust. Kit walked right through the piles, kicking dust everywhere.

  “We should get rid of that,” she said, pointing back at the disturbed dust heaps. “Anyone who sees it will know that’s a dead draco.”

  “No time,” said Iolanthe. “We’ll have to take our chances. Fortunately, this hall is rarely lit. And few people ever have reason to come to this part of the Temple. This way.”

  Kitiara recognized the staircase by which she had descended in the company of the guards. She and Iolanthe passed it and continued on, and soon she could hear voices chanting, praising the Dark Queen. Kitiara had never attended one of the services in the Dark Abbey. She had, in fact, gone out of her way to avoid them. She was not even sure where the Dark Abbey was located. She had the vague idea it was opposite the dungeons. The corridors were lit with a purplish-white light that had no apparent source, but seemed to shine eerily from the walls. The light had the effect of washing out all color, all distinguishing features, all differences, making every object ghastly white etched with darkness.

  Everyone who walked these corridors, even those who walked them daily, experienced the sense of unreality. Floors were not quite level, walls slanted oddly, corridors shifted position, chambers were not where they should be, doors were not where they had been the day before. Iolanthe, guided by the light of her ring, walked the strange halls with assurance. On her own, Kit would have been hopelessly lost.

  She assumed the chanting emanated from the service. She had thought it would be easy to follow the voices, but sounds were distorted down here. Sometimes the chanting dinned in her ears and she was certain they must have arrived at the Abbey, only to find, with another turning, the chants fading away almost to silence. Then they would boom loudly again at the next turning. At one point in the service, a shrill scream reverberated through the corridors, causing the hair on the back of Kit’s neck to prickle. The horrible scream ended abruptly.

  “What was that?” Kit asked.

  “The evening’s sacrifice,” said Iolanthe. “The Abbey is up ahead.”

  “Thank the Queen,” Kit muttered. She had never before been on the dungeon level, and she could not wait to leave. Kit liked her life uncomplicated, not cluttered up with gods-which reminded her uneasily of her bargain with her Queen. Kit put that out of her mind. She had more urgent matters to consider and, besides, Takhisis hadn’t saved her yet.

  Rounding a curve, she and Iolanthe almost ran into one of the dark priests. Kitiara yanked her cowl down to hide her face, and she kept her head lowered. Her hand, folded in the capacious sleeve, grasped the poignard’s hilt.

  The dark priest eyed them. Kit held her breath, but the man’s frowning gaze was fixed on Iolanthe. He pulled back his hood to glare at her. He was pale, gaunt, and cadaverous. A hideous red weal ran across his nose.

  “You are here at a late hour, Black Robe,” he said to Iolanthe in disapproving tones.

  Kit’s grip on the poignard tightened.

  Iolanthe drew back the folds of her hood. The eerie light illuminated her face, shimmered in her violet eyes.

  The dark priest looked startled, and fell back a step.

  “I see you recognize me,” Iolanthe said. “My escort and I are here for the service and I am late, so I ask that you do not detain us.”

  The dark priest had recovered from his shock. He glanced without interest at Kit, turned back to Iolanthe. “You are indeed late, Madame. The service is almost half over.”

  “Therefore I am certain you will excuse us.”

  Iolanthe swept past him, her black robes rustling around her, the scent of flowers lingering in the hallway. Kit followed humbly. She glanced over her shoulder, pushing aside her cowl to keep an eye on the dark priest. He stared after them and for a moment Kit thought he meant to come after them. Then, muttering something, he turned and stalked off.

  “I’m not sure you’re such a safe companion,” said Kitiara. “You’re not very popular around here.”

  “The dark priests do not trust me,” said Iolanthe calmly. “They do not trust any magic-user. They do not understand how we can be loyal to Takhisis and at the same time serve Nuitari.”

  She smiled disdainfully. “And they are jealous of my power. The Nightlord is trying to convince Ariakas that wizards should be banned from the Temple. Some of his clerics want us thrown out of the city. Hardly feasible, considering the Emperor is himself a user of magic.

  “Hush now,” she cautioned. “The Abbey is ahead. Do you know any of the prayers?”

  Kitiara, of course, did not.

  “Then make this sign if someone asks you why you do not join in.” Iolanthe moved her hand in a circle. “That means you have taken an oath of silence.”

  The Abbey was crowded. Kitiara and Iolanthe found places inside the entryway. A strong smell of bodies sweating beneath black robes, burning candle wax, incense, and fresh blood wafted from the chamber. The body of a young woman lay across the altar, blood streaming from a gash in her throat. A priest with blood smeared over his hands was chanting prayers, exhorting the crowd to praise Takhisis.

