by Tina Daniell
Just then Raistlin appeared in their path. His clothing was ripped and disheveled. One eye was already swelling shut, and his upper lip was bleeding.
“Who did this to you?” Caramon demanded.
Raist, his lower lip trembling, pushed past them into the cottage without saying anything. Inside, Rosamun fell on him instantly, exclaiming and weeping. She sat him in a chair and wiped at his lip and scratches. Caramon paced up and down in front of the door, swearing revenge. Kit stood off to one side, watching everything anxiously.
Afterward, Rosamun retreated to her room, and Raistlin and Caramon started quarreling.
“If I had been with you, this never would have happened,” said Caramon, puffing out his chest.
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is between me and—”
“Caramon, calm down,” Kit commanded. “Now, Raist, tell us what happened. I think we can all agree that any revenge devised by all three of us will be three times as sweet as anything you can concoct by yourself.” Her tone brooked no argument.
“I was on my way home from school, on the outskirts of Solace where there’s that stand of young trees,” Raistlin began slowly. “I had just entered the shade of that grove from the bright sunlight, and my eyes were still adjusting to the dimness so I’m not sure exactly what happened. But someone or something pounced on me from above at the same time that I tripped, I think over a rope drawn tight across the path. I hit my face on some rocks as I fell down, which is how I got the cut lip.
“Before my head had cleared, my hands and feet were tied up. I saw who was tying me—it was Dune Wister. His brother, Bronk, was with him. They made fun of me for being a magic-user. They looked in my pockets for anything of value. There wasn’t any gold or silver, of course, but they took the pouches you gave me, for holding my spell components, and they filled them instead with … bat dung. They ran off laughing, and it took a while for me to get untied.”
For an instant Raist looked as if he were about to cry, then he fiercely blinked back the tears.
“Those scum!” Caramon exploded.
“Quiet!” snapped Kitiara.
“Dune and Caramon are in the same class at the village school,” Raist continued. “Dune’s just like his brother, a pint-sized bully. Every time he sees us, he makes a crack about Mother.” Raistlin’s voice dropped a notch in the telling.
“Tell her about the last time,” urged Caramon.
“The last time,” said Raistlin, shooting a glance at his brother, “I was ready. We haven’t learned many spells at Poolbottom yet, just some simple illusions. There was one that only called for dried beetle wings, which are easy enough to get, so I was carrying some with me. So as soon as Dune started saying something about Mother, I had Caramon pin him down and I made the spell. Every time he opened his mouth to say something, bugs fell out.” Raistlin and Caramon grinned at the memory.
“Bugs?” repeated Kit.
“You know, beetles and ants, centipedes and flies. Dune couldn’t open his mouth without spitting out bugs. The spell was supposed to last for a couple hours, so I don’t think he had much fun teasing anyone the rest of that day.”
Despite his scratches and swollen lip, Raist looked slyly pleased with himself. Caramon, though, had stopped grinning. “We ought to settle this my way,” he declared vehemently, “We’re three against two. Bronk and Dune won’t dare jump Raist again.”
Raistlin glared at his twin, but Kit spoke first.
“One good brain is worth more than a dozen stout warriors,” she said emphatically. That was one of Gregor’s maxims, and the twins had heard Kitiara repeat it before.
“Come here,” she said, drawing her younger brothers close in a huddle. “I have an idea.”
The sun had just risen when Kit slipped the note under the door. She hoped that, as the oldest, Bronk was up first to help with the chores. If Aureleen had been right all those months ago, Bronk wouldn’t be able to resist an invitation from Kitiara, even if what little common sense he had told him the circumstances were suspicious.
My heart’s beating quickened when I saw you the other day. Meet me at the end of the path to Crystalmir Lake tonight at dusk.
Affection, Kitiara
Pleading aches and pains from the previous day, Raist stayed home from Poolbottom. Gilon raised his eyebrows at the excuse, for Raist had always been eager to go to school, even on days when he’d had a raging fever. But Gilon was preoccupied with his own concerns, and Raist’s acting job convinced him.
