2

The penalty of failure.

‘There it is, sir,’ said the dragon, a huge red monster with glistening black eyes and a wing span that was like the shadows of night. ‘Dargaard Keep. Wait, you can see it clearly in the moonlight . . . when the clouds part.’

‘I see it,’ replied a deep voice. The dragon, hearing the dagger-edged anger in the man’s tone, began his descent swiftly, spiraling round and round as he tested the shifting air currents among the mountains. Nervously eyeing the keep surrounded by the rocky crags of the jagged mountains, the dragon looked for a place to make a smooth and easy landing. It would never do to jounce Lord Ariakas.

At the far northern end of the Dargaard Mountains stood their destination—Dargaard Keep, as dark and dismal as its legends. Once—when the world was young—Dargaard Keep had graced the mountain peaks, its rose-colored walls rising in graceful sweeping beauty up from the rock in the very likeness of a rose itself. But now, thought Ariakas grimly, the rose has died. The Highlord was not a poetic man, nor was he much given to flights of fancy. But the fire-blackened, crumbling castle atop the rock looked so much like a decayed rose upon a withering bush that the image struck him forcibly. Black latticework, stretching from broken tower to broken tower, no longer formed the petals of the rose. Instead, mused Ariakas, it is the web of the insect whose poison had killed it.

The great red dragon wheeled a final time. The southern wall surrounding the courtyard had fallen a thousand feet to the base of the cliff during the Cataclysm, leaving a clear passage to the gates of the keep itself. Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, the red saw smooth tiled pavement beyond, broken only here and there by rents in the stonework, suitable for a smooth landing. Even dragons—who feared few things on Krynn—found it healthier to avoid Lord Ariakas’s displeasure.

In the courtyard below, there was a sudden fever of activity, looking like an anthill disturbed by the approach of a wasp. Draconians shrieked and pointed. The captain of the night watch came hurrying to the battlements, looking over the edge into the courtyard. The draconians were right. A flight of red dragons were indeed landing in the courtyard, one of them bearing an officer, too, by the armor. The captain watched uneasily as the man leaped from the dragon saddle before his mount had come to halt. The dragon’s wings beat furiously to avoid striking the officer, sending dust billowing about him in moonlit clouds as he strode purposefully across the stones of the courtyard toward the door. His black boots rang on the pavement, sounding like a death knell.

And—with that thought—the captain gasped, suddenly recognizing the officer. Turning, nearly stumbling over the draconian in his haste, he cursed the soldier and ran through the keep in search of Acting Commander, Garibanus.

Lord Ariakas’s mailed fist fell upon the wooden door with a thunderous blow that sent splinters flying. Draconians scrambled to open it, then shrank back abjectly as the Dragon Highlord stalked inside, accompanied by a blast of cold wind that extinguished the candles and caused torch flames to waver.

Casting a swift glance from behind the gleaming mask of the dragonhelm as he entered, Ariakas saw a large circular hallway spanned by a vaulted, domed ceiling. Two giant curved staircases rose from either side of the entryway, leading up to a balcony on the second level. As Ariakas looked around, ignoring the groveling draconians, he saw Garibanus emerge from a doorway near the top of the stairs, hastily buttoning his trousers and pulling a shirt over his head. The captain of the watch stood—quaking—next to Garibanus, pointing down at the Dragon Highlord.

Ariakas guessed in a moment whose company the acting commander had been enjoying. Apparently he was filling in for the missing Bakaris in more ways than one!

‘So that’s where she is!’ Lord Ariakas thought in satisfaction. He strode across the hallway and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Draconians scuttled out of his path like rats. The captain of the guard disappeared. Ariakas was fully halfway up the stairs before Garibanus had collected himself enough to address him.

‘L-Lord Ariakas,’ he stammered, stuffing his shirt into his pants and hurrying down the stairs. ‘This is an—err— unexpected honor.’

‘Not unexpected, I believe?’ Ariakas said smoothly, his voice sounding strangely metallic coming from the depths of the dragonhelm.

‘Well, perhaps not,’ Garibanus said with a weak laugh.

Ariakas continued climbing, his eyes fixed on a doorway above him. Realizing the lord’s intended destination, Garibanus interposed himself between Ariakas and the door.

