6

Tanis bargains.

Gakhan investigates.

‘Wine?’

‘No.’

Kitiara shrugged. Taking the pitcher from the bowl of snow in which it rested to keep cool, she slowly poured some for herself, idly watching the blood-red liquid run out of the crystal carafe and into her glass. Then she carefully set the crystal carafe back into the snow and sat down opposite Tanis, regarding him coolly.

She had taken off the dragon helm, but she wore her armor still—the night-blue armor, gilded with gold, that fit over her lithe body like scaled skin. The light from the many candles in the room gleamed in the polished surfaces and glinted off the sharp metal edges until Kitiara seemed ablaze in flame. Her dark hair, damp with perspiration, curled around her face. Her brown eyes were bright as fire, shadowed by long, dark lashes.

‘Why are you here, Tanis?’ she asked softly, running her finger along the rim of her glass as she gazed steadily at him.

‘You know why,’ he answered briefly.

‘Laurana, of course,’ Kitiara said.

Tanis shrugged, careful to keep his face a mask, yet fearing that this woman—who sometimes knew him better than he knew himself—could read every thought.

‘You came alone?’ Kitiara asked, sipping at the wine.

‘Yes,’ Tanis replied, returning her gaze without faltering.

Kitiara raised an eyebrow in obvious disbelief.

‘Flint’s dead,’ he added, his voice breaking. Even in his fear, he still could not think of his friend without pain. ‘And Tasslehoff wandered off somewhere. I couldn’t find him. I . . . I didn’t really want to bring him anyway.’

‘I can understand,’ Kit said wryly. ‘So Flint is dead.’

‘Like Sturm,’ Tanis could not help but add through clenched teeth.

Kit glanced at him sharply. ‘The fortunes of war, my dear,’ she said. ‘We were both soldiers, he and I. He understands. His spirit bears me no malice.’

Tanis choked angrily, swallowing his words. What she said was true. Sturm would understand.

Kitiara was silent as she watched Tanis’s face a few moments. Then she set the glass down with a clink.

‘What about my brothers?’ she asked. ‘Where—’

‘Why don’t you just take me to the dungeons and interrogate me?’ Tanis snarled. Rising out of his chair, he began to pace the luxurious room.

Kitiara smiled, an introspective, thoughtful smile. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I could interrogate you there. And you would talk, dear Tanis. You would tell me all I wanted to hear, and then you would beg to tell me more. Not only do we have those who are skilled in the art of torture, but they are passionately dedicated to their profession.’ Rising languorously, Kitiara walked over to stand in front of Tanis Her wine glass in one hand, she placed her other hand on his chest and slowly ran her palm up over his shoulder. ‘But this is not an interrogation. Say, rather, it is a sister, concerned about her family. Where are my brothers?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tanis said. Catching her wrist firmly in his hand, he held her hand away from him. ‘They were both lost in the Blood Sea. ‘

‘With the Green Gemstone Man?’

‘With the Green Gemstone Man.’

‘And how did you survive?’

‘Sea elves rescued me.’

‘Then they might have rescued the others?’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am elven, after all. The others were human.’

Kitiara stared at Tanis long moments. He still held her wrist in his hand. Unconsciously, under her penetrating gaze, his fingers closed around it.

‘You’re hurting me . . .’ Kit whispered softly. ‘Why did you come, Tanis? To rescue Laurana . . . alone? Even you were never that foolish—’

‘No,’ Tanis said, tightening his grasp on Kitiara’s arm. ‘I came to make a trade. Take me. Let her go.’

Kitiara’s eye opened wide. Then, suddenly, she threw back her head and laughed. With a quick, easy move, she broke free of Tanis’s grip and, turning, walked over to the table to refill her wine glass.

She grinned at him over her shoulder. ‘Why, Tanis,’ she said, laughing again, ‘what are you to me that I should make this trade?’

Tanis felt his face flush. Still grinning, Kitiara continued.

‘I have captured their Golden General, Tanis. I have taken their good-luck charm, their beautiful elven warrior. She wasn’t a bad general, either, for that matter. She brought them the dragonlances and taught them to fight. Her brother brought back the good dragons, but everyone credits her. She kept the Knights together, when they should have split apart long before this. And you want me to exchange her for’— Kitiara gestured contemptuously—’a half-elf who’s been wandering the countryside in the company of kender, barbarians, and dwarves!’

