Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell

  Caramon was standing by the stove, holding a tray of something blackened beyond recognition.

  “Kitiara, I’ve burned the biscuits,” Caramon complained. “What are we going to eat?”

  Kit sighed and closed the door behind her.

  There was not much to see in Solace, but the days spent with Patric and Strathcoe offered a pleasant respite to Kitiara. Once the local sights were exhausted, they would just meet in the morning and wander off aimlessly, always in good spirits.

  She escorted the two visitors through the elevated walkways, around the town square, to the shores of Crystalmir Lake, even riding with them to Poolbottom, showing them the curious school inside a hill and bragging a bit about her brothers, Raistlin the precocious mage and Caramon the budding warrior.

  Patric proved a good listener, his courtly manners warming to a more familiar attitude as the week wore on. At times he would reach out and touch her cheek or ruffle her curls, murmuring softly, “Kitiara Uth Matar.”

  Kit found herself craving this contact, growing very still under his hand, only to have Patric turn away, as if made uncomfortable by his gesture. Always after a few moments of awkwardness, the trio would resume their easy camaraderie, with the ever amenable Strathcoe providing ballast to the situation. He proved a genial giant who, Kit learned, smiled and laughed as much as he grunted and groaned. Strathcoe seemed to find everything amusing, especially the conversation of his master.

  Patric and Kitiara were discreet in the questions they asked each other. Kit revealed only a measured portion of her past. In Solace, everyone knew that Rosamun would never get better, that Kitiara was the daughter of that poor madwoman and might herself be cursed with a streak of wildness. But Patric had no reason to know or care; and with him, she emphasized her father. She told him she was the daughter of Gregor Uth Matar, a consummate warrior and kin to a proud if distant family.

  From him she learned of an imperious father, a mother he idolized, and a waiting mantle of responsibility and authority for which he didn’t always feel equipped.

  On what was to be the last night before Patric and Strathcoe resumed their journey home, the three planned a moonlit picnic on the shores of Crystalmir Lake.

  The night was perfectly cloudless, with both moons shining brightly in the sky and all the world latticed with beams and shadows. They set up their feast on a knoll overlooking the water—cold meats, wine, bread, and fresh fruit packed by Otik.

  After dinner, Kit and Strathcoe had an entertainment planned. She went into her pack and pulled out a wrapped sword, the magnificent weapon from the long-ago ambush of Beck Gwathmey, which she had secreted these past two years. When she unwrapped it and held it before her, Patric’s eyes gleamed with surprise and pleasure at its beauty.

  “That is wonderful,” he exclaimed. “What do you plan to do with it?”

  “Well, first, I must best the servant,” Kit teased. The big, long-tressed man was holding his sword in a pose of mock ferocity. As soon as she finished speaking, Kitiara and Strathcoe set to in a match of mock swordplay. At the end of which, with many grunts and groans, Strathcoe winked at Kit and fell to the ground, clutching his heart.

  “Now the master must defend himself,” Kitiara said, pointing her sword toward Patric so that it glinted in the moonlight.

  “Not me,” Patric protested with amusement. “As you see, I carry no weapons. That is Strathcoe’s business, though the cur has fallen down on the job.”

  Strathcoe, sitting up and gurgling with his version of laughter, tossed Patric one of his weapons.

  Kitiara observed that the young noble caught the sword handily enough. With a flourish, she saluted him. Patric hesitated, then responded in kind. Soon they were engaged in the thrust and parry of swordplay. Patric frowned in concentration, but handled the sword well. Yet Kitiara was more agile and decidedly more skilled. After a few minutes she stepped back and raised both hands, laughing. “I’m vanquished,” she said, bowing her head in mock surrender. She felt Patric step closer and looked up to find his gaze locked on hers. Impulsively, she stood on tiptoes and kissed him full on the mouth. This time he did not pull away.

  Strathcoe diplomatically retreated to the bottom of the knoll and soon fell asleep, but Patric and Kitiara sat with arms entwined, staring out over the lake and talking, long past midnight.

  As dawn approached, Patric disentangled his arms and removed the pendant from his neck and held it out to her.