‘My lord,’ he began apologetically, ‘Kitiara is dressing. She—’

Without a word, without even pausing in his stride. Lord Ariakas swung his gloved hand. The blow caught Garibanus in the ribcage. There was a whooshing sound, like a bellows deflating, and the sound of bones cracking, then a wet soggy splatter as the force of the blow sent the young man’s body into the wall opposite the stairs some ten yards distant. The limp body slid to the floor below, but Ariakas never noticed. Without a backward glance, he resumed his climb, his eyes on the door at the top of the stairs.

Lord Ariakas, commander-in-chief of the dragonarmies, reporting directly to the Dark Queen herself, was a brilliant man, a military genius. Ariakas had nearly held the rulership of the Ansalon continent in his grasp. Already he was styling himself ‘Emperor.’ His Queen was truly pleased with him, his rewards from her were many and lavish.

But now he saw his beautiful dream slipping through his fingers like smoke from autumn fires. He had received reports of his troops fleeing wildly across the Solamnic plains, falling back from Palanthas, withdrawing from Vingaard Keep, abandoning plans for the siege of Kalaman. The elves had allied with human forces in Northern and Southern Ergoth. The mountain dwarves had emerged from their subterranean home of Thorbardin and, it was reported, allied with their ancient enemies, the hill dwarves and a group of human refugees in an attempt to drive the dragonarmies from Abanasinia. Silvanesti had been freed. A Dragon Highlord had been killed in Ice Wall. And, if rumor was to be believed, a group of gully dwarves held Pax Tharkas!

Thinking of this as he swept up the stairs, Ariakas worked himself into a fury. Few survived Lord Ariakas’s displeasure. None survived his furies.

Ariakas inherited his position of authority from his father, who had been a cleric in high standing with the Queen of Dark ness. Although only forty, Ariakas had held his position almost twenty years—his father having met an untimely death at the hands of his own son. When Ariakas was two, he had watched his father brutally murder his mother, who had been attempting to flee with her little son before the child became as perverted with evil as his father.

Though Ariakas always treated his father with outward shows of respect, he never forgot his mother’s murder. He worked hard and excelled in his studies, making his father inordinately proud. Many wondered whether that pride was with the father as he felt the first thrusts of the knife-blade his nineteen-year-old son plunged into his body in revenge for his mother’s death—and with an eye to the throne of Dragon Highlord.

Certainly it was no great tragedy to the Queen of Darkness, who quickly found young Ariakas more than made up for the loss of her favorite cleric. The young man had no clerical talents himself, but his considerable skills as a magic-user won him the Black Robes and the commendations of the evil wizards who instructed him. Although he passed the dreadful Tests in the Tower of High Sorcery, magic was not his love. He practiced it infrequently, and never wore the Black Robes which marked his standing as a wizard of evil powers.

Ariakas’s true passion was war. It was he who had devised the strategy that had enabled the Dragon Highlords and their armies to subjugate almost all of the continent of Ansalon. It was he who had insured that they met with almost no resistance, for it had been Ariakas’s brilliant strategy to move swiftly, striking the divided human, elf, and dwarven races before they had time to unite, and snap them up piecemeal. By summer, Ariakas’s plan called for him to rule Ansalon unchallenged. Other Dragon Highlords on other continents of Krynn were looking to him with undisguised envy—and fear. For one continent could never satisfy Ariakas. Already his eyes were turning westward, across the Sirrion Sea.

But now—disaster.

Reaching the door of Kitiara’s bedchamber, Ariakas found it locked. Coldly he spoke one word in the language of magic and the heavy wooden door blew apart. Ariakas strode through the shower of sparks and blue flame that engulfed the door into Kitiara’s chamber, his hand on his sword.

Kit was in bed. At the sight of Ariakas she rose, her hand clutching a silken dressing gown around her lithe body. Even through his raging fury, Ariakas was still forced to admire the woman who, of all his commanders, he had come to rely on most. Though his arrival must have caught her off guard, though she must know she had forfeited her life by allowing herself to be defeated, she faced him coolly and calmly. Not a spark of fear lit her brown eyes, not a murmur escaped her lips.

