Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell

  Ursa, meanwhile, had set Kit down and upended her pack, emptying its modest contents on the ground. Finding nothing of interest there, he replaced the belongings and handed Kit’s bag to his tall, stooped cohort with the sad face, who clutched it stolidly. That one had not said a word.

  Then Ursa began to push Kitiara toward the campsite. When she resisted, he grabbed the rope around her wrists and tugged harshly, so that her shoulder blades were twisted. She practically tripped over her own feet as she was dragged backward, but she did not protest. Kitiara wouldn’t yield that satisfaction.

  The other three followed, the looks on their faces as different as their personalities: El-Navar, curious, even amused; Radisson, cold and suspicious; the sad-faced one, dismayed. When Ursa reached the campsite, he gave Kit a shove that dumped her unceremoniously to the ground. She rolled over in the dirt and struggled to a sitting position against a stump. Glancing around, Kit took in the cut branches holding up the blanket-shapes in front of the fire. Stupid, that night age-old trick! Her eyes gleamed with fury, as much at herself as at her captors.

  Ursa sat down on a nearby rock. Radisson and the tall morose one followed suit, a little farther away, their eyes narrowed on Kit.

  “Her horse is a mile back, I daresay,” said Ursa.

  His tone had leveled, become more matter-of-fact, but showed no hint of warmth. He reached over to stir the embers of the fire, whistling thoughtfully to himself. Almost imperceptibly his eyes scanned the treetops.

  “I’m quite sure she’s alone,” he said after completing his survey.

  The other two were obviously waiting for Ursa or El-Navar to make a decision as to Kitiara’s fate. But Ursa said nothing more and El-Navar, standing near the fire to warm his hands, now showed little interest in the matter. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to act.

  “What do we do with her?” whined Radisson, fed up after a few minutes of this.

  “She doesn’t know anything,” said Ursa emphatically.

  “Why was she following us then?” questioned Radisson.

  The wind picked up, scattering leaves in a circle at the edge of the campfire. Somewhere, far away, a creature howled. Kit could tell that the four men were spooked, particularly Radisson, whose eyes darted around inside their sockets.

  Ursa put his hands in his pockets to warm them, continuing to whistle his strange little tune, not answering. He seemed to pay no attention to Radisson, but his eyes met Kitiara’s. He was scowling.

  “Any half-brain could follow you,” snorted Kitiara contemptuously. “A woolly mammoth travels less conspicuously. You leave a mess and obvious clues everywhere. You have no respect for the forest.”

  Radisson’s face tightened up. His hands fingered the knife at his waist nervously. In a surprising movement he stood and crossed to her, then backhanded Kit across the face so swiftly that she felt the blow even before she realized it was coming. Immediately her mouth puffed up and started to bleed. Kit struggled against her bonds, clenching her teeth to keep from crying out.

  “Watch your lip,” said the weaselly one.

  The Karnuthian seemed to think that was the funniest thing of all, and he bent over laughing. But when he straightened up, his face was somber. El-Navar took a handkerchief out of his pocket and with surprising gentleness wiped the blood from her mouth and chin. Ursa’s eyes followed him closely.

  “There, there, Radisson,” said El-Navar heartily. “No need to be so manly. She’s not much more than a girl after all, not more than twelve I figure.”

  “Thirteen,” said Kitiara sulkily. “Almost fourteen.”

  “A rather pretty thirteen at that, I’d say,” added the Karnuthian. He grabbed Kit a little roughly by the chin and tilted her face upward. Ursa and Radisson were quiet, and there was a sudden air of tension among the group

  “Let’s have the truth, girl,” El-Navar continued more sternly. “What is your name? Why were you following us?”

  “Kitiara Uth Matar,” said Kit stonily. “You could have asked him if you wanted to know,” she added, indicating Ursa.

  “You know her?” asked the Karnuthian, turning to Ursa, surprised.

  “I met her once,” said Ursa in pointedly neutral tones, “when she was just a child.…”

  Kitiara looked spitefully at him.

  “She recognized me in Solace and came up to me. I gave her the brush off.”

  “She knows our faces, El-Navar,” said Radisson weakly. “What else does she know?”