After solicitously serving the twins breakfast, Rosamun, her strength depleted, dozed in her favorite chair.
Kit, Raist, and Caramon spent the day coming and going on mysterious errands. After one final whispered conference between the three of them in the late afternoon, Kit disappeared with a bundle under her arm. Not one of the three came home for supper, and Rosamun became very worried.
“Don’t fret,” said Gilon, when he returned to the cottage. “They must be up to something.” He stroked his wife’s white hair soothingly. But Gilon was worried, too.
Kit had found a vantage point on a hill overlooking the path down to the lake and was keeping watch. As she expected, Bronk showed up a good hour before sunset, nervously checking the area for any traps. He made a more thorough job of it than she would have guessed, then settled down on a stump at the edge of the sand leading down to the water.
Bad luck. Earlier that day the twins had tethered a line to the far side of that exact stump, burying it under the sand and running it down into the water. Kit didn’t want Bronk to start poking around the stump, so quickly she shrugged out of her tunic and leggings, then unrolled the bundle from home.
A gauzy, flowered dress, one of Rosamun’s old ones, fluttered in the lively breeze. Kit regarded the garment with some distaste, then slipped it on. The rich colors set off her dark hair.
Bronk had started to idly dig into the sand with the toe of his boot. Kit looked up the path toward Solace. No sign of the twins, yet she had no choice but to begin the charade.
Making certain Bronk did not see her, Kitiara hurriedly crept around to the back of the hill where she had been perched, then stepped onto the path. Fortunately, he caught sight of her right away and stopped his idle digging.
She sighed with relief. “I’m so glad you came, Bronk,” Kit murmured. “I didn’t think it was going to be so dark on the path down here.”
Bronk mistook her sigh for a flirtatious gesture. When she glided closer to him, Kit could see that his mouth was hanging open. He was definitely off his guard.
“Gee, I, uh, I … what’s all the mystery, Kitiara?” he stammered, thrusting out his chest and striking a virile pose.
“Well,” Kit began, “it’s just that I haven’t seen you for an awfully long time.”
“You’ve been gone,” Bronk said, sounding a little miffed. He glanced around nervously. “Everybody wondered where you went. Nobody knew for sure. Not even your brothers, I don’t think. Where’d you go anyway?”
“What does it matter?” she said, lowering her head. She tried some sniffling. “It’s all over anyway.”
“What’s over?” he demanded to know.
“What does it matter?” Kit repeated mysteriously. Sniffle, sniffle.
Bronk sidled over and clumsily put his arm around her shoulder.
Where were Caramon and Raist? How long was she going to have to put up with this dunce and keep him dangling around this tree stump!
“Well,” Bronk said petulantly, “I’m glad you realized the error of your ways. I always thought that us … that is, you and me … I mean, even if I don’t like your dumb brothers, I always thought that you and me could be friends. More than friends.”
This had been a long and almost articulate speech for Bronk. He seemed winded and confused, as if he had said more than he’d meant to. Again his eyes darted nervously around. Then Bronk gave Kit a tentative little squeeze.
“What do you mean, ‘more than friends’?” she asked
ingenuously, batting her lashes. Where were her darn brothers? But Bronk, preoccupied with his next move, didn’t notice the tension in her shoulders.
His arm tightened around her shoulders. Kitiara smiled up at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice she was gritting her teeth.
Please! She couldn’t take much more of this.
Just then, the sound of boys’ voices reached them, coming from the path.
“What’s this?” Bronk asked with considerable irritation.
The voices grew louder, until Kit and Bronk could make out some of the words.
“You’ll eat those words,” Caramon was saying.
“My brother would never—”
“See if you believe your own eyes.” That was Raist.
Bronk had dropped his hand from Kit’s shoulder and was looking at her with revived suspicion. When he finally realized that it was Dune’s voice he was hearing, along with the twins, he grew agitated.
“Say, what is this?” he said, shoving Kitiara’s shoulder.