This only served to enrage Ariakas further, reminding him of his extreme disappointment in her. Without speaking, he yanked off the dragonhelm and hurled it across the room where it slammed into an ornately carved wooden chest, shattering it like glass.

At the sight of Ariakas’s face, Kitiara momentarily lost control and shrank back in her bed, her hand nervously clasping the ribbons of her gown.

Few there were who could look up on Ariakas’s face without blenching. It was a face devoid of any human emotion. Even his anger showed only in the twitching of a muscle along his jaw. Long black hair swept down around his pallid features. A day’s growth of beard appeared blue on his smooth-shaven skin. His eyes were black and cold as an ice-bound lake.

Ariakas reached the side of the bed in a bound. Ripping down the curtains that hung around it, he reached out and grabbed hold of Kitiara’s short, curly hair. Dragging her from her bed, he hurled her to the stone floor.

Kitiara fell heavily, an exclamation of pain escaping her. But she recovered quickly, and was already starting to twist to her feet like a cat when Ariakas’s voice froze her.

‘Stay on your knees, Kitiara,’ he said. Slowly and deliberately he removed his long, shining sword from its scabbard. ‘Stay on your knees and bow your head, as the condemned do when they come to the block. For I am your executioner, Kitiara. Thus do my commanders pay for their failure!’

Kitiara remained kneeling, but she looked up at him. Seeing the flame of hatred in her brown eyes, Ariakas felt a moment’s thankfulness that he held his sword in his hand. Once more he was compelled to admire her. Even facing imminent death, there was no fear in her eyes. Only defiance.

He raised his blade, but the blow did not fall.

Bone-cold fingers wrapped around the wrist of his swordarm.

‘I believe you should hear the Highlord’s explanation,’ said a hollow voice.

Lord Ariakas was a strong man. He could hurl a spear with force enough to drive it completely through the body of a horse. He could break a man’s neck with one twist of his hand. Yet he found he could not wrench himself loose from the chill grasp that was slowly crushing his wrist. Finally, in agony, Ariakas dropped the sword. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

Somewhat shaken, Kitiara rose to her feet. Making a gesture, she commanded her minion to release Ariakas. The Lord whirled around, raising a hand to call forth the magic that would reduce this creature to cinders.

Then he stopped. Sucking in his breath, Ariakas stumbled backwards, the magic spell he had been prepared to cast slipping from his mind.

Before him stood a figure no taller than himself, clad in armor so old it predated the Cataclysm. The armor was that of a Knight of Solamnia. The symbol of the Order of the Rose was traced upon the front, barely visible and worn with age. The armored figure wore no helm, it carried no weapon. Yet Ariakas—staring at it—fell back another step. For the figure he stared at was not the figure of a living man.

The being’s face was transparent. Ariakas could see right through it to the wall beyond. A pale light flickered in the cavernous eyes. It stared straight ahead, as if it, too, could see right through Ariakas.

‘A death knight!’ he whispered in awe.

The Lord rubbed his aching wrist, numb with the cold of those who dwell in realms far removed from the warmth of living flesh. More frightened than he dared admit, Ariakas bent down to retrieve his sword, muttering a charm to ward off the aftereffects of such a deadly touch. Rising, he cast a bitter glance at Kitiara, who was regarding him with a crooked smile.

‘This—this creature serves you?’ he asked hoarsely.

Kitiara shrugged. ‘Let us say, we agree to serve each other.’

Ariakas regarded her in grudging admiration. Casting a sidelong glance at the death knight, he sheathed his sword.

‘Does he always frequent your bedroom?’ He sneered. His wrist ached abominably.

‘He comes and goes as he chooses,’ Kitiara replied. She gathered the folds of the gown casually around her body, reacting apparently more from the chill in the early spring air than out of a desire for modesty. Shivering, she ran her hand through her curly hair and shrugged. ‘It’s his castle, after all.’

Ariakas paused, a faraway look in his eyes, his mind running back over ancient legends. ‘Lord Soth!’ he said suddenly, turning to the figure. ‘Knight of the Black Rose.’

The Knight bowed in acknowledgment.