  “It’s yours.”

  Kit drew back, not sure what this meant. “No.”

  “I would be lying to you if I told you it was worthless,” Patric said, “but the value is mostly sentimental.”

  “All the more reason why I can’t take it,” said Kitiara.

  “All the more reason why you should,” Patric said firmly. He draped the amulet around her neck.

  Kitiara opened her mouth to say something else in protest, but Patric waved away her words. “We will make it a trade,” he said softly. “Something of yours for something of mine.”

  “But I don’t have anything,” Kit began, then she stopped. Her eyes fell on Beck’s sword. It was the only thing of true value that she owned.

  “Take this,” she decided impulsively, though it was truly the most prized of her possessions.

  “It is too wonderful, and as you saw—your generous defeat notwithstanding—I have little use for a sword.”

  “I think it is a fair exchange,” Kit said determinedly. “Strathcoe approves,” she added, pointing toward the bottom of the hill where the servant lay, snoring contentedly and loudly.

  Patric had to laugh. He took her hands in his own, gazing steadily at her. “Kitiara Uth Matar,” he murmured dreamily. “I want you to come to Gwynned with Strathcoe and me.”

  Instantly, without having to think it over, she said yes.

  “I’ll run and pack my things,” Kit told him, “and sneak away.”

  At that Patric frowned. “What about your father and mother?” he asked with genuine concern.

  “I told you, he’s my stepfather, not my father, and my mother is too ill to have any understanding of the outside world. Half the time she doesn’t know if I’m alive or not.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t want you to run away without telling them,” he said. “I want you to ask their permission to go away with me.…”

  Her eyes showed that she did not understand.

  “And get married.”

  Kitiara’s eyes bugged out in astonishment, astonishment and something else. She couldn’t conceal a shiver of distaste. Traveling with Patric and Strathcoe would be fun, an adventure, but the last thing she wanted to do in her life was get married, even to someone she felt as drawn to as she did to Patric. Images of Rosamun, of Aureleen’s mother, women who had no life outside their homes or independence from their men, flooded her mind.

  “Kitiara,” Patric said quickly, “I don’t want you to say yes or no now, and I promise never to pressure you. The voyage to Northern Ergoth is a long one, at least four weeks, and you will have plenty of time to think about my offer. Take all that time, and more if you want it.”

  “But,” said Kitiara, groping for words, “I don’t know if I could ever get married. Especially not now. There is too much …”

  Kit looked at the handsome young man sitting next to her and felt confused. No one had ever extended her the consideration and courtesy he had. No one had ever made her feel the way he did now, looking deeply and approvingly into her eyes.

  “Don’t worry about it now,” Patric said hastily. “We have only just met, but we will get to know each other better. When you return to my country, you will be treated like royalty. Everything you ask for will be yours. You will have food and clothes and slaves to do your bidding. You may find that very appealing.”

  Indeed, Kitiara thought to herself, I might. “Why me?” she asked.

  Strathcoe had roused himself and was making grumbling noises as he stretched and glan
ced up the hill. The sun had peeked over the horizon and turned everything pink and orange.

  Patric sighed deeply. “Because,” he said wistfully, “I think I love you.”

  Kitiara noticed that Strathcoe had stopped his noises and was watching them intently. Until she opened her mouth she didn’t know what her answer would be. “All right,” she said, not sure precisely what she meant.

  Kitiara was a little annoyed that Gilon was the one who seemed most genuinely saddened that she was going away, perhaps forever, though she downplayed the “forever” part. Loudly enough for Patric and Strathcoe to overhear, she advised Gilon to keep her loft for her at least until he heard that she was happily settled in Northern Ergoth.

  “I hope that you will be happy, Kit,” said Gilon with feeling as she gathered a few belongings and prepared to leave. “But if not, I hope that you return to us, for we will miss you.”

  Caramon and Raistlin certainly gave no hint of that. This early in the morning, Caramon was still lying sleepily in his bed, tangled up with the blanket. “G’bye,” he mumbled before rolling over.

