by Tina Daniell
“I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. Was your journey a worthwhile one?” Raist asked her gravely.
Kit grinned. Same old Raist. “Let’s say it took some unexpected turns. Judge for yourself how worthwhile.”
Caramon, sensing the imminent handing out of presents, began hopping up and down at Kit’s side. “Oh, she brought us something. It better be good; you’ve been gone all summer.”
With a flourish, Kit pulled two small packages out of her bag. Despite his desire to appear cool and collected, Raist hopped off his chair and ran up to Kit. She gave the first package to Caramon. He tore off the crude wrapping and exclaimed loudly over the sturdy short sword she had brought him.
“It must have been so expensive!” crowed Caramon, turning it around in his hand admiringly.
In truth, Kit had taken the sword off the dead Kagonesti, but there was no reason for Caramon to be told that. “Watch you don’t cut yourself,” she admonished.
Raist unwrapped his smaller package more slowly, but seemed equally pleased with his set of leather vials.
“Now, those were expensive,” Kit said, winking at Raist. The dead Kagonesti had contributed those, too.
As each boy was examining his souvenir, Gilon walked in the door carrying herbs and other foodstuffs, appearing harried. He looked at Kit in surprise, then followed that reaction quickly with a grin of genuine warmth. Having his arms full, he was able to avoid the awkwardness that typically passed between them over whether or not to embrace.
“Well, the adventurer returns! You must have grown two inches in the last couple months. Welcome back, Kit.”
Indeed, she had grown up over the time, physically and otherwise. Gilon could see that Kit carried herself with, not just adolescent swagger, but true assurance. And while someone who looked at her fleetingly might still mistake her for a boy, anyone whom she engaged more closely with her crooked smile and laughing eyes would not.
Gilon dumped the food he was carrying onto the table. Just then, Rosamun shuffled out of their bedroom, a glaze over her eyes. Her face didn’t show recognition of Kit, nor anyone else in the room. Her hair was uncombed, and she’d obviously slept in her clothes.
Kit frowned. Gilon hurried over and led her mother back to the bedroom, speaking to Rosamun in soothing tones. The twins, occupied with their new possessions and probably inured to the ghostly appearances of their mother, didn’t take much notice.
Gilon strode back into the room. “I’m afraid it will be a while before we eat,” he said to Kit apologetically, “and the meal won’t be much. I don’t have your knack in the kitchen.”
A cosmic conspiracy seems determined to keep me in the kitchen, Kit thought to herself. “Sit down, Gilon,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll do the cooking. I haven’t gotten out of practice, especially in the last few weeks.”
As she prepared a homecoming repast, Kit regaled Gilon and the twins with selected stories from her exploits. In these, Ursa became Trubaugh—she thought it wise to disguise as much about him as possible, including his name—a mysterious man she had met at the spring festival, who swore he knew where her father was. He agreed to lead her to him, far to the northwest, if she would cook for him and his gang of ruffians. When it turned out that he was luring her up there for more nefarious purposes—here she wrinkled her brows to imply that these were motives best left unspoken—she relieved this Trubaugh of some of his purse and left him and his hapless gang in the middle of the night.
“Good for you!” said Caramon approvingly.
“Yes, he deserved worse,” chimed in Raistlin.
“What about Gregor?” asked Gilon hesitantly. “Did Trubaugh really know anything? Or was it all a lie?”
“As false as everything else about Trubaugh,” said Kitiara, shaking her head sadly.
After leaving Trubaugh, Kit continued, she had made her way through perilous mountain trails until she came upon a congenial settlement of miners and lumbermen called Dragonshead. Better than Stumptown, she thought to herself with the pride of creative deception.
The inn there was a jovial place, and for many weeks she had a job and friends. Piggott became a hilarious buffoon, and the motley crew that frequented his inn all played comical supporting roles. She left out all mention of their true names and the dark side of her experiences. Gilon and Caramon laughed heartily at her inspired version of events, but Kitiara caught Raistlin gazing at her thoughtfully.
