by Ellen Porath
Kitiara had endured trials in her life—the desertion of her adored soldier father when she was young, the remarriage of her mother, the birth of her half-brothers, the death of her mother and stepfather, and her decision to leave home and become a mercenary at an age when other girls in Solace were occupied chiefly with dreaming of marriage. But this …
All thought that the mage might be lying had flown from her mind. Her own body told her Lida must be speaking the truth. “Blast it to the Abyss!” Kitiara breathed softly. “Now what?”
The ettin returned to the path. “Dumb pig fast,” he complained.
* * * * *
“What is it, Lida?” Kitiara finally snapped.
“Fever Mountain,” the mage said, pointing to the near-treeless escarpment. “Xanthar said the sla-mori is in its shadow.”
“So?” Kitiara had heard of sla-moris, but the significance of this particular secret passage eluded her.
“He’ll meet us there, I know. Xanthar says those of Darken Wood believe a sla-mori near Fever Mountain leads far to the south, perhaps to the Icereach. He believed the ettin might try to take us there in order to transport us to the Valdane.”
“And Xanthar knows where this sla-mori is?” Kitiara asked, brightening. “That’s perfect! He’ll bring Tanis and Caven and Wode, we’ll all kill the ettin, and we’ll be on our way back to Haven.”
They gazed up the side of the mountain, Kitiara smiling with satisfaction, Kai-lid frowning. Large chunks of shale and granite were strewn over the escarpment. Huge rocks had slid down the incline, leaving the ground littered with boulders, some the height of a human. Finally the swordswoman noticed that the mage didn’t share her exultation. “What’s the problem?” Kitiara asked. “We’re where the owl expects us to be, aren’t we?”
Kai-lid shook her head. “No, we’re not. The valley is back there.” She pointed south, where a patch of green could barely be seen at the edge of the towering mountain. As Res-Lacua prodded them up a path that would have strained a highland goat, the mage said, “We’re not going to the valley of the sla-mori at all. And I’m too far away to mind-speak to Xanthar to let him know.”
Kitiara stared at the woman, her head beginning to swim again. She’d felt this way often enough lately to know that she was about to be sick—whether it was from Lida’s revelation, Darken Wood pressing in around her, or the blows to the head she had suffered, she didn’t know. From a long distance away, she heard Lida cry out and reach for her.
Kitiara fainted.
* * * * *
Janusz poured water into a wooden trencher. Melted snow—that’s what he was forced to use now. It was nothing like the artesian waters he’d had in Kern. He cast the special powders upon the surface and said the words. The liquid reflected his lined face; the undissolved powder