‘I had forgotten the ancient story of Dargaard Keep,’ Ariakas murmured, regarding Kitiara thoughtfully. ‘You have more nerve than even I gave you credit for, lady—taking up residence in this accursed dwelling! According to legend. Lord Soth commands a troop of skeletal warriors—’

‘An effective force in a battle,’ Kitiara replied, yawning. Walking over to a small table near a fireplace, she picked up a cut-glass carafe. ‘Their touch alone’—she regarded Ariakas with smile—’well, you know what their touch is like to those who lack the magic skills to defend against it. Some wine?’

‘Very well,’ Ariakas replied, his eyes still on the transparent face of Lord Soth. ‘What about the dark elves, the banshee women who reputedly follow him?’

‘They’re here . . . somewhere.’ Kit shivered again, then lifted her wineglass. ‘You’ll probably hear them before long. Lord Soth doesn’t sleep, of course. The ladies help him pass the long hours in the night.’ For an instant, Kitiara paled, holding the wine glass to her lips. Then she set it down untouched, her hand shaking slightly. ‘It is not pleasant,’ she said briefly. Glancing around, she asked, ‘What have you done with Garibanus?’

Tossing off the glass of wine, Ariakas gestured negligently. ‘I left him . . . at the bottom of the stairs.’

‘Dead?’ Kitiara questioned, pouring the Highlord another glass.

Ariakas scowled. ‘Perhaps. He got in my way. Does it matter?’

‘I found him . . . entertaining,’ Kitiara said. ‘He filled Bakaris’s place in more than one respect.’

‘Bakaris, yes.’ Lord Ariakas drank another glass. ‘So your commander managed to get himself captured as your armies went down to defeat!’

‘He was an imbecile,’ Kitiara said coldly. ‘He tried riding dragonback, even though he is still crippled.’

‘I heard. What happened to his arm?’

‘The elf woman shot him with an arrow at the High Clerist’s Tower. It was his own fault, and he now has paid for it. I had removed him from command, making him my bodyguard. But he insisted on trying to redeem himself.’

‘You don’t appear to be mourning his loss,’ Ariakas said, eyeing Kitiara. The dressing gown, tied together only by two ribbons at the neck, did little to cover her lithe body.

Kit smiled. ‘No, Garibanus is . . . quite a good replacement. I hope you haven’t killed him. It will be a bother getting someone else to go to Kalaman tomorrow.’

‘What are you doing at Kalaman—preparing to surrender to the elf woman and the knights?’ Lord Ariakas asked bitterly, his anger returning with the wine.

‘No,’ Kitiara said. Sitting down in a chair opposite Ariakas, she regarded him coolly. ‘I’m preparing to accept their surrender.’

‘Ha!’ Ariakas snorted. ‘They’re not insane. They know they’re winning. And they’re right!’ His face flushed. Picking up the carafe, he emptied it into his glass. ‘You owe your death knight your life, Kitiara. Tonight at least. But he won’t be around you forever.’

‘My plans are succeeding much better than I had hoped,’ Kitiara replied smoothly, not in the least disconcerted by Ariakas’s flickering eyes. ‘If I fooled you, my lord, I have no doubt that I have fooled the enemy.’

‘And how have you fooled me, Kitiara?’ Ariakas asked with lethal calm. ‘Do you mean to say that you are not losing on all fronts? That you are not being driven from Solamnia? That the dragonlances and the good dragons have not brought about ignominious defeat?’ His voice rose with each word.

‘They have not!’ Kitiara snapped, her brown eyes flashing. Leaning across the table, she caught hold of Ariakas’s hand as he was about to raise the wineglass to his lips. ‘As for the good dragons, my lord, my spies tell me their return was due to an elflord and a silver dragon breaking into the temple at Sanction where they discovered what was happening to the good dragon eggs. Whose fault was that? Who slipped up there? Guarding that temple was your responsibility—’

Furiously, Ariakas wrenched his hand free of Kitiara’s grip. Hurling the wineglass across the room, he stood and faced her.

‘By the gods, you go too far!’ he shouted, breathing heavily.