  Raistlin, of course, was up, already engrossed in some thick, tattered book. He sat on a stool in a far corner of the cottage’s main room. He looked up when Kit gave him a parting peck on the cheek, glancing first at her, then at Patric and Strathcoe who were standing respectfully by the door, then back at Kitiara.

  “You’ll be back,” he said, lowering his eyes again to his book.

  Well, she thought to herself, he and Caramon are mere children. What did I expect, an eloquent farewell?

  “You must say goodbye to your mother,” insisted Gilon stolidly.

  Kitiara flinched. “She won’t even understand what I’m saying.”

  Gilon shrugged his big shoulders and stepped outside again to wait, motioning Patric and Strathcoe to come with him. Patric glanced back at Kitiara expectantly as he closed the door behind him.

  Rosamun was not asleep. She lay on her rumpled bed in a state of half-consciousness, eyes staring at the ceiling. Her hair had evidently been brushed by Quivera, who was out at the shops, and it lay around her pillow in a white halo. Rosamun breathed softly through parted lips that were pink and puffy like flower petals.

  Kitiara regarded her mother coldly, then approached her as quietly as possible. At Gilon’s insistence, she had scribbled a letter, in case the time ever came when Rosamun regained lucidity. Kitiara rolled it up and tied it with one of the hair ribbons Quivera kept for Rosamun. She laid it at her mother’s side.

  Dear Mother,

  I have met a young gentleman who has asked me to marry him. We are traveling to Northern Ergoth, to Gwynned where his family reigns. I will be rich and will be able to send you and Gilon and the twins money.

  Love, Kit

  Kit knew it was a paltry message, but it was all she could muster for this woman who had alienated her father and whose weakness had kept Kitiara a virtual prisoner in the cottage.

  As Kit hovered for a minute near the bed, she thought she noticed a pale light flickering in her mother’s gray eyes. But nothing else.

  Then, as Kitiara turned to go, Rosamun’s right hand suddenly reached up and grasped her near wrist. Rosamun held her tightly, and Kitiara was surprised at her frail mother’s strength. Rosamun moved her lips, but no words came out. Her eyes stayed open but unfocused. After several minutes, Kitiara pried away her mother’s fingers and lay her hand gently back down on the bed.

  Outside, Patric and Strathcoe were waiting next to their horses. Gilon had saddled Cinnamon for Kitiara. A pack mule stood patiently with Patric’s great trunk strapped to its back. Strathcoe, his weapons in obvious display, marched about importantly, tying and rearranging bundles. His main audience was Caramon, who had finally woken and now stared in awe at this mountain of a man.

  Solemnly Patric shook Gilon’s hand, then Caramon’s, before mounting. Kitiara nodded at her stepfather, then ruffled Caramon’s hair before getting on Cinnamon. When she looked back she saw Caramon waving extravagantly, the sun glinting off his golden hair. Behind him, Raistlin stood in the doorway, still as a statue.

  Kitiara had one last thing she wanted to do before leaving. She asked Patric and Strathcoe to wait at the town square while she spurred Cinnamon to Aureleen’s. Her friend cried when she heard the news, but recovered rather quickly.

  “A nobleman! Wait until I tell my mother. I always told her she underestimated you,” Aureleen said teasingly. “Is he handsome?”

  Kitiara found herself blushing as she nodded yes. “I have a feeling this is the sort of adventure even you might like,” she teased her friend back. The two young women hugged. “You can write me care of the Alwiths of Gwynned,” Kit called out over her shoulder as she climbed down to her horse.

  By midmorning they were on one of the roads that led north from Solace through flat farm fields. They had to ride north and a little east to avoid the highest points of the Kharolis Mountains and reach the bay where Patric’s ship waited.

  At first Kitiara felt a little dazed with the speed of events, but by late afternoon she had settled into the rhythm of the journey and was thoroughly enjoying herself. The three of them were companionable travelers. More than that, at last she had escaped from Solace and its humdrum routines. And they were heading north—north, the direction in which her father was last seen heading.