Caramon, who was normally easy to gull, asked a zillion innocent questions about the time she had spent away, and Kit found herself squirming to think of plausible replies.
“C’mon, didn’t you fight anybody when you were gone? I bet you did. Who? Was it this guy Trubaugh, or somebody at the inn? What weapons did you use? Did you win?”
Kit just smiled and tousled her brother’s hair. “Don’t be so dramatic, Caramon. Do I look battle-scarred?”
Caramon seemed crestfallen at her disclaimer, while Gilon and Raist regarded her skeptically.
“What about you?” Kit asked Caramon, deftly changing the subject. “Have you been practicing with your sword? And how has mage school been, Raist?”
“Well, I haven’t had anyone to practice with, but I was pretty good to begin with,” bragged Caramon, “Y’know that fancy lunge and parry you showed me? I can do that easily now. I’ll show you after dinner, OK?”
“And mage school?” Kit persisted.
Raistlin looked down at his plate. Kit saw that Gilon was observing Caramon’s twin solicitously.
“I already know more than some boys who have been studying with Morath for a year,” Raist responded in a low voice.
“Good!” exclaimed Kit enthusiastically. “And what about friends? Are you making any?”
“I don’t really have much to do with the other boys there,” he answered, fixing his gaze on his plate.
Kit’s eyes met Gilon’s. She mimed a shrug of unconcern. “They’re probably all spoiled little bookworms,” Kit declared. In her view, there were far more important things than being the most popular boy in the class.
Gilon left the table to try to coax Rosamun into eating something. Kitiara remained seated, joking with the twins, basking in their attention. When Gilon returned, unsuccessful at his mission, it was Kit’s turn to leave the table, but only for a moment. She returned carrying a small pouch, which she emptied on the table in front of Gilon, creating a small pile of copper and silver coins.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be staying, but I want to pay for my room and board while I’m here. This should cover it.”
The twins crowed at the sight of the coins. It was more money than they had seen in their lives. Gilon was momentarily speechless.
As he began gathering the coins from the table, the big woodcutter finally spoke, with evident emotion. “Thank you, Kitiara. This will help.”
Kit had relished the gesture, and she did want to help out. But she suffered a twinge as she watched Gilon count the money. She had spent rather too freely on the journey home, enjoying a soft bed at a roadside inn on more than one night. Giving those coins to Gilon left her almost flat. It meant she was a little more stuck in Solace than she would have liked.
Oh well, Kit thought to herself. I’ve left once before without anything saved up. I can do it again if needs be.
That night, Kitiara climbed the ladder to her sleeping loft and surveyed her old quarters. What once had seemed, if not exactly grand, then at least luxuriously set apart from the rest of the house, now looked cramped and dingy to Kit. Deeply tired, she stretched out on her straw pallet and received confirmation from yet another source that she had grown in the last few months, for her ankles overhung the edge of the bed by a good two inches.
In the cottage below, Kit heard Raistlin toss and moan in his sleep. The boys had stayed up past their bedtime and were overtired when they finally did go down. That often meant nightmares for Raist. Kit listened as Caramon roused himself to climb into bed with Raistlin and comfort him
.
A rhythmic shuffling noise came from Gilon’s and Rosamun’s room. When Rosamun was in one of her wandering trances, Gilon actually had to put a cuff around her wrist and loop her to the bedpost some nights. Rosamun would pace back and forth alongside the bed, muttering weirdly to herself all night long. Such was obviously the case tonight.
Home, sweet home, Kit thought to herself. Well, she was glad to be back in Solace—temporarily. Her mind raced ahead to ways she could keep her stay short, but sleep overtook her before she could think of anything.
Waking up was hard business. Kit stretched on her too-small pallet. From the whispered conversations that drifted up from below, she surmised that Gilon and Raist were preparing to leave for the long walk to Poolbottom and that the rest of the household was still asleep. It was early, just after sunrise, when she heard them slip out the door.
Kit waited a moment to make sure they were gone before grabbing some clothes and climbing down from her loft. When she reached the first floor, Caramon was up, leaning on his elbows, regarding her with a sleepy smile.