  Kitiara stood, fidgeting, in the crowd, the smell of blood in her nostrils, the sound of off-key yammering in her ears, and suddenly she felt she had to leave. She couldn’t bear to stand here and just wait for someone to discover that she was missing from her prison and raise the alarm.

  “Let’s just
get the hell out of here,” Kit whispered urgently.

  “They would stop us at the gate and ask questions,” said Iolanthe in a smothered whisper, grasping hold of a fold of Kit’s sleeve. “If we go out with the crowd, no one will notice us.”

  Kitiara sighed, frustrated, but she had to admit this was sound planning. She steeled herself for the ordeal.

  The Abbey was a circular room, with a high, domed ceiling beneath which stood a large statue of Queen Takhisis in her dragon form. The statue was a wonder. The body was carved out of black marble, with each of the five heads done in different colored marble. The ten eyes were gems that shone with magical light that illuminated the room. By some miraculous means, the heads of the statue seemed to move; the eyes looked this way and that, with the dread light of their watchful gaze constantly sweeping the crowd.

  Kit stared at the statue of Queen Takhisis as the heads bobbed and weaved, and glanced at Iolanthe, standing beside her, barely visible in the ever-shifting colored lights. Kit could not see the witch’s face for the cowl she had again drawn over her head. Kit was jittery, gripping the poignard in a sweaty palm, wishing the time to pass, wishing herself far away. Iolanthe was calm, not moving, not the least bit nervous, yet if Ariakas found out she had helped Kit escape, Iolanthe’s life would not be worth living. Whatever punishment Kit would face, Iolanthe would find it trebled.

  “Why are you doing this?” Kit whispered under the cover of the chanting. “Why are you helping me? And don’t give me that crap about being the answer to my prayers.”

  Iolanthe glanced at Kit sidelong from under her hood. Her violet eyes glittered in the light of the Queen’s multicolored and multi-faceted eyes. Iolanthe shifted her gaze back to the statue, and Kit thought that she was going to refuse to answer.

  At length, however, Iolanthe whispered, “I do not want you for my enemy, Blue Lady.” The violet eyes, wide and intense, fixed on Kit. “If you do what you say you mean to do and you succeed, you will have one of the most powerful beings on Krynn on your side. Lord Soth will make you a force to be reckoned with. Don’t you understand, Kitiara? Her Dark Majesty is starting to have doubts about Ariakas. She is looking for someone else to wear the Crown of Power. If you prove to be the one-and I think you will-I want you to think well of me.”

  And if I fail to return alive from Dargaard Keep, Ariakas retains the Crown and the witch has lost nothing in the attempt, Kitiara reflected. She is what I thought: cunning, self-serving, scheming, and conniving.

  Kit was starting to like her.

  The chanting had reached a fever pitch, and Kit was hoping fervently this meant that the service was about to end, when the statue’s blue head shifted in Kit’s direction. The light of the Queen’s sapphire blue eyes illuminated the crowd around her. The lighted eyes paused for a moment on the worshipper standing to Kit’s left and slightly in front of her-a bozak draconian with a bent wing. At that moment, the chanting abruptly ended, leaving ear-pounding silence behind. The Queen’s heads ceased to move. The miracle had ended. The statue was once more marble, if it had ever been anything else; Kit had thought she’d heard the squeak and rumble of a machine. The Abbey glowed with white light. The service had ended.

  The crowd blinked and rubbed their eyes. Those who knew from experience that the service was nearing its close had already started to edge their way out, hoping to beat the rush. People were heading for the exit. The bozak with the bent wing turned, walking straight toward her. Kit had her hood pulled over her head, but it did not cover her face and it had slipped somewhat during the service. She turned swiftly, but not before Targ had caught a glimpse of her. Kit was certain she saw a flicker of recognition in the reptilian eyes of Ariakas’s pet bozak.

  She could be mistaken, but she didn’t dare take a chance. Kit slowed her pace, let the crowd flow around her. She gripped the knife and waited for the bozak to come near.

  The crowd gave a surge that sent Targ stumbling into her. Perhaps Takhisis was on her side. Hoping desperately that the fragile-looking blade wouldn’t break, Kit drove the poignard in between Tag’s ribs, aiming for the lungs, hoping to nick the heart, not kill him outright.

  The bozak gave a grunt indicative more of surprise than pain. Kit jerked the blade free and hid it in her sleeve. The bozak, an astonished look in his eyes, was just starting to crumple. Kitiara grabbed hold of Iolanthe’s forearm and dragged her out of the doorway.

  “Which way to the nearest gate?” Kit shoved aside several pilgrims, nearly knocking them down.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Iolanthe asked, alarmed by the look on Kit’s face.

  “Which way?” Kit demanded savagely.

  “The right,” said Iolanthe, and Kit tugged her along in that direction.

