Not knowing what was wrong, I did not have the proper supplies, and it took me another hour to get Gregor loose and to rig a crude sled to bring him back (for, needless to say, he could not walk).
By now several hours had passed since the accident. His leg was black with blood and infection. He was quite delirious.
The cleric said his leg would have had to be cut off anyway, if he hadn't died of pneumonia, because of all the time he was in the cold wind and rain. He died coming back. I didn't even know that he was dead until after we stopped.
We are very sad. The house is not the same.
Raistlin said I did the best I could.
The news had a shattering effect on Mother. Oh, Kit, it was terrible to tell her. Raistlin said he would.
It has now been some weeks. Mother is pale as death itself, barely clinging to life. Raistlin has become very adept at potions and is easing her pain.
(I have become very good at my sword work, and I wish you were here so that I could try some moves on you.)
But she will not live much longer, and I wish you were here to help us. If the kender finds you with this letter, I apologize for its length. But if you are able, I wish that you would come.
Your brothers,
Caramon and Raistlin
Kit put down the letter. Her legs were up on the table. Her tankard of ale went untouched as she sat there, frowning in thought.
Truth to tell, now and then Kitiara wondered about Solace—about home, her old friends and enemies there, Gilon, her brothers, Rosamun.
The letter was an excuse to go back. Within an hour she had paid up her bill and saddled her horse, loading it down with presents and riches.
* * * * *
The plump woman crossing the road was so surprised by the horse that suddenly galloped past, splashing mud on her clean white uniform, that she only had a moment to look up at its rider.
A lean, muscular young woman, dressed in fine leggings and a shiny breastplate, rode in the saddle, her unruly, black hair whipping in the air and a deep scarlet cloak flapping behind her.
Minna shook a fist at the arrogant rider, then patted the hair on the top of her head. She did not recognize Kitiara Uth Matar, and Kit did not notice the old midwife.
At the Majere cottage, the scene was a mixture of joy and sorrow. The boys greeted Kit warmly. Boys! At sixteen, they were already young men. Raistlin was tall and weak-bodied with a wretched cough—but he regarded his half-sister warmly. Caramon was robust and squeezed Kit in a bear hug until she sternly told him to put her down.
Both of them were agape at her armor and finery, at the sturdy roan she rode, and at the parcels that weighted it down. She had brought money to pay all outstanding debt and several gifts for each of them.
The happy homecoming was tempered by the tragedy unfolding in the interior of the cottage, where Rosamun was dying. She looked like a pale wraith. Her small room was lit with candles, and her faithful sister, Quivera, was at her bedside. Quivera gave Kit a nervous nod when she at last entered.
Rosamun had little or no comprehension that Kit had come home.
Kit took to sleeping in Gilon's bed to be close-at-hand in the final days. Yet the days stretched on, and Rosamun did not die. She did not open her eyes, she never got out of bed, and her breath came in weak spurts. Still she did not die.
Kit saw Aureleen down at the market one morning. Her old friend glowed with health, but she was married now and had two little children in tow. A handsome, stocky peasant carried her purchases, giving Kit the eye while tugging at Aureleen. They moved on quickly. The old friends had little to say to each other.
Kit spent an afternoon out horse-riding with Caramon. The oldest twin was much changed—not only bigger and stronger, but more sensible. Gilon's death had matured him. Now, when Kit looked in her half-brother's eyes, she thought of her stepfather, how much his son looked like Gilon, and how Caramon had Gilon's stolid good nature.
In other ways, too, Caramon was different. Kit noticed, with amusement, how he snuck away some late evenings to keep an appointment with one of the local girls down by Crystalmir Lake.
Kit stayed up part of most nights with Raistlin, who had taken on the responsibility of caring for Rosamun during the darkest hours. The visions Rosamun once suffered had faded, but she was still wont to toss and turn, moaning. In this pitiable fashion Kit's mother expended the only energy she had.
Unlike Caramon, Raistlin was not talkative—the opposite, in fact. But in his case, Kitiara had learned to listen for the silences, and the time they spent together at Rosamun's bedside, even under the difficult circumstances, renewed their kinship.
Rosamun's sister stayed with them most of the time, helping out during the day and, at night, sleeping in the big room curled up on a pallet by the fire. A nondescript woman, Quivera gave them a wide berth, and for Kit it was as if she did not exist.
Solace seemed smaller and duller than ever. The house was caught in a limbo as tedious as it was terrible. Before she came, Kit had some idea in her head about making peace with Rosamun at last, but her mother was so far gone that she couldn't respond to words. And Kitiara wondered what it was that she ought to have said to her mother, anyway.
With a passion Kit wished it were all over. She didn't feel in the least guilty about her desire.
Five weeks to the day after Kitiara arrived back in Solace, Rosamun died. Raistlin was alone with her, and he woke the others with the news. That morning, Kitiara said she wouldn't be staying for the funeral which, by Solace tradition, would be three days hence.
"Stay," pleaded Caramon.
"That's all right," said Raistlin. "Go."
In their own way both of them understood.
Even as Rosamun's body was being cleansed and wrapped in linen, Kitiara was beneath the cottage walkway, seeing to her horse. She came up to say goodbye and to give each of her brothers a small leather pouch of carefully selected gemstones worth enough money to see to their worries for more than a year.
"Thanks," stammered Caramon.
Raistlin's eyes showed his gratitude.
"Use them well. They were hard-earned," Kit said, with a wink.
Then, at the last moment, she remembered something and ran back inside and up the short ladder to the space in the back of the cottage where she had lived her girlhood, such as it was.
Things had been moved around, and she had to explore a little before finding the loose board in the wall she was looking for. She reached in and took out a child's wooden sword, smaller than she remembered it and covered with grime. Carrying it, she went out, never sparing a glance into the room where Quivera toiled over the body of her dead sister.
Kit stuck the wooden sword among her possessions before riding off. What use she had for it would be hard to say. But a wooden sword was the only thing of Solace Kitiara cared to take with her, a memento of Gregor Uth Matar. Not that she ever thought about her father any more. Nor about Patric or Beck Gwathmey or Ursa Il Kinth. All that was behind her.
Scanning, formatting and basic
proofing by Undead.
[Meetings 03] - Dark Heart Page 31