‘Quit posturing,’ Kitiara said. Coolly rising to her feet, she turned and walked across the room. ‘Follow me to my war room, and I will explain my plans.’ ***

Ariakas stared down at the map of northern Ansalon. ‘It might work,’ he admitted.

‘Of course, it will work,’ Kit said, yawning and stretching languidly. ‘My troops have run before them like frightened rabbits. Too bad the knights weren’t astute enough to notice that we always drifted southward, and they never wondered why my forces just seemed to melt away and vanish. Even as we speak, my armies are gathering in a sheltered valley south of these mountains. Within a week, an army several thousand strong will be ready to march on Kalaman. The loss of their ‘Golden General’ will destroy their morale. The city will probably capitulate without a fight. From there, I regain all the land we appear to have lost. Give me command of that fool Toede’s armies to the south, send the flying citadels I’ve asked for, and Solamnia will think it’s been hit by another Cataclysm!’

‘But the elfwoman—’

‘Need not concern us,’ Kitiara said.

Ariakas shook his head. ‘This seems the weak link in your plans, Kitiara. What about Half-Elven? Can you be certain he won’t interfere?’

‘It doesn’t matter about him. She is the one who counts and she is a woman in love.’ Kitiara shrugged. ‘She trusts me, Ariakas. You scoff, but it’s true. She trusts me too much and Tanis Half-Elven too little. But that’s always the way of lovers. The ones we love most are those we trust least. It proved quite fortunate Bakaris fell into their hands.’

Hearing a change in her voice, Ariakas glanced at Kitiara sharply, but she had turned from him, keeping her face averted. Immediately he realized she was not as confident as she seemed, and then he knew she had lied to him. The half-elf! What about him? Where was he, for that matter? Ariakas had heard a great deal about him, but had never met him. The Dragon Highlord considered pressing her on this point, then abruptly changed his mind. Much better to have in his possession the knowledge that she had lied. It gave him a power over this dangerous woman. Let her relax in her supposed complacency.

Yawning elaborately, Ariakas feigned indifference. ‘What will you do with the elfwoman?’ he asked as she would expect him to ask. Ariakas’s passion for delicate blonde women was well-known.

Kitiara raised her eyebrows, giving him a playful look. ‘Too bad, my lord,’ she said mockingly, ‘but Her Dark Highness has asked for the lady. Perhaps you could have her when the Dark Queen is finished.’

Ariakas shivered. ‘Bah, she’ll be of no use to me then. Give her to your friend. Lord Soth. He liked elfwomen once upon a time, if I remember correctly.’

‘You do,’ murmured Kitiara. Her eyes narrowed. She held up her hand. ‘Listen,’ she said softly.

Ariakas fell silent. At first he heard nothing, then he gradually became aware of a strange sound—a wailing keen, as if a hundred women mourned their dead. As he listened, it grew louder and louder, piercing the stillness of the night.

The Dragon Highlord set down his wineglass, startled to see his hand trembling. Looking at Kitiara, he saw her face pale beneath its tan. Her large eyes were wide. Feeling his eyes upon her, Kitiara swallowed and licked her dry lips.

‘Awful, isn’t it?’ she asked, her voice cracking.

‘I faced horrors in the Towers of High Sorcery,’ said Ariakas softly, ‘but that was nothing compared to this. What is it?’

‘Come,’ Kit said, standing up. ‘If you have the nerve, I’ll show you.’

Together, the two left the war room, Kitiara leading Ariakas through the winding corridors of the castle until they came back to Kit’s bedroom above the circular entry way with the vaulted ceiling.

‘Stay in the shadows,’ Kitiara warned.

An unnecessary warning, Ariakas thought as they crept softly out onto the balcony overlooking the circular room. Looking down over the edge of the balcony, Ariakas was overcome with sheer horror at the sight below him. Sweating, he drew back swiftly in the shadows of Kitiara’s bedroom.

‘How can you stand that?’ he asked her as she entered and shut the door softly behind her. ‘Does that go on every night?’

‘Yes,’ she said, trembling. She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. Within a moment she was back in control. ‘Sometimes I think I’m used to it, then I make the mistake of looking down there. The song isn’t so bad . . .’