“What about school for you, Caramon? What time to you have to be there?”
“I have to leave in an hour, if I go. When Mother is having one of her bad spells, I often stay home to make sure nothing happens to her. What’s for breakfast? Usually father leaves me something.”
Kit found a piece of bread with honey lathered on it that had been set aside in the larder which, she noticed, was not particularly well-stocked. She made a slice for herself and picked out some other food for her and Caramon’s breakfast.
“What are we gonna do after we eat?” asked Caramon eagerly. “Want me to show you that lunge-and-parry?”
“Don’t gobble so fast,” Kit advised her little brother, who had started to bolt down his food. “I have to eat, too, then before I do anything I have to make sure Cinnamon has food and water. After that, maybe.”
“I’ve been using your wooden sword while you were away, the one Gregor left you,” said Caramon, chattering exuberantly. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s good for practicing. I’ve outgrown it, that’s for sure—especially now that I’ve got a real sword.”
Kitiara reached across the table and cuffed him on the ear.
“Ow! What’s that for?” asked Caramon.
“For being stupid,” Kit replied. “Keep the real sword at home until you’re bigger. If there’s one thing that my father taught me, it’s don’t show a sword unless you’re ready to use it. And you won’t be ready for some years. Meanwhile, a wooden sword is fine for a runt like you.”
“Aw,” said Caramon, chastened.
“Why, Kitiara, you’re back.”
Kit started at hearing her name and turned around to see Rosamun standing in the doorway of her and Gilon’s bedroom. Her mother had woken up, smiling and lucid for the moment. Her skin seemed to hang on her bones; she looked withered before her time.
Neither Rosamun’s spectral appearance nor her mood shift seemed to make much impression on Caramon, who happily skipped over to his mother for hugs and kisses.
“Yeah, isn’t it great. She came back last night before supper. She brought me a real sword, Mother, a valuable one.”
Caramon took Rosamun by the hand and led her toward the kitchen area. He dropped her hand now and ran to a high-backed ashwood armchair whose surface had mellowed to a satiny patina: Rosamun’s chair, crafted by Gilon’s handiwork. Caramon pushed it near the window into a pool of sunlight. Rosamun sank down into the chair and rested her head against its back, evidently wearied by the simple task of crossing the room.
Kit saw how fragile Rosamun’s state was. Caramon would not be going to school today. “Would you like me to heat some water for tea, Mother?” the boy asked.
Rosamun smiled vaguely. “That sounds fine, dear.”
Caramon grabbed the kettle eagerly. Kit could tell he wanted to show off to her how he could make tea all by himself now.
As Rosamun sipped a mug of tea, Caramon proudly showed her the sword Kit had brought him. As he knelt by her side, she stroked his golden brown hair. All of her mother’s rapt attention was on the boy; though Kit had been gone for weeks, Rosamun barely noticed her daughter. The longer Kit stood there, ignored, the more irritated she became at the cozy domestic scene from which she was excluded.
“Well, Caramon?” she interrupted brusquely. “Are we going to practice our swordplay or not?”
“You bet!” he said, jumping up.
“Get my sword, too, will you?” she asked him.
Caramon reached under his bed and retrieved both Kitiara’s old wooden sword and the small-handled one that Gilon had carved for him. As the would-be warrior waved both blades in the air with glee, Kit glanced at Rosamun, who was sunk in her chair, a look of hurt on her face.
“First we have to check on Cinnamon,” reminded Kit. “I’ll give you some lessons in taking care of a horse. That’s a good thing for a warrior to know.”
Caramon raced out the door without a backward glance at his mother.
Caramon and Kitiara practiced for hours. Kit used her old wooden sword, feeling childish, but she knew better than to bring out Beck’s sword and let Caramon, much less anyone who happened to be passing by, get a look at it. Caramon wielded the sword Gilon had made for him, which was shorter than hers, but heftier. Both toy weapons were sharp enough that it hurt when they made good contact.