Dune came around the bend. He was wedged between Caramon and Raistlin, almost being propelled forward by the twins. His eyes grew big when he spied his brother standing next to Kit.
Dune was a thick-witted little boy who worshiped his bully brother. Caramon and Raistlin had told him that Bronk was secretly romancing Kit. Dune couldn’t believe that his brother was wooing the very girl about whom Bronk had said so many terrible things. On a bet, the twins had brought the boy to Crystalmir Lake to sneak up on the two supposed lovebirds and prove the romance.
“Bronk!” Dune cried in dismay.
“It’s a dumb … rotten …” Bronk sputtered a few more words, but they were unintelligible.
Kit had intended to maneuver everyone closer to the water, but decided she had better act right away, while Bronk was momentarily unnerved. She edged around the stump and pulled on the hidden rope.
Nothing.
She pulled again, harder. This time she could feel something give on the other end.
Kitiara signaled Raist, who was hanging back. He stood ready in his best spellcasting stance.
After a few murmured phrases from Raist, the surface of the lake near the shore where they stood began to bubble and seethe. The odd noise captured Bronk’s and Dune’s attention. Immediately, the two brothers lost interest in their private drama. They froze, their eyes riveted to the lake.
“What’s that?” Bronk whispered fearfully to Kit.
Good. They’ve forgotten all about Raistlin.
Dark plumes of smoke and fingers of flame erupted from the sandy banks. The surface of the water roiled, and a huge shape began to emerge.
With the smoke and the dim light, it was difficult to see exactly what the shape was. A thing, a creature, manlike but much larger, with wet tendrils of slimy plants clinging to its sides. Suddenly its empty eye sockets blazed with orange fire, and its upper limbs began to sway, making it appear as if the horrible creature were moving toward shore.
“It’s the crone!” Caramon whispered near Dune’s ear.
“The crone!” shouted Dune in fright. “It’s the crone!”
Screaming in terror, Bronk and Dune fell over each other scrambling up the path. Their yells continued for several minutes before fading into the distance.
Kit, Raist, and Caramon collapsed on the sand, laughing. They were distracted by a loud hissing sound coming from the water. When they looked up, they saw the garish shape slowly collapsing in on itself.
“I wondered how long those sheep bladders would hold air,” Raist said, suddenly thoughtful. “I was worried when we had to force that contraption into a cage and sink it underwater, whether it would deflate and not be able to float when Kit released the lid.”
“You were worried!” exclaimed Kit, between fits of laughter. “Bronk was about to try and kiss me!”
“Did you see them take off?” Caramon asked, his face flushed and eyes bright. “It’ll be a long time before either of them look in our direction.”
“It’ll be a long time before they can look each other in the eyes,” Raist added solemnly.
“Of course,” Caramon felt compelled to add, “I could have beaten them fair and square, if you had let me settle it my way.” He struck an injured pose. “But that was fun,” he admitted after a moment. “Good job, Raist.”
“You built the ‘monster’,” Raist said.
“Let’s leave this junk here,” Kit said, standing and surveying the collapsed creation. “Bronk and Dune are bound to slink back and investigate in the safety of daylight. Then they’ll see what it was that scared them—birch bark, an empty ale barrel, sheep bladders, and old rags. That’s the witch of Crone Lake.”
They all laughed again.
“Tomorrow we’ll spread the story, right?” exulted Caramon. “That’ll teach ’em.”
“No,” said Raist.
Caramon looked perplexed. Kit nodded understanding.
“Let them wonder why we don’t tell people,” said Raist wisely. “Let them wonder when we are going to start.”
The three of them laughed, reliving their glorious trick on Dune and Bronk all the way back to the cottage, where even Kit was delighted to discover that Rosamun had made vanilla pudding.
Kitiara had itched with restlessness from almost the moment she’d returned to Solace. Yet as the days grew shorter and fall approached, Kit lingered in the Majere household. Before she knew it, another winter had come on, then spring again, then another summer.