  After passing through croplands, they reached rolling green hills, then steeper terrain as they crossed the tail end of the Kharolis mountains on the way to the coast. There were only a few small communities, and these they skirted, because, as Patric said, he was done with traveling and anxious to start home. From other wayfarers they heard reports of a two-headed troll, who was terrorizing the region, but they saw nothing of the beast.

  Each day, an hour or two before they camped for the night, Strathcoe would leave Patric and Kit, returning with a hare or some other wild game that he prepared for their evening meal. His cooking was surprisingly good. After dinner she and Patric would usually sit arm in arm and talk, enjoying the attentive audience provided by Strathcoe.

  Under the starry sky, Kitiara often wondered if the passionate kiss she and Patric had shared that night at Crystalmir Lake would be repeated and pursued further, but strangely, it never was. Strathcoe was never far from the two of them. And like her father, Patric could outlast her with his tales. More than once she woke in the morning without remembering having fallen asleep.

  Five days after leaving Solace they neared the bay where Patric’s sloop waited. From a rocky promontory they caught their first glimpse of the Straits of Schallsea. Kitiara had never seen such a large body of water, blue and white-capped, extending as far as the eyes could see.

  They followed the coastline west for another day before coming to the edge of the bay where they spotted the ship, the Silver Gar, anchored offshore with sails furled around her three masts. Strathcoe pulled a large brass whistle from one of their bags and blew a long high note on it to announce their coming. Colorful flags signaled from the forecastle that they had been seen.

  As they approached the ship, sailors hanging from the riggings shouted out a lusty cheer in Patric’s honor. Clearly he’s a popular lord, thought Kitiara. Many of the men cried out Strathcoe’s name as well, she noted. Movement below deck, along the sides of the ship, drew her attention. Poking their horned heads out through some of the shore-side portholes, minotaurs also watched the travelers’ arrival. These bestial slaves would pull the oars when the winds were still. Already several of them had been winched down in a boat to row to shore and bring Patric and the others back. Kit noticed a barge on the beach that would be used to transport the horses to the ship

  When they finally climbed on board, Kitiara also noticed a group of elegantly dressed men and women sitting to one side of the deck. They alone did not greet the new arrivals, although the expressions on their faces indicated that they were relieved to be nearing departure.

  “We take some passengers along,”
explained Patric to Kitiara. “It defrays expenses and helps maintain good relations between my father’s estate and nearby lands.”

  Just then a man strode toward them, moving gracefully with the roll of the ship. He was dressed in leather and braid, and wore a close-fitting striped cap. His face was dominated by a formidable hooked nose and a merry grin. He looked like a man who could be counted on in a fight, thought Kit, but she noticed he carried no weapons. Instead a compass and a looking scope hung from his belt. This was obviously the captain of the Silver Gar.

  “Greetings, Patric and Strathcoe,” he boomed out, vigorously shaking hands with each of them in turn. Then his eyes took in Kitiara. “And who is this beautiful young lady?”

  “Kitiara Uth Matar,” she announced, stepping forward to take his hand.

  “My betrothed,” Patric added smoothly, ignoring the frown Kit sent his way.

  Rather than shake her hand, the captain bowed deeply at the waist and kissed it.

  A look of wonderment came over Kit’s face. The captain’s manners were as good as his master’s, although Kitiara had the impression steel lay beneath his velvety exterior.

  “La Cava,” he said flamboyantly as he straightened up. “At your service, m’lady.” His eyes registered some delayed impulse. “Uth Matar?” he asked.

  Kitiara nodded eagerly. “Perhaps you have heard of my father,” she said quickly, “Gregor Uth Matar. His reputation is known far and wide.…”

  “As?” asked La Cava, letting go of her hand but keeping his eyes on her face.

  “As?” Kitiara repeated, puzzled.

  “Why, his reputation as what?” asked La Cava evenly.

  “Oh,” said Kitiara, flustered. “As a great soldier of fortune. An incomparable warrior. A man of honor and integrity.”

  “Yes, of course,” said La Cava. He pondered the name for a moment, before his face assumed a polite mask. “No,” he said, “I haven’t heard of him.”