The sister and brother went at each other hard, down by the shed. Kit had to admit that Caramon had improved by leaps and bounds. What he lacked in technique, he more than made up in agility and determination. She could whack and stab him, but she couldn’t back him down. Frowning with concentration, his hair stuck to his head with perspiration, the plucky six-year-old was beginning to tire. So was Kit, but neither would surrender.
“Let’s go down by the lake,” proffered Kit as an olive branch.
Not far from their home was Crystalmir Lake—Crone Lake, the kids sometimes called it, in reference to the legend of a witch who was believed to haunt it. Now and then the crone was spotted by a fisherman who’d had too much to drink, or a gnome traveler who, having heard the legend, would sit on the banks of the lake for two or three days, brandishing a See-Through-Virtually-Anything Aquascope.
“Sure thing,” said Caramon, taking off in front of her. Kit easily passed him at a lope.
The shore was mossy in parts, sandy in others, the lake placid. Sticks, leaves, dead bugs, seaweed, and lily pads had washed up on the shoreline.
For an hour they explored the beach, stopping frequently to turn over big rocks and skip smaller ones across the surface. Caramon waded into the water, trying to catch crawfish that eluded his stubby hands. Kit laughed as he screamed epithets at one of them that had managed to pinch his fingers. When her brother fell backward into the water and came up sopping wet, she laughed all the harder.
Up on the bank, Caramon was wringing water out of his shirt and Kit was lazing on her back, marveling to herself at how quickly she was becoming bored by old, familiar Solace.
“Kit?” Caramon asked, strenuously squeezing his shirt.
“Yes,” she answered dreamily.
“You ever seen the crone?” he wondered.
“What crone?” she asked back.
“The Crone Lake crone.”
“Oh,” she said, her eyes closed. “That’s just a story they tell to little boys and girls to scare them.”
“That’s what Raist said,” said Caramon in a small voice.
Afterward, they went back to the house, checked on Rosamun, who was napping, and decided to take Cinnamon out for some exercise. As Kit readied the mare, she turned her back on Caramon, who was idly scuffing his feet and poking around in the shed.
“Kit! What’s this? You’ve been holding out on me. Where’d you get it? It’s wonderful!”
Kit turned back to see Caramon swaggering with Beck’s sword. Furious, she snatched it away from him and quickly wrapped it up again. Then she thrust i
t farther into the straw, behind a pile of field stones.
“Never mind where I got it,” she said fiercely. “Nobody must know I have it. Understand? Nobody! On your honor as a warrior, promise to forget about it.” She stood over her little brother intimidatingly.
“Aw, why?”
Kit raised a hand.
“OK, OK. I promise.”
Later they rode. Kit sat behind Caramon, her arms encircling him, and they shared the reins. Guiding the chestnut mare beyond the forest into the tall grass, they rode for several hours, crisscrossing the open country, laughing and almost falling off. How good the wind felt!
By the time they returned from riding, it was approaching late afternoon, the time when Raist was expected home. Caramon told Kit that some days his twin stayed late and slept overnight at Poolbottom. A number of the students there came from far greater distances and boarded at the mage school, so there were good accommodations. But Raistlin preferred to walk the long way home most days. When Kit asked why, Caramon looked thoughtful while he replied.
“He doesn’t have many friends there. He told me they call him the ‘Sly One.’ I think it’s because he’s smarter than all the other students. He’s always the first to finish his assignments, and he’s the best at remembering spells.” Caramon paused for a moment, looking at his feet and kicking a stone as he walked along. He was frowning.
“Morath doesn’t seem to like him much, either. The master mage thinks up a lot of extra work for him. That’s the only time Raist stays overnight, when he has too much extra work to finish.”
Caramon stopped on the walkway near the Majere cottage, fists clenched at his sides. “I know I ought to help him, but I don’t know how. I know I got to worry about Raistlin and Mother, when you’re not around. Father tries, but he works from sundown to sunup just trying to keep food on the table.”
At that moment Kit was proud of little Caramon. Wasn’t he just like her in some ways? Hadn’t she been only seven when Gregor had left her alone with Rosamun? And at eight, hadn’t she taken on almost all the responsibility of caring for the twins?