[Meetings 03] - Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell - (ebook by Undead)

  "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 woma
n 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.

  Caramon was standing by the stove, holding a tray of something blackened beyond recognition.

  "Kitiara, I've burned the biscuits," Caramon complained. "What are we going to eat?"

  Kit sighed and closed the door behind her.

  * * * * *

  There was not much to see in Solace, but the days spent with Patric and Strathcoe offered a pleasant respite to Kitiara. Once the local sights were exhausted, they would just meet in the morning and wander off aimlessly, always in good spirits.

  She escorted the two visitors through the elevated walkways, around the town square, to the shores of Crystalmir Lake, even riding with them to Poolbottom, showing them the curious school inside a hill and bragging a bit about her brothers, Raistlin the precocious mage and Caramon the budding warrior.

  Patric proved a good listener, his courtly manners warming to a more familiar attitude as the week wore on. At times he would reach out and touch her cheek or ruffle her curls, murmuring softly, "Kitiara Uth Matar."

  Kit found herself craving this contact, growing very still under his hand, only to have Patric turn away, as if made uncomfortable by his gesture. Always after a few moments of awkwardness, the trio would resume their easy camaraderie, with the ever amenable Strathcoe providing ballast to the situation. He proved a genial giant who, Kit learned, smiled and laughed as much as he grunted and groaned. Strathcoe seemed to find everything amusing, especially the conversation of his master.

  Patric and Kitiara were discreet in the questions they asked each other. Kit revealed only a measured portion of her past. In Solace, everyone knew that Rosamun would never get better, that Kitiara was the daughter of that poor madwoman and might herself be cursed with a streak of wildness. But Patric had no reason to know or care; and with him, she emphasized her father. She told him she was the daughter of Gregor Uth Matar, a consummate warrior and kin to a proud if distant family.

  From him she learned of an imperious father, a mother he idolized, and a waiting mantle of responsibility and authority for which he didn't always feel equipped.

  * * * * *

  On what was to be the last night before Patric and Strathcoe resumed their journey home, the three planned a moonlit picnic on the shores of Crystalmir Lake.

  The night was perfectly cloudless, with both moons shining brightly in the sky and all the world latticed with beams and shadows. They set up their feast on a knoll overlooking the water—cold meats, wine, bread, and fresh fruit packed by Otik.

  After dinner, Kit and Strathcoe had an entertainment planned. She went into her pack and pulled out a wrapped sword, the magnificent weapon from the long-ago ambush of Beck Gwathmey, which she had secreted these past two years. When she unwrapped it and held it before her, Patric's eyes gleamed with surprise and pleasure at its beauty.

  "That is wonderful," he exclaimed. "What do you plan to do with it?"

  "Well, first, I must best the servant," Kit teased. The big, long-tressed man was holding his sword in a pose of mock ferocity. As soon as she finished speaking, Kitiara and Strathcoe set to in a match of mock swordplay. At the end of which, with many grunts and groans, Strathcoe winked at Kit and fell to the ground, clutching his heart.

  "Now the master must defend himself," Kitiara said, pointing her sword toward Patric so that it glinted in the moonlight.

  "Not me," Patric protested with amusement. "As you see, I carry no weapons. That is Strathcoe's business, though the cur has fallen down on the job."

  Strathcoe, sitting up and gurgling with his version of laughter, tossed Patric one of his weapons.

  Kitiara observed that the young noble caught the sword handily enough. With a flourish, she saluted him. Patric hesitated, then responded in kind. Soon they were engaged in the thrust and parry of swordplay. Patric frowned in concentration, but handled the sword well. Yet Kitiara was more agile and decidedly more skilled. After a few minutes she stepped back and raised both hands, laughing. "I'm vanquished," she said, bowing her head in mock surrender. She felt Patric step closer and looked up to find his gaze locked on hers. Impulsively, she stood on tiptoes and kissed him full on the mouth. This time he did not pull away.

  Strathcoe diplomatically retreated to the bottom of the knoll and soon fell asleep, but Patric and Kitiara sat with arms entwined, staring out over the lake and talking, long past midnight.

  As dawn approached, Patric disentangled his arms and removed the pendant from his neck and held it out to her.

  "It's yours."

  Kit drew back, not sure what this meant. "No."

  "I would be lying to you if I told you it was worthless," Patric said, "but the value is mostly sentimental."

  "All the more reason why I can't take it," said Kitiara.