Kit wanted desperately to leave, but she didn’t have very much money and no real destination in mind. There was no word of her father, and she was so far away from Silverhole that she didn’t expect to hear any news of Ursa. And she knew that the mercenary would never come back to her part of the world again.
For the most part, her days revolved around Caramon and Raistlin, but the two of them were so busy with their individual schooling, both were so much older and self-sufficient, that there was less for her to do.
Rosamun’s health went into another stage of deterioration, and most of the time she had no idea that Kit was even living there, as before, up in her small loft. Rosamun had so weakened that she was bedridden for weeks at a time, and easy enough to look after. Bigardus came to the house several times a week, at Gilon’s bidding.
Kit’s old friend Aureleen Damark had developed womanly affectations and a steady boyfriend, Ewen Low, a militia cadet. When the two teenage girls got together, they fell easily enough into their former pattern of giggling conversations. But Aureleen’s mother did what she could to see that Kit did not receive many invitations to visit.
Another winter approached. With the onset of colder weather, Kitiara got into the habit of frequenting Otik’s in order to keep an eye on parties traveling through Solace.
Chapter 10
A PROPOSAL
———
Though Otik Sandahl had only been proprietor of the Inn of the Last Home for about fifteen years, the reputation of his place had already spread throughout Abanasinia. Travelers made a point of stopping over in Solace in order to sample the specially brewed ale and spicy fried potatoes Otik served. The innkeeper himself was another inducement. His round eyes and equally round belly bespoke an enjoyment of life he worked hard to share with his tavern’s clientele.
The current renown of the Inn of the Last Home was the more remarkable because of its reputation under the previous owners. These were a married couple, hill dwarves, whose sour dispositions seemed to taint everything from the ale they served to the generally inhospitable atmosphere travelers felt the second they entered the inn. The smells from the kitchen were enough to offend a gully dwarf—well, almost.
Maybe the root of it was their dissatisfaction with having to live quite so far above ground or the unending irritation about their clan’s exile from the mountains. Whatever the cause, their marriage degenerated into cold stares and public bickering, even as the inn itself crumbled into disrepute.
One day t
he husband got up earlier than the rest of Solace, packed a meager bag of belongings, and left town. Nobody missed him, least of all his wife, who sold the inn to the next traveler on the road—Otik Sandahl—for “a kender half-penny,” according to local wags. Where Otik was coming from, or going, was the subject of some speculation, but whatever his plans had been, Otik had reached that stage in life where he wanted to travel less and to settle down more. In any case, it was a happy happenstance. Otik had found his natural calling.
His first task was to give the inn a thorough cleaning and lovingly polish the vallenwood floors and furniture to perfection. Then he set to work in the kitchen. Of his spicy fried potatoes Otik would say only that the recipe had two basic ingredients: potatoes and spices. “If it don’t fill you up, you don’t have to pay up,” Otik was fond of saying. Soon no one doubted his word.
Not quite as famous, but every bit as tasty, were other dishes he had learned to prepare on his travels—braised trout cheeks, duck liver pudding, buck stew, and cranberry surprise.
His traveling days were also reflected in the decor of the inn’s common room. He decorated the walls with various mementoes, curios, and anything else that had caught his fancy during that time. And he kept expanding the collection. Despite protests from his customers, each year Otik insisted on closing up the inn for one month—not really trusting anyone else to run it in the proper manner—and indulging what remained of his wanderlust.
Otik was determined to see as much of Krynn as he could in his time and he journeyed far afield. A rough map behind the long bar, paid in barter for a meal by a kender, showed X-marks for all the places he had visited. Otik always returned with one or two souvenirs. Once it was a fearsome minotaur battle axe. Another time it was a finely embroidered scarf, elfish in origin.
On his first day back, Otik would produce these curios with a great flourish for his regulars and anyone else who happened to be stopping over at the inn. Then he proudly added the objects to his decor, fussing over exactly the right way to display them, with plenty of advice from his patrons.