Kitiara began to laugh again, laughing so hard she was forced to sit down and wipe tears from her eyes. ‘Really, Tanis, you have a high opinion of yourself. What did you think I’d take you back for? Love?’

There as a subtle change in Kit’s voice, her laugh seemed forced. Frowning suddenly, she twisted the wineglass in her hand.

Tanis did not respond. He could only stand before her, his skin burning at her ridicule. Kitiara stared at him, then lowered her gaze.

‘Suppose I said yes?’ she asked in a cold voice, her eyes on the glass in her hand. ‘What could you give me in return for what I would lose?’

Tanis drew a deep breath. ‘The commander of your forces is dead,’ he said, keeping his voice even. ‘I know. Tas told me he killed him. I’ll take his place.’

‘You’d serve under . . . in the dragonarmies?’ Kit’s eyes widened in genuine astonishment.

‘Yes.’ Tanis gritted his teeth. His voice was bitter. ‘We’ve lost anyway, I’ve seen your floating citadels. We can’t win, even if the good dragons stayed. And they won’t—the people will send them back. The people never trusted them anyway, not really. I care for only one thing—let Laurana go free, unharmed.’

‘I truly believe you would do this,’ Kitiara said softly, marveling. For long moments she stared at him. ‘I’ll have to consider . . .’

Then, as if arguing with herself, she shook her head. Putting the glass to her lips, she swallowed the wine, set the glass down, and rose to her feet.

‘I’ll consider,’ she repeated. ‘But now I must leave you, Tanis. There is a meeting of the Dragon Highlords tonight. They have come from all over Ansalon to attend. You are right, of course. You have lost the war. Tonight we make plans to clench the fist of iron. You will attend me. I will present you to Her Dark Majesty.’

‘And Laurana?’ Tanis persisted.

‘I said I would consider it!’ A dark line marred the smooth skin between Kitiara’s feathery eyebrows. Her voice was sharp. ‘Ceremonial armor will be brought to you. Be dressed and ready to accompany me within the hour.’ She started to go, then turned to face Tanis once more. ‘My decision may depend on how you conduct yourself this evening,’ she said softly. ‘Remember, Half-Elven, from this moment you serve me.’

The brown eyes glittered clear and cold as they held Tanis in their thrall. Slowly he felt the will of this woman press upon him until it was like a strong hand forcing him down onto the polished marble floor. The might of the dragonarmies was behind her, the shadow of the Dark Queen hovered around her, imbuing her with a power Tanis had noticed before.

Suddenly Tanis felt the great distance between them. She was supremely, superbly human. For only the humans were endowed with the lust for power so strong that the raw passion of their nature could be easily corrupted. The humans’ brief lives were as flames that could burn with a pure light like Goldmoon’s candle, like Sturm’s shattered sun. Or the flame could destroy, a searing fire that consumed all in its path. He had warmed his cold, sluggish elven blood by that fire, he had nurtured the flame in his heart. Now he saw himself as he would become—as he had seen the bodies of those who died in the flames of Tarsis—a mass of charred flesh—the heart black and still.

It was his due, the price he must pay. He would lay his soul upon this woman’s altar as another might lay a handful of silver upon a pillow. He owed Laurana that much. She had suffered enough because of him. His death would not free her but his life might.

Slowly, Tanis placed his hand over his heart and bowed.

‘My lord,’ he said.

***

Kitiara walked into her private chamber, her mind in a turmoil. She felt her blood pulse through her veins. Excitement, desire, the glorious elation of victory made her more drunk than the wine. Yet beneath was a nagging doubt, all the more irritating because it turned the elation flat and stale. Angrily she tried to banish it from her mind, but it was brought sharply into focus as she opened the door to her room.

The servants had not expected her so soon. The torches had not been lit; the fire was laid, but not burning. Irritably she reached for the bell rope that would send them scurrying in to be berated for their laxness, when suddenly a cold and fleshless hand closed over her wrist.

The touch of that hand sent a burning sensation of cold through her bones and blood until it nearly froze her heart. Kitiara gasped with the pain and started to pull free, but the hand held her fast.

‘You have not forgotten our bargain?’

‘No, of course not!’ Kitiara said. Trying to keep the quiver of fear from her voice, she commanded sternly, ‘Let me go!’

