Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell

  “What happened to Sampler?” asked Kitiara.

  “Oh, he’s still around,” answered Patric merrily. “Still my mother’s friend, but every bit my father’s too. They say that shortly after telling Ravetch’s fortune, Sampler turned up with an extraordinary amount of gold coin in his purse one day, which he of course promptly spent. Does the usual kender nonsense for a living, and still tells a fortune now and then. He’s quite a character. Famous in Gwynned.”

  Kitiara and La Cava laughed appreciatively. Then the captain stretched to get up, signaling that it was time to go. He bid them good night, bending over to brush the back of Kitiara’s hand with his lips. Kit flushed with—what? Pleasure? Embarrassment? She slipped her arm through Patric’s as they left the cabin.

  Neither of them felt like ending the evening right away. They went up on deck and gazed out over the black water coated with phosphorescence, shimmering in the moonlight. The night was serene, the only sounds made by the ship cutting through the waves. Patric disengaged himself from Kitiara and walked far forward, his hands clasped behind his back. Kit would have lost sight of him but Beck’s sword caught the moonlight, glittering.

  A wave of frustration swept over Kit. What was the matter with Patric that he was so moody nowadays? Kit felt her ardor cool. And as it did, she cast aside the role she had been trying to play, that of Patric’s fiancee. She knew, then and there, such was not to be her fate.

  Patric turned and walked back toward her. “I’m going below,” he said softly. “All of a sudden I am very tired.” Indeed his voice sounded cracked and weary. Any sign of his earlier good humor had faded.

  Kitiara gestured that he should go ahead without her. She wanted to stay on deck a little longer.

  It wasn’t until several minutes later that Kit heard a sound and realized there was someone else on deck. Peering forward, Kit saw the elf whom she had noticed in the passenger quarters. He was standing on the forecastle, braced with his back against a mast, facing her. Even at that distance Kit had the distinct feeling that the elf had been watching Patric and her, and that in his eyes lurked something threatening.

  The next morning Strathcoe reported to La Cava and Kit that Patric had come down with the flux. For two days he remained in his cabin, seeing no one but his faithful servant. As this was the case, and Strathcoe’s communication abilities were limited, Kit learned very little about Patric’s condition. On the third day, he was back on deck for his morning stroll, a trifle wan and dispirited, but otherwise apparently none the worse.

  Yet both knew there had been a shift in their feelings toward each other. Kit resolved to talk to Patric about how she might get back to Abanasinia once they landed at Gwynned, but the young noble evaded her. He began to take evening meals in his cabin, alone with Strathcoe. When they chanced to pass on board, Patric’s eyes would not meet Kit’s.

  At the same time, the weather had also changed. Clouds hung like gray stones in the sky, and days passed without a glimpse of the sun. Yet the temperature remained stupefyingly hot. A great storm was apparently threatening, but it hung always on the horizon, never breaking.

  With Patric alienated from her, Kit spent more time alone, or with Lurie and the other sailors. She enjoyed their rough competition and would challenge them to knife-throws or races to the top of the rigging. Although she was smaller than the men, she proved herself more than their equal at those feats, often beating Lurie and the other champions among them. She sometimes felt La Cava’s eyes on her during these times. Kit sensed he understood what had transpired between her and Patric better than she did, but he said nothing.

  Lolling on the deck many afternoons, when work dwindled and the games often stopped, Kitiara found herself thinking about where she would go next. She considered returning to Solace, remembering Raist’s prediction that she would be back soon enough. Kit wondered what was happening to her brothers. They were so young—Raistlin so vulnerable, and Caramon so foolish. Yet she knew they had, of necessity, become remarkably self-sufficient. Well, she had done her best. Let the gods smile on them. She would return sometime, but not right away.

  In her heart, Kitiara wanted to continue traveling and resume her search for her father. But years had passed since she had received any even vague indication of his whereabouts—somewhere in the North. Where would she begin to look?