  “She doesn’t know anything,” repeated Ursa harshly. “I say we let her go. What could she say against us?”

  El-Navar said nothing. Whether he or Ursa was in charge, Kitiara couldn’t tell. Radisson, however, was clearly waiting for one of the two to make up his mind.

  Alone among them, the tall, sad-faced one was paying little attention to the problem. Slouched on the ground, he had taken out a dog-eared book and seemed to be studying it intently by the firelight, his lips moving soundlessly. A trail of drool fell steadily from his mouth, wetting the pages. The others, no doubt used to his eccentricities, paid him no heed.

  El-Navar bent down on his knees so that he was peering into Kit’s eyes. “How about it, Kitiara?” he asked. “Why were you following us?”

  His tone had softened, but his eyes glittered with a diamond-hard light. The gold hoop swayed as he leaned forward.

  “I wanted to join up,” she said vaguely.

  “What?” asked Radisson brusquely. Ursa’s face was impassive.

  “Join up. I wanted to join up,” Kit repeated, this time more strongly.

  El-Navar let go of her chin and stood up, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. This seemed to break the tension, and, in spite of himself, Ursa managed a tentative smile. The sad-faced reader, slouched over his book, continued to ignore them. Only Radisson looked confused and irritated.

  “What are we then, some kind of volunteer fire brigade?” asked El-Navar.

  “No.” Kitiara hesitated. “I wanted to help take care of Gwathmey’s son,” she ventured boldly.

  The smiles vanished. Even the reader heard this and looked up anxiously. Ursa stood and drew El-Navar aside, speaking to him in a whisper. Radisson glared at Kit. El-Navar looked over his shoulder, then nodded in agreement to something that Ursa had said. He broke from Ursa, who sat back down.

  “How much do you know?” asked El-Navar tersely.

  “Too much! Now we’ve got to kill her!” exclaimed Radisson.

  “Try it!” Kit dared. Again, with startling swiftness, Radisson lunged toward her, but El-Navar was quicker this time and blocked his movement, shoving the smaller man aside. Radisson looked daggers at him, but there was nothing he could do against the bigger man whose charismatic presence—if not his actual size—commanded respect.

  “Don’t be so hasty, Radisson,” admonished El-Navar. “Think with your head. This girl is no match for you, even though she is your equal in other respects. A ringer in size, for example, which might have its value.”

  Although Kit didn’t understand why, something that El-Navar said, something about his tone of voice, sent a message to Radisson. Instead of getting angrier, the weaselly one paced over near where Kit sat. He gazed at her, his expression altered and thoughtful.

  El-Navar also circled Kit, studying her. “I say we take her along,” he declared after long moments had passed. “Let her … as she says, ‘join up.’ ”

  Ursa looked at Kitiara and back at El-Navar. Although his face was a tightly controlled mask, he shrugged to indicate his indifference. Still unsmiling, he stared at Kit with his dark, mercurial eyes.

  “Maybe,” said Radisson stubbornly.

  “Look at her,” El-Navar said to Radisson. “She’s just about your size, isn’t she? And she has pluck. It would minimize the risk to us and put you where you’re needed most.”

  After a long hesitation, Radisson shrugged a reluctant agreement. Kit noticed that nobody bothered to consult the fourth member of the par
ty—Droopface, as she had begun to think of him.

  “Is that a good horse you’re riding? Can you ride fast, Kitiara?” asked El-Navar.

  “Fast enough!” she said excitedly.

  He cut her bonds. “Then you’re one of us,” he declared, clapping her on her shoulder.

  Kitiara rubbed her wrists ruefully and looked at the four faces staring at her. Although she didn’t feel entirely confident, she forced a smile.

  “Well …” said the weaselly man.

  “C’mon, Radisson!” boomed El-Navar. “Don’t be a jackass. Shake hands with our new partner!”

  They continued riding northeast all the next day and the day after that.

  Except for Radisson, who maintained his wary demeanor toward her, the others appeared to accept Kit. However, where they were going and exactly what they were going to do remained a mystery. At least Kit could extract no further details, no matter how hard she tried. “Be patient,” said El-Navar whenever she brought up the subject. “All in good time.”