‘It’s ghastly!’ Ariakas muttered, wiping cold sweat from his face. ‘So Lord Soth sits down there on his throne every night, surrounded by his skeletal warriors, and the dark hags sing that horrible lullaby!’

‘And it is the same song, always,’ Kitiara murmured. Shivering, she absently picked up the empty wine carafe, then set it back down on the table. ‘Though the past tortures him, he cannot escape it. Always he ponders, wondering what he might have done to avoid the fate that dooms him to walk forever upon the land without rest. The dark elven women, who were part of his downfall, are forced to relive his story with him. Nightly they must repeat it. Nightly he must hear it.’

‘What are the words?’

‘I know them, now, almost as well as he does.’ Kitiara laughed, then shuddered. ‘Call for another carafe of wine and I’ll tell you his tale, if you have the time.’

‘I have time,’ Ariakas said, settling back in his chair. ‘Though I must leave in the morning if I am to send the citadels.’

Kitiara smiled at him, the charming, crooked smile that so many had found so captivating.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said. ‘I will not fail you again.’

‘No,’ said Ariakas coolly, ringing a small silver bell, ‘I can promise you that, Kitiara. If you do, you will find his fate’—he motioned downstairs where the wailing had reached a shivering pitch—’a pleasant one compared to your own.’ The Knight of the Black Rose.

‘You know,’ began Kitiara, ‘Lord Soth was a true and noble knight of Solamnia. But he was an intensely passionate man, lacking in selfdiscipline, and this was his downfall.

‘Soth fell in love with a beautiful elfmaid, a disciple of the Kingpriest of Istar. He was married at the time, but thoughts of his wife vanished at the sight of the elfmaid’s beauty. Forsaking both his sacred marriage vows and his knightly vows, Soth gave in to his passion. Lying to the girl, he seduced her and brought her to live at Dargaard Keep, promising to marry her. His wife disappeared under sinister circumstances.’

Kitiara shrugged, then continued:

‘According to what I’ve heard of the song, the elfmaid remained true to the knight, even after she discovered his terrible misdeeds. She prayed to the Goddess Mishakal that the knight be allowed to redeem himself and, apparently, her prayers were answered. Lord Soth was given the power to prevent the Cataclysm, though it would mean sacrificing his own life.

‘Strengthened by the love of the girl he had wronged, Lord Soth left for Istar, fully intending to stop the Kingpriest and restore his shattered honor.

‘But the knight was halted in his journey by elven women, disciples of the Kingpriest, who knew of Lord Soth’s crime and threatened to ruin him. To weaken the effects of the elfmaid’s love, they intimated that she had been unfaithful to him in his absence.

‘Soth’s passions took hold of him, destroying his reason. In a jealous rage he rode back to Dargaard Keep. Entering his door, he accused the innocent girl of betraying him. Then the Cataclysm struck. The great chandelier in the entryway fell to the floor, consuming the elfmaid and her child in flames. As she died, she called down a curse upon the knight, condemning him to eternal, dreadful life. Soth and his followers perished in the fire, only to be reborn in hideous form.’

‘So this is what he hears,’ Ariakas murmured, listening. ‘As And in the climate of dreams When you recall her, when the world of the dream expands, wavers in light, when you stand at the edge of blessedness and sun. Then we shall make you remember, shall make you live again through the long denial of body For you were first dark in the light’s hollow, expanding like a stain, a cancer For you were the shark in the slowed water beginning to move For you were the notched head of a snake, sensing forever warmth and form For you were inexplicable death in the crib, the long house in betrayal And you were more terrible than this in a loud alley of visions, for you passed through unharmed, unchanging As the women screamed, unraveling silence, halving the door of the world, bringing forth monsters As a child opened in parabolas of fire There at the borders of two lands burning As the world split, wanting to swallow you back willing to give up everything to lose you in darkness. You passed through these unharmed, unchanging, but now you see them strung on our words—on your own conceiving as you pass from night—to awareness of night to know that hatred is the calm of philosophers that its price is forever that it draws you through meteors through winter’s transfixion through the blasted rose through the sharks’ water through the black compression of oceans through rock—through magma to yourself—to an abscess of nothing that you will recognize as nothing that you will know is coming again and again under the same rules.