  Late one night, unable to fall asleep, Kitiara came upon La Cava and Lurie together on deck. She perked up when she saw them. She had been meaning to trap the ship’s enigmatic captain into a conversation. There was a certain subject she wanted to pursue.

  Now, she marched right up to them. As La Cava tried to move away, Kit boldly stepped in front of him, blocking his path. A slight smile played on the captain’s lips. He nodded some signal to Lurie, who moved away from them but remained on deck, idly gazing out at the sea. La Cava himself stepped back from Kit and relaxed his stance, letting her know that she had his attention, for the moment.

  “What is on your mind, Miss Kitiara?” asked La Cava in that elegant but mildly ironic way he had of addressing her.

  “Captain,” she said directly, “the day we met—”

  “Yes?” La Cava raised an eyebrow.

  “I had the distinct impression that you had heard of my father. Gregor Uth Matar.”

  “I said otherwise.”

  “You said otherwise, but as I say, I had a distinct impression.”

  Her chin was set determinedly, and her eyes blazed. Yes, the more she had pondered it, the more she felt that La Cava knew something about her father. His face had betrayed something, but perhaps he hadn’t wanted to mention anything in front of Patric.

  La Cava reached into his pocket and withdrew a pipe. From his other pocket he took out a pouch of tobacco and deftly tamped it into the pipe’s bowl. Putting the pouch away, he brought out a stone and flint and struck it sharply. In the flare of light, Kit could see what she knew was behind La Cava’s cavalier facade, a ferocious personality reined in by age and wisdom.

  La Cava turned and leaned against the railing, drawing smoke from his pipe. He, too, looked out across the sea—the mirror image of Lurie, down the railing several paces. Sailing men often find comfort or inspiration by leaning against a ship’s railing and staring at the sea.

  Kitiara took this as an invitation. She drew closer to La Cava and leaned against the railing too. Only Kit was looking up at La Cava, not out at the sea.

  “I had a distinct impression,” she repeated for the third time.

  “You are most persistent, Kitiara,” said La Cava, turning his head slightly to look at her. His tone had softened and had dropped some of its formal politeness. “Stubborn, really. You are determined to get something out of life, but you have no idea what it is you want. Stubbornness is a quality I admire, but I think it is important to know what you want.”

  “My father …”

  “Forget about your father for a minute, girl,” declared La Cava a little sharply. “What is it you want? What is it you want?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Kitiara, puzzled.

  “You are not going to marry Patric,” said La Cava a little scornfully. “You’re too smart and strong for that fellow. He could never tame you. I could tame you, but I’m too old to be interested and too smart to try. I would rather live in peace, have my little ship and my tobacco. I am not looking for anything more. My time of adventure is done.

  “But what about you, Kitiara? What are you looking for?”

  Now it was Kitiara’s turn to glance away. Down the deck she knew that Lurie must be listening and overhearing some of La Cava’s words. She liked Lurie. Even so, she was flushed with embarrassment because La Cava’s words had pierced her.

  After a long silence, she spoke softly. “I don’t know.” When La Cava said nothing, another long silence ensued. “I want to be … recognized. I want to be more than just an ordinary girl from Solace. I want to travel and do things and fight important battles. I want to be … someone. No, that
is not right. I want to be myself, Kitiara Uth Matar, and become rich and powerful. Rich and powerful.”

  La Cava took a long draw from his pipe. “You well may” he said evenly.

  “About my father” she persisted.

  La Cava sighed deeply and turned to face her so that she could read his eyes. “Your father” he repeated. “Your father is famous in some parts of Krynn, unknown in others.”

  Kit waited for him to continue, and it seemed that he did so with some effort. “I have never met him nor seen him, nor do I know anyone who has. But I have been everywhere that a ship may go, and I have heard of Gregor Uth Matar and his exploits, and—” here he paused “—of his fate.”

  Kitiara’s breath caught in her throat. “What of him?”

  “It is not a happy story, and I do not make a habit of recounting gossip or folklore. It very well may be untrue.”

  “Tell me anyway,” she insisted.