  "All the more reason why you should," Patric said firmly. He draped the amulet around her neck.

  Kitiara opened her mouth to say something else in protest, but Patric waved away her words. "We will make it a trade," he said softly. "Something of yours for something of mine."

  "But I don't have anything," Kit began, then she stopped. Her eyes fell on Beck's sword. It was the only thing of true value that she owned.

  "Take this," she decided impulsively, though it was truly the most prized of her possessions.

  "It is too wonderful, and as you saw—your generous defeat notwithstanding—I have little use for a sword."

  "I think it is a fair exchange," Kit said determinedly. "Strathcoe approves," she added, pointing toward the bottom of the hill where the servant lay, snoring contentedly and loudly.

  Patric had to laugh. He took her hands in his own, gazing steadily at her. "Kitiara Uth Matar," he murmured dreamily. "I want you to come to Gwynned with Strathcoe and me."

  Instantly, without having to think it over, she said yes.

  "I'll run and pack my things," Kit told him, "and sneak away."

  At that Patric frowned. "What about your father and mother?" he asked with genuine concern.

  "I told you, he's my stepfather, not my father, and my mother is too ill to have any understanding of the outside world. Half the time she doesn't know if I'm alive or not."

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. "I don't want you to run away without telling them," he said. "I want you to ask their permission to go away with me. . . ."

  Her eyes showed that she did not understand.

  "And get married."

  Kitiara's eyes bugged out in astonishment, astonishment and something else. She couldn't conceal a shiver of distaste. Traveling with Patric and Strathcoe would be fun, an adventure, but the last thing she wanted to do in her life was get married, even to someone she felt as drawn to as she did to Patric. Images of Rosamun, of Aureleen's mother, women who had no life outside their homes or independence from their men, flooded her mind.

  "Kitiara," Patric said quickly, "I don't want you to say yes or no now, and I promise never to pressure you. The voyage to Northern Ergoth is a long one, at least four weeks, and you will have plenty of time to think about my offer. Take all that time, and more if you want it."

  "But," said Kitiara, groping for words, "I don't know if I could ever get married. Especially not now. There is too much . . ."

  Kit looked at the handsome young man sitting next to her and felt confused. No one had ever extended her the consideration and courtesy he had. No one had ever made her feel the way he did now, looking deeply and approvingly into her eyes.

  "Don't worry about it now," Patric said hastily. "We have only just met, but we will get to know each other better. When you return to my country, you will be treated like royalty. Everything you ask for will be yours. You will have food and clothes and slaves to do your bidding. You may find that very appealing."

  Indeed, Kitiara thought to herself, I might. "Why
me?" she asked.

  Strathcoe had roused himself and was making grumbling noises as he stretched and glanced up the hill. The sun had peeked over the horizon and turned everything pink and orange.

  Patric sighed deeply. "Because," he said wistfully, "I think I love you."

  Kitiara noticed that Strathcoe had stopped his noises and was watching them intently. Until she opened her mouth she didn't know what her answer would be. "All right," she said, not sure precisely what she meant.

  * * * * *

  Kitiara was a little annoyed that Gilon was the one who seemed most genuinely saddened that she was going away, perhaps forever, though she downplayed the "forever" part. Loudly enough for Patric and Strathcoe to overhear, she advised Gilon to keep her loft for her at least until he heard that she was happily settled in Northern Ergoth.

  "I hope that you will be happy, Kit," said Gilon with feeling as she gathered a few belongings and prepared to leave. "But if not, I hope that you return to us, for we will miss you."

  Caramon and Raistlin certainly gave no hint of that. This early in the morning, Caramon was still lying sleepily in his bed, tangled up with the blanket. "G'bye," he mumbled before rolling over.

  Raistlin, of course, was up, already engrossed in some thick, tattered book. He sat on a stool in a far corner of the cottage's main room. He looked up when Kit gave him a parting peck on the cheek, glancing first at her, then at Patric and Strathcoe who were standing respectfully by the door, then back at Kitiara.

  "You'll be back," he said, lowering his eyes again to his book.

  Well, she thought to herself, he and Caramon are mere children. What did I expect, an eloquent farewell?

  "You must say goodbye to your mother," insisted Gilon stolidly.

  Kitiara flinched. "She won't even understand what I'm saying."

  Gilon shrugged his big shoulders and stepped outside again to wait, motioning Patric and Strathcoe to come with