The hand slowly released its grip. Kitiara hurriedly snatched her arm away, rubbing the flesh that—even in that short span of time—had turned bluish white. ‘The elfwoman will be yours—when the Queen has finished with her, of course.’

‘Of course. I would not want her otherwise. A living woman is of no use to me—not like a living man is of use to you . . .’ The dark figure’s voice lingered unpleasantly over the words.

Kitiara cast a scornful glance at the pallid face, the flickering eyes that floated— disembodied—above the black armor of the knight.

‘Don’t be a fool, Soth,’ she said, pulling the bell rope hastily. She felt a need for light. ‘I am able to separate the pleasures of the flesh from the pleasures of business—something you were unable to do, from what I know of your life.’

‘Then what are your plans for the half-elf?’ Lord Soth asked, his voice seeming—as usual—to come from far below ground.

‘He will be mine, utterly and completely,’ Kitiara said, gently rubbing her injured wrist.

Servants hurried in with hesitant, sideways glances at the Dark Lady, fearing her notorious explosions of wrath. But Kitiara, preoccupied with her thoughts, ignored them. Lord Soth faded back into the shadows as always when the candles were lit.

‘The only way to possess the half-elf is to make him watch as I destroy Laurana,’ Kitiara continued.

‘That is hardly the way to win his love,’ Lord Soth sneered.

‘I don’t want his love.’ Pulling off her gloves and unbuckling her armor, Kitiara laughed shortly. ‘I want him! As long as she lives, his thoughts will be of her and of the noble sacrifice he has made. No, the only way he will be mine—totally—is to be ground beneath the heel of my boot until he is nothing more than a shapeless mass. Then, he will be of use to me.’

‘Not for long,’ Lord Soth remarked caustically. ‘Death will free him.’

Kitiara shrugged. The servants had completed their tasks and vanished quickly. The Dark Lady stood in the light, silent and thoughtful, her armor half-on and half-off, her dragonhelm dangling from her hand.

‘He has lied to me,’ she said softly, after a moment. Then, flinging the helm down on a table, where it struck and shattered a dusty, porcelain vase. Kit began to pace back and forth. ‘He has lied. My brothers did not die in the Blood Sea—at least one of them lives, I know. And so does he—the Everman!’ Peremptorily, Kitiara flung open the door. ‘Gakhan!’ she shouted.

A draconian hurried into the room.

‘What news? Have they found that captain yet?’

‘No, lord,’ the draconian replied. He was the same one who had followed Tanis from the inn in Flotsam, the same who had helped trap Laurana. ‘He is off-duty, lord,’ the creature added as if that explained everything.

Kitiara understood. ‘Search every beer tent and brothel until he is found. Then bring him here. Lock him in irons if you have to. I’ll question him when I return from the Highlord’s Assembly. No, wait. . .’ Kitiara paused, then added, ‘You question him. Find out if the half-elf was truly alone—as he said—or if there were others with him. If so—’

The draconian bowed. ‘You will be informed at once, my lord.’

Kitiara dismissed him with a gesture, and the draconian, bowing again, left, shutting the door behind him. After standing thoughtfully for a moment, Kitiara irritably ran her hand through her curly hair, then began yanking at the straps of her armor once again.

‘You will attend me, tonight,’ she said to Lord Soth, without looking at the apparition of the death knight which, she assumed, was still in its same place behind her. ‘Be watchful. Lord Ariakas will not be pleased with what I intend to do.’

Tossing the last piece of armor to the floor, Kitiara pulled off the leather tunic and the blue silken hose. Then, stretching in luxurious freedom, she glanced over her shoulder to see Lord Soth’s reaction to her words. He was not there. Startled, she glanced quickly around the room.

The spectral knight stood beside the dragonhelm that lay on the table amidst pieces of the broken vase. With a wave of his fleshless hand, Lord Soth caused the shattered remains of the vase to rise into the air and hover before him. Holding them by the force of his magic, the death knight turned to regard Kitiara with his flaming orange eyes as she stood naked before him. The firelight turned her tanned skin golden, made her dark hair shine with warmth.

‘You are a woman still, Kitiara,’ Lord Soth said slowly. ‘You love . . .’

The knight did not move or speak, but the pieces of the vase fell to the floor. His pallid boot trod upon them as he passed, leaving no trace of his passing.