  Another deep sigh, and the ship’s captain turned his face back to the sea. “Up north there is a region called Whitsett that has been in a perpetual state of war, dating back almost a century. Some call it a civil war, others a blood feud between two rival families, both of them wealthy and privileged and able to sustain great losses. Your father, Gregor Uth Matar, has a certain reputation for master tactics, and some time ago he gathered under his command a mercenary band of one thousand raiders who were utterly ruthless.”

  “Go on.”

  “It is said that your father brought his army to Whitsett and offered their services to either of the two rival families. Indeed, his raiders were auctioned off to the highest bidder. I do not know anything of the two sides of the conflict, but the story is told that one of the lords deliberately underbid, so that Gregor and his men were pledged to his family’s longtime archenemy. Then this lord made a secret pact with a small faction of Gregor’s men, offering them twice that amount to doublecross their leader.”

  “Treachery!” exclaimed Kitiara.

  “Aye, treachery from men whom he had treated fairly,” said La Cava. “But his was a business built on money, not loyalty. Of course, I repeat, this is only what I heard. I myself cannot vouch for what is true. You hear a lot of things on your travels, and stories like this get made up as well as embroidered—”

  “What happened?” demanded Kitiara. “What happened to my father?”

  “From what I hear,” said La Cava, more softly, “Gregor kept his part of the bargain, encircled the army he had been paid to defeat, and vanquished them easily. His client’s army marched in to sign the surrender, and he was lulled into complacency. At a certain signal, the traitors in Gregor’s raiders rose up, slew the chief rival and his generals, as well as …”

  “Yes?” demanded Kitiara.

  “As well as Gregor and those few of his devoted retinue.”

  Kitiara could hardly breathe. Her throat constricted and tears welled up in her eyes, but she would not permit those tears to flow. She had to grab the ship’s railing for support. She could see nothing, feel nothing, think of nothing but Gregor. Her father. Dead. Betrayed.

  “Traitors,” she spat. “Traitors.”

  “Aye,” said La Cava sadly. “If true.”

  “Then that is where I will go!” she cried. “I will go to Whitsett.”

  “If you must,” said La Cava. “But according to the story that I heard, the traitors divvied up their riches and disbanded, dispersed to the far points of Krynn. No two of them together. No one of them heard of, since—”

  “I’ll find them,” insisted Kitiara, her voice strangled. “I’ll hunt every last dog of them down, if it takes me a lifetime.”

  “If you must,” said La Cava resignedly. He turned to go, touching Kitiara warmly on the shoulder. “If you must.” She was oblivious to him now.

  When, a moment later, she looked up, La Cava was gone and Lurie was standing there, his neck bent characteristically, a sympathetic look on his birdlike face. Kitiara could say nothing for a long time, just stood next to him as minutes passed. Her emotions boiled. Despite her furious bravado, she now was more confused than ever as to where she should go, what she should do. Her father, dead. Betrayed.

  Finally Lurie broke the silence. “Tell you something,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “What?”

  The captain’s mate leaned back against the railing and watched her reaction. “About Patric.”

  “What about him?” Her tone was almost sullen.

  “Others,” he said. “Other ladies he was going to marry. He brung them on board too.”

  “What others?” Lurie had her attention now.

  “Oh, two or three others, before you I mean,” said Lurie. “About one a year. We sail around. He gets off, goes wandering. Strathcoe goes with. Not me. I wait with the captain. Time goes by. He comes back. Always with a new lady he’s going to marry. Only he never don’t.”

  “He doesn’t? Why not? What happens to them?”

  “Nothing happens to them. We send them back, afterward.”

  “Afterward?” Kitiara had to clench her teeth to avoid screaming in frustration. What was he trying to say? Lurie meant well, but his speech was maddening.

  “Patric starts out,” continued Lurie, “plenty happy. New girl. Everything good. But … as we getting closer, he getting nervous. Confused. Tense. Changes his mind. Bride not so especially perfect. Maybe he don’t want to get married after all. Not so hasty.”