  El-Navar was most enigmatic. Like the people Gregor had once told Kit about, by day he seemed one person, by night another. When the sun was out, El-Navar disappeared into his cowl; indeed he seemed to disappear from the group. He became sleepy-eyed, almost somnambulant, with little of the extroverted personality that he displayed after dark. He kept up with the other riders, but rode slumped over, saying very little.

  Under the sun, Ursa was definitely the leader. But after a long day’s ride, after making camp and eating supper, Ursa was usually so tired that one feared he would not make his watch. At just around that time, the Karnuthian grew exuberant and full of energy. There was obviously some understanding between Ursa and El-Navar, and neither sought the upper hand.

  The tall, sad-faced one continued to say very little to anyone. His responsibilities included the horses and the meals, cooking the small game they managed to trap or shoot along the way. Kit had asked him his name and been told. It was Cleverdon, a name she had a hard time remembering in connection with such a strange character. So Kit called him “Droopface.” The others were so amused by this that the nickname stuck.

  Much to Kit’s annoyance, Ursa continued to treat her coldly. She decided to be grand about it and tried to bolster their friendship by riding alongside him and drawing him out. On the first day she could barely get him to nod in her direction.

  On the second, she had better luck. Ursa smiled when she rode up. Surprised and pleased, Kit decided to ask him about Gregor, who was much on her mind these days, or rather, nights.

  “Ursa, that day we first met you said you had heard of my father. Have you heard of him since?”

  Ursa looked away. “No,” he said shortly when he glanced back in her direction.

  “I remember you told me that Gregor was in the north, the last you heard,” she persisted. “Was that anywhere near where we’re going? Do you think there’s any chance our paths will cross?”

  Despite her best efforts to remain in control of her emotions, Kit knew she sounded plaintive.

  “Kitiara, that was a long time ago and very far from where we are bound. Let me give you some advice. If Gregor Uth Matar chose to go so far away, either he doesn’t want to be found by you—” here Ursa paused “—or he is dead.”

  “Dead! Why do you say that?” But Kit’s queries only reached Ursa’s back as he galloped off to scout what lay ahead.

  North by east they rode until they were high in the Eastwall Mountains, surrounded on all sides by rocks and slopes. On the third night they stopped early. Kit picked up a distinct air of anticipation as the others sharpened weapons and checked their equipment. The horses also received special care; Radisson made sure they were amply fed and watered.

  Droopface made a haricot stew that they all gulped down hungrily. Afterward, he retreated some distance from the others and read his favorite book, slobbering over the pages until he fell asleep the way he always did, sitting upright. Radisson wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down on the ground near the fire. Ursa and El-Navar were studying a piece of parchment—obviously a map—taken from one of El-Navar’s pockets, and carrying on a low debate.

  After some time, El-Navar came over to where Kit was sitting. “Let’s get to work. I’m going to cut your hair.” He took his short, double-edged blade out and ran it over a rock, watching her.

  “Why?” she asked in surprise, raising her hand protectively to her head. “Isn’t it short enough?”

  Kitiara heard Ursa grunt with amusement as he turned to his bedroll. It was the first characteristic laugh out of him in several days, albeit at her expense.

  “It has to be shorter yet,” explained El-Navar, “and I need to collect some for tomorrow. Tomorrow’s the day the … plan goes into action, and you are going to have to look more like a certain man.”

  “Gwathmey’s son?”

  El-Navar didn’t answer, but Kit let him come closer and comb her hair.

  “Ah,” rhapsodized El-Navar. “You have beautiful hair, Kitiara. Black as midnight. Pity we must chop some of it off.” He began to cut at it, pulling off small bunches and placing them in a tin bowl. “But it’s necessary.”

  El-Navar seemed surprisingly practiced at the task, cutting delicately, particularly at the nape of her neck. Kit shuddered involuntarily as he placed his strong hand on her neck to bend her head forward, but it was not an unpleasant sensation. He worked in silence for a long while.

  Kitiara was lulled by his touch, which was as gentle as it was assured.

  “What is Droopface always reading?” Kitiara asked.