‘And you hurt,’ he said softly to Kitiara as he drew near her. ‘Do not deceive yourself. Dark Lady. Crush him as you will, the half-elf will always be your master—even in death.’

Lord Soth melded with the shadows of the room. Kitiara stood for long moments, staring into the blazing fire, seeking— perhaps—to read her fortune in the flames.

Gakhan walked rapidly down the corridor of the Queen’s palace, his clawed feet clicking on the marble floors. The draconian’s thoughts kept pace with his stride. It had suddenly occurred to him where the captain might be found. Seeing two draconians attached to Kitiara’s command lounging at the end of the corridor, Gakhan motioned them to fall in behind him. They obeyed immediately. Though Gakhan held no rank in the dragonarmy—not any more—he was known officially as the Dark Lady’s military aide. Unofficially he was known as her personal assassin.

Gakhan had been in Kitiara’s service a long time. When word of the discovery of the blue crystal staff had reached the Queen of Darkness and her minions, few of the Dragon Highlords attached much importance to its disappearance. Deeply involved in the war that was slowly stamping the life out of the northern lands of Ansalon, something as trivial as a staff with healing powers did not merit their attention. It would take a great deal of healing to heal the world, Ariakas had stated, laughing, at a Council of War.

But two Highlords did take the disappearance of the staff seriously: one who ruled that part of Ansalon where the staff had been discovered, and one who had been born and raised in the area. One was a dark cleric, the other a skilled swordswoman. Both knew how dangerous proof of the return of the ancient gods could be to their cause.

They reacted differently, perhaps because of location. Lord Verminaard sent out swarms of draconians, goblins, and hobgoblins with full descriptions of the blue crystal staff and its powers. Kitiara sent Gakhan.

It was Gakhan who traced Riverwind and the blue crystal staff to the village of Que-shu, and it was Gakhan who ordered the raid on the village, systematically murdering most of the inhabitants in a search for the staff.

But he left Que-shu suddenly, having heard reports of the staff in Solace. The draconian traveled to that town, only to find that he had missed it by a matter of weeks. But there he discovered that the barbarians who carried the staff had been joined by a group of adventurers, purportedly from Solace according to the locals he ‘interviewed.’

Gakhan was faced with a decision at this point. He could try and pick up their trail, which had undoubtedly grown cold during the intervening weeks, or he could return to Kitiara with descriptions of these adventurers to see if she knew them. If so, she might be able to provide him with information that would allow him to plot their movements in advance.

He decided to return to Kitiara, who was fighting in the north. Lord Verminaard’s thousands were much more likely to find the staff than Gakhan. He brought complete descriptions of the adventurers to Kitiara, who was startled to learn that they were her two half-brothers, her old comrades-in-arms, and her former lover. Immediately Kitiara saw the workings of a great power here, for she knew that this group of mismatched wanderers could be forged into a dynamic force for either good or evil. She immediately took her misgivings to the Queen of Darkness, who was already disturbed by the portent of the missing constellation of the Valiant Warrior. At once the Queen knew she had been correct, Paladine had returned to fight her. But by the time she realized the danger, the damage had been done.

Kitiara set Gakhan back on the trail. Step by step, the clever draconian traced the companions from Pax Tharkas to the dwarven kingdom. It was he who followed them in Tarsis, and there he and the Dark Lady would have captured them had it not been for Alhana Starbreeze and her griffons.

Patiently Gakhan kept on their trail. He knew of the group’s separation, hearing reports of them from Silvanesti—where they drove off the great green dragon, Cyan Bloodbane, and then from Ice Wall, where Laurana killed the dark elven magicuser, Feal-Thas. He knew of the discovery of the dragon orbs— the destruction of one, the frail mage’s acquisition of the other.

It was Gakhan who followed Tanis in Flotsam, and who was able to direct the Dark Lady to them aboard the Perechon. But here again, as before, Gakhan moved his game piece only to find an opponent’s piece blocking a final move. The draconian did not despair. Gakhan knew his opponent; he knew the great power opposing him. He was playing for high stakes—very high stakes indeed.

Thinking of all this as he left the Dark Majesty’s Temple— where even now the Dragon Highlords were gathering for High Conclave—Gakhan entered the streets of Neraka. It was light now, just at the end of day. As the sun slid down from the sky, its last rays were freed from the shadow of the citadels. It burned now above the mountains, gilding the still snowcapped peaks blood red.