  “He loses his nerve,” murmured Kitiara, beginning to understand. “He doesn’t really want to get married.”

  “Not exactly,” replied Lurie. “He worries about his mother, father. Especially mother. Big important lady. Very fancy. Looks down on everybody. Nobody good enough for Patric. Everybody got too many faults. Patric afraid to go against Lady Maryn.”

  Kitiara was silent, infuriated, absorbing this latest intelligence. If Lurie had a mind to help Kit forget the fate of her father, he had succeeded. At least for the moment, Gregor Uth Matar had been banished from her thoughts, replaced by Patric. Maybe she never had any real idea of marrying the idiot, but he had a lot of nerve, stringing her along.

  “The closer he gets to home,” added Lurie consolingly, “the more he makes up different mind. Not get married this time. Wait till next trip. Find new lady. Better lady. Please mother.”

  Furious, Kitiara thrust her chin out. “He won’t get the satisfaction of turning me down,” she declared hotly, brushing past the astonished ship’s mate and heading for her cabin.

  Lurie opened his mouth to say something, but Kit had already vanished below. Suddenly Lurie was alone on deck, overwhelmed by the dark sky and glittering stars and the vast, roiling ocean.

  The captain’s mate was left with the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that the conversation had ended rather abruptly and that he had said something to offend Kitiara. What could that be? He had only done her the favor of telling her the truth.

  Tossing and turning past midnight, Kitiara couldn’t sleep. All she could think of was what Lurie had told her. Her mind seethed with scenarios that would permit her to teach Patric a lesson.

  The storm that had been threatening for days broke out in the darkest hour of that night. Great booms of thunder and furious lightning ushered in a slashing downpour. The lightning lit up the sky in streaky flashes and threw horrible shadows across her cabin. The wind built to a pitch and waves crashed over the bow.

  The ship erupted in shouts as sailors rushed to take down the sails and do what they could to keep the ship on course. In her state of mind she had no impulse to get up and help. Lying in her small bed, Kitiara listened to the ship creak and groan under the punishing wind and waves.

  She sat bolt upright. There was a sound at her door, a scratching and muffled knocking that was not part of the symphony of the storm.

  Getting up, she bundled her blanket around her and crept to the door, opening it a crack. Strathcoe’s face pressed heavily into the opening. He was trying to say something, but Kit c
ould barely see him much less interpret his garbled sounds. When she opened the door wider, he fell into her cabin as if he were drunk. She turned to give him a piece of her mind, this bloated dunce who, all along, had been in on Patric’s charade.

  Strangely, Strathcoe had slumped over her bed, as if bending to look for something. She grabbed him by the shoulder and savagely twisted him around.

  “What in blazes,” she began, then stopped in midsentence. He collapsed to the floor, and the look on her face turned from one of anger to shock. Quickly she bent down and cradled his neck with her arm.

  Poor Strathcoe looked up at her for a moment, and his lips tried to move. Out of his mouth came not words but a bubble of dark red blood. Kit looked and realized his throat had been neatly and mortally slit. As she watched, his eyes fluttered shut.

  Horrified, Kit dropped his head onto the floor, stood up, and swiftly donned some clothes. She looked around for a weapon of some sort. The only one available was one of the knives she had practiced with on deck. Strathcoe was unarmed and evidently had been taken by surprise while still in his night shirt.

  Again Kit opened her door a crack and cautiously peered out into the corridor. From above deck, she heard loud yelling and the sounds of sailors struggling to save the ship. In the corridor, there was nothing, no noise and no person.

  In this part of the ship were only three cabins: first hers, then as she headed farther away from the stairs, the captain’s, then Patric’s. She edged along the wall and neared La Cava’s quarters. The door was shut, but she kicked it open and whirled inside, holding the knife up.

  As her eyes swept the room, she realized her arm was shaking, and she had to make a strenuous effort to quell her nerves. Nothing. Nobody. La Cava was obviously up on deck, working to steady the ship through the storm.