  “Oh,” said El-Navar as he worked. “It’s some book he picked up in a market somewhere. Magic tricks and potions. I can’t read for beans myself. He thinks he’s studying to be a mage. He has managed to teach himself a couple of simple spells that do come in handy. I expect we’ll see some of his expertise tomorrow.”

  El-Navar was meticulous. He worked for a time on her bangs, shortening almost up to her hairline. And as he worked he stared right into Kit’s eyes. She was startled to realize his eyes weren’t as hard and metallic as they first appeared. She could see through them, to their essence, which was lush and sensuous. His breath was hot and aromatic, suggestive of faraway lands.

  “But,” continued El-Navar, “Droopface has no real affinity for magic. It is all stunts and illusions. If you ask me, magic is a plague sweeping Krynn, and there are too many people trying their hand at spellcasting who ought to be doing something else with their lives.”

  “Tell me this,” asked Kitiara, changing the subject, “who is Gwathmey’s son, and why are we so interested in him?”

  The Karnuthian laughed lustily, baring his white teeth, shaking his curly snake hair and sending the gold hoop into a frenzy of motion. “You don’t give up, Kitiara,” he said, taking a few final snips of her hair, “but you will know everything soon enough. Not yet. Not tonight.…” His voice was a rich, soothing purr.

  The sky was tranquil. The other three men appeared to have fallen asleep. Clouds hid Lunitari, though Kit could still tell that the red moon was full.

  “Done!” The Karnuthian stood up, reached into his pack, and pulled out a piece of cut glass which he proffered to Kitiara.

  She examined herself and found a curiously new face with a wide expanse of skin at the forehead and temples, framed by sideburns and a neatly trimmed cap of black hair. The effect did make her look for all the world like a young gentleman.

  El-Navar placed select tufts of hair into a small pouch. “We will finish off the mustache in the morning,” he said.

  “Mustache?”

  “You are to be the decoy, Kitiara,” said El-Navar. “We are not after Gwathmey’s son. More precisely, we are after what he is carrying. When we attack him, you will lead his guards on a merry diversion. From a good distance, you will look almost exactly like the young fellow.”

  El-Navar strode to Radisson’s horse and took something out of his saddlebags. “Radisson was g
oing to play that part, but your appearance was fortuitous. We can use him closer to the action. Here, try these on,” he added, tossing a small bundle of clothing at her. “Make sure they fit.”

  Kitiara took them and went behind a tree. The costume consisted of leather breeches, a brocaded shirt, and an expensive vest. A jacket finished the ensemble. The outfit fit a little loosely, but Kitiara made do and came around the tree for El-Navar’s appraisal. He was cleaning his blade with water. When he looked up at her, his expression was almost startled. Slowly he sheathed his blade and stood up to gaze more closely at Kitiara.

  “Yes,” he said, with obvious satisfaction.

  She frowned at him. “I feel silly. Can’t I do something more important?”

  “You’ll be doing something very important,” said El-Navar. “Do not fear.”

  “How much of a fortune is the duke’s son carrying?”

  “Tomorrow, Kitiara,” El-Navar replied, with good humor. “Tonight, get some sleep.”

  Kit stole another glance at herself in the piece of glass; if she had to admit it, she liked the way she looked in these luxurious clothes. As she angled the mirror, Kit caught El-Navar gazing pointedly at her. Suddenly she discovered herself trembling. Kit held his gaze for several long seconds before bringing the mirror down.

  “I like it,” she said, turning to meet his glittering eyes.

  Kit handed the mirror back to the Karnuthian before going behind the tree to change again. She had managed to slip out of the leather breeches and was just unbuttoning her shirt when El-Navar’s voice came to her in an enchanting whisper.

  “It will be cold tonight, Kitiara,” El-Navar said. “I would share my bedroll with you.”

  She came out from around the tree, half undressed. “Say what you mean,” she said evenly.

  “Come to me,” El-Navar replied.

  For some reason she could not have put into words, Kit glanced over to where Ursa slept. His back was to her. She could not see that his eyes were wide open, that their expression was stony. But he lay still, apparently asleep. Without further hesitation, Kitiara went to El-Navar.