Dark Heart tms-3

by Tina Daniell

  "It's the crone!" Caramon whispered near Dune's ear.

  "The crone!" shouted Dune in fright. "It's the crone!"

  Screaming in terror, Bronk and Dune fell over each other scrambling up the path. Their yells continued for several minutes before fading into the distance.

  Kit, Raist, and Caramon collapsed on the sand, laughing. They were distracted by a loud hissing sound coming from the water. When they looked up, they saw the garish shape slowly collapsing in on itself.

  "I wondered how long those sheep bladders would hold air," Raist said, suddenly thoughtful. "I was worried when we had to force that contraption into a cage and sink it underwater, whether it would deflate and not be able to float when Kit released the lid."

  "You were worried!" exclaimed Kit, between fits of laughter. "Bronk was about to try and kiss me!"

  "Did you see them take off?" Caramon asked, his face flushed and eyes bright. "It'll be a long time before either of them look in our direction."

  "It'll be a long time before they can look each other in the eyes," Raist added solemnly.

  "Of course," Caramon felt compelled to add, "I could have beaten them fair and square, if you had let me settle it my way." He struck an injured pose. "But that was fun," he admitted after a moment. "Good job, Raist."

  "You built the 'monster'," Raist said.

  "Let's leave this junk here," Kit said, standing and surveying the collapsed creation. "Bronk and Dune are bound to slink back and investigate in the safety of daylight. Then they'll see what it was that scared them-birch bark, an empty ale barrel, sheep bladders, and old rags. That's the witch of Crone Lake."

  They all laughed again.

  "Tomorrow we'll spread the story, right?" exulted Caramon. "That'll teach 'em."

  "No," said Raist.

  Caramon looked perplexed. Kit nodded understanding.

  "Let them wonder why we don't tell people," said Raist wisely. "Let them wonder when we are going to start."

  The three of them laughed, reliving their glorious trick on Dune and Bronk all the way back to the cottage, where even Kit was delighted to discover that Rosamun had made vanilla pudding.

  Kitiara had itched with restlessness from almost the moment she'd returned to Solace. Yet as the days grew shorter and fall approached, Kit lingered in the Majere household. Before she knew it, another winter had come on, then spring again, then another summer.

  Kit wanted desperately to leave, but she didn't have very much money and no real destination in mind. There was no word of her father, and she was so far away from Silverhole that she didn't expect to hear any news of Ursa. And she knew that the mercenary would never come back to her part of the world again.

  For the most part, her days revolved around Caramon and Raistlin, but the two of them were so busy with their individual schooling, both were so much older and self-sufficient, that there was less for her to do.

  Rosamun's health went into another stage of deterioration, and most of the time she had no idea that Kit was even living there, as before, up in her small loft. Rosamun had so weakened that she was bedridden for weeks at a time, and easy enough to look after. Bigardus came to the house several times a week, at Gilon's bidding.

  Kit's old friend Aureleen Damark had developed womanly affectations and a steady boyfriend, Ewen Low, a militia cadet. When the two teenage girls got together, they fell easily enough into their former pattern of giggling conversations. But Aureleen's mother did what she could to see that Kit did not receive many invitations to visit.

  Another winter approached. With the onset of colder weather, Kitiara got into the habit of frequenting Otik's in order to keep an eye on parties traveling through Solace.

  Chapter 10

  A Proposal

  Though Otik Sandahl had only been proprietor of the Inn of the Last Home for about fifteen years, the reputation of his place had already spread throughout Abanasinia. Travelers made a point of stopping over in Solace in order to sample the specially brewed ale and spicy fried potatoes Otik served. The innkeeper himself was another inducement. His round eyes and equally round belly bespoke an enjoyment of life he worked hard to share with his tavern's clientele.

  The current renown of the Inn of the Last Home was the more remarkable because of its reputation under the previous owners. These were a married couple, hill dwarves, whose sour dispositions seemed to taint everything from the ale they served to the generally inhospitable atmosphere

  travelers felt the second they entered the inn. The smells from the kitchen were enough to offend a gully dwarf-well, almost.

  Maybe the root of it was their dissatisfaction with having to live quite so far above ground or the unending irritation about their clan's exile from the mountains. Whatever the cause, their marriage degenerated into cold stares and public bickering, even as the inn itself crumbled into disrepute.

  One day the husband got up earlier than the rest of Solace, packed a meager bag of belongings, and left town. Nobody missed him, least of all his wife, who sold the inn to the next traveler on the road-Otik Sandahl-for "a kender half-penny," according to local wags. Where Otik was coming from, or going, was the subject of some speculation, but whatever his plans had been, Otik had reached that stage in life where he wanted to travel less and to settle down more. In any case, it was a happy happenstance. Otik had found his natural calling.

  His first task was to give the inn a thorough cleaning and lovingly polish the vallenwood floors and furniture to perfection. Then he set to work in the kitchen. Of his spicy fried potatoes Otik would say only that the recipe had two basic ingredients: potatoes and spices. "If it don't fill you up, you don't have to pay up," Otik was fond of saying. Soon no one doubted his word.

  Not quite as famous, but every bit as tasty, were other dishes he had learned to prepare on his travels-braised trout cheeks, duck liver pudding, buck stew, and cranberry surprise.

  His traveling days were also reflected in the decor of the inn's common room. He decorated the walls with various mementoes, curios, and anything else that had caught his fancy during that time. And he kept expanding the collection. Despite protests from his customers, each year Otik insisted on closing up the inn for one month-not really trusting anyone else to run it in the proper manner-and indulging what remained of his wanderlust.

  Otik was determined to see as much of Krynn as he could in his time and he journeyed far afield. A rough map behind the long bar, paid in barter for a meal by a kender, showed X-marks for all the places he had visited. Otik always returned with one or two souvenirs. Once it was a fearsome minotaur battle axe. Another time it was a finely embroidered scarf, elfish in origin.

  On his first day back, Otik would produce these curios with a great flourish for his regulars and anyone else who happened to be stopping over at the inn. Then he proudly added the objects to his decor, fussing over exactly the right way to display them, with plenty of advice from his patrons.

  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 th
an 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.