Gakhan’s reptilian gaze did not linger on the sunset. Instead it flicked among the streets of the tent town, now almost completely empty since most of the draconians were required to be in attendance upon their lords this evening. The Highlords had a notable lack of trust in each other and in their Queen. Murder had been done before in her chambers—and would, most likely, be done again.

That did not concern Gakhan, however. In fact, it made his job easier. Quickly he led the other draconians through the foul-smelling, refuse-littered streets. He could have sent them on this mission without him, but Gakhan had come to know his great opponent very well and he had a distinct feeling of urgency. The wind of momentous events was starting to swirl into a huge vortex. He stood in the eye now, but he knew it would soon sweep him up. Gakhan wanted to be able to ride those winds, not be hurled upon the rocks.

‘This is the place,’ he said, standing outside of a beer tent. A sign tacked to a post read in Common—The Dragon’s Eye, while a placard propped in front stated in crudely lettered Common: ‘Dracos and goblins not allowed.’ Peering through the filthy tent flap, Gakhan saw his quarry. Motioning to his escorts, he thrust aside the flap and stepped inside.

An uproar greeted his entrance as the humans in the bar turned their bleary eyes on the newcomers and—seeing three draconians—immediately began to shout and jeer. The shouts and jeers died almost instantly, however, when Gakhan removed the hood that covered his reptilian face. Everyone recognized Lord Kitiara’s henchman. A pall settled over the crowd thicker than the rank smoke and foul odors that filled the bar. Casting fearful glances at the draconians, the humans hunched their shoulders over their drinks and huddled down, trying to become inconspicuous.

Gakhan’s glittering black gaze swept over the crowd.

‘There,’ he said in draconian, motioning to a human slouched over the bar. His escorts acted instantly, seizing the one-eyed human soldier, who stared at them in drunken terror.

‘Take him outside, in back,’ Gakhan ordered.

Ignoring the bewildered captain’s protests and pleadings, as well as the baleful looks and muttered threats from the crowd, the draconians dragged their captive out into the back. Gakhan followed more slowly.

It took only a few moments for the skilled draconians to sober their prisoner up enough to talk—the man’s hoarse screams caused many of the bar’s patrons to lose their taste for their liquor—but eventually he was able to respond to Gakhan’s questioning.

‘Do you remember arresting a dragonarmy officer this afternoon on charges of desertion?’

The captain remembered questioning many officers today . . . he was a busy man . . . they all looked alike. Gakhan gestured to the draconians, who responded promptly and efficiently.

The captain screamed in agony. Yes, yes! He remembered! But it wasn’t just one officer. There had been two of them.

‘Two?’ Gakhan’s eyes glittered. ‘Describe the other officer.’

‘A big human, really big. Bulging out of his uniform. And there had been prisoners . . .’

‘Prisoners!’ Gakhan’s reptilian tongue flicked in and out of his mouth. ‘Describe them!’

The captain was only too happy to describe. ‘A human woman, red curls, breasts the size of . . .’

‘Get on with it,’ Gakhan snarled. His clawed hands trembled. He glanced at his escorts and the draconians tightened their grip.

Sobbing, the captain gave hurried descriptions of the other two prisoners, his words falling over themselves.

‘A kender,’ Gakhan repeated, growing more and more excited. ‘Go on! An old man, white beard—’ He paused, puzzled. The old magic-user? Surely they would not have allowed that decrepit old fool to accompany them on a mission so important and fraught with peril. If not, then who? Someone else they had picked up?

‘Tell me more about the old man,’ Gakhan ordered.

The captain cast desperately about in his liquor-soaked and pain-stupefied brain. The old man . . . white beard . . .

‘Stooped?’

No . . . tall, broad shoulders . . . blue eyes. Queer eyes— The captain was on the verge of passing out. Gakhan clutched the man in his clawed hand, squeezing his neck.

‘What about the eyes?’

Fearfully the captain stared at the draconian who was slowly choking the life from him. He babbled something.

‘Young . . . too young!’ Gakhan repeated in exultation. Now he knew! ‘Where are they?’

The captain gasped out a word, then Gakhan hurled him to the floor with a crash.

The whirlwind was rising. Gakhan felt himself being swept upwards. One thought beat in his brain like the wings of a dragon as he and his escorts left the tent, racing for the dungeons below the palace.

The Everman . . . the Everman . . . the Everman!