  They had not gone far when a blast shook the walls, sending dust and debris flying. As the noise of the explosion died away, shouts, screams, and moans began to echo down the corridors. Some pilgrims halted in shock, others cried out in panic. No one had any idea what had happened.

  “Nuitari save us, what did you do?” Iolanthe gasped.

  “The bozak in front of me was one of Ariakas’s guards. He recognized me. I stabbed him. I didn’t have any choice,” said Kitiara, hurrying down the corridor. Seeing Iolanthe look bewildered, Kit added, “When bozaks die, their bones explode.”

  Guards and dark pilgrims pushed past them, some running to the site of the blast, others running from it.

  “Nuitari save us,” Iolanthe repeated. She pulled her cowl low over her face and, catching up the skirts of her robes, began to run. Kitiara joined her. She had no idea where they were and hoped that Iolanthe did. They rounded a corner and came face to face with draconian Temple guards pounding down the corridor. The guards were upon them before they could escape.

  “What happened?” one demanded, blocking their path. “We heard an explosion.”

  Iolanthe burst into tears. “In the Abbey. A White Robe… disguised… cast a spell… dead draconians… a blast… it’s horrible!” She used a little-girl voice, far different from her own throaty contralto.

  “The White Robe got away,” Kit added. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch him. He’s dressed as a dark priest. You can’t miss him. He has a long red scar across his nose.”

  The draconian commander wasted no more time in asking questions. He led his troops off in pursuit. “Good thinking,” Iolanthe said, hurrying on. “You too,” said Kit.

  They climbed the winding stairs leading up out of the dungeon level. Their way was constantly impeded by troops shoving past them, racing to the scene of the disaster. Kit and Iolanthe reached the top of the stairs, ran down another corridor, and there stood the Gate of the White Dragon.

  With the Temple under attack, all gates had been shut and sealed, the traps activated. The draconian guards, weapons drawn, were tense and on edge.

  “Oops,” said Kitiara. She hadn’t foreseen this.

  “Stay calm,” Iolanthe said quietly “Let me do the talking.”

  She lowered her cowl and tearfully repeated her tale about the dastardly White Robe. The draconians knew Ariakas’s witch; Iolanthe had been there only that afternoon, working her magic on the white dragon trap that would hit anyone who set it off with a blast of frost, paralyzing them with cold. Iolanthe knew the password, of course, but the guards didn’t even bother to ask her. They were interested in her companion, however.

  “Who is this?” Reptile eyes stared suspiciously at Kit.

  “My guide,” Iolanthe stated. She sighed a helpless sigh and the violet eyes gave the commander a languishing look. “The corridors are so confusing. They all look alike. I get hopelessly lost.”

  “What’s your name?” the draconian demanded, speaking to Kit. She remembered Iolanthe’s advice and made the sign of the circle with her hand.

  “She’s taken a vow of silence,” Iolanthe explained.

  The draconian eyed Kit, who stood with her head humbly bowed, clutching the bloody poignard in her hand, keeping
it hidden in the capacious sleeves. The commander waved them on through the gate.

  They were almost out of the Temple when they heard clawed feet running after them. Kit halted, tensed, ready to strike.

  “Madame Iolanthe,” the draconian called, “the commander sent me to ask if you would like an escort home. The streets might not be safe.”

  Iolanthe gave a deep sigh. “No, thank you,” she said. “I would not take you away from your post.”

  The two women walked through the gate, kept walking through the Temple environs, and into the street.

  Kitiara was free. She breathed in the fresh air and gazed at the black sky sparkling with stars that she had never thought she would see again. She was almost giddy with joy and relief and barely heard what Iolanthe was saying.

  “Listen to me!” Iolanthe pinched her arm to command her attention. “I must hasten to Ariakas. It would look strange if I didn’t go straight to him with this news and I don’t have much time! Where are you headed?”

  “To my blue dragon,” said Kit.

  Iolanthe shook her head. “I thought as much. Don’t waste your time. Ariakas ordered all the blue dragons in Neraka to return to Solamnia. He knows the blues are loyal to you and feared what would happen if your dragons found out you were going to be executed.”

  Kitiara swore softly.

  Iolanthe pointed down a side street. “At the end of this street is a stable where Salah Kahn houses his horses. The horses of Khur are the fastest and the best in the world,” she added with pride. “They are also the smartest. To protect them from being stolen, my people teach them a secret word. You must speak this word, or the horse will not permit you to mount. The horse will buck and lash out at you with its hooves and might kill you. Do you understand?”

  Kit understood. Iolanthe told her the word. Kit repeated it and nodded.

  “One more thing,” said Iolanthe, detaining Kit as she was about to leave.

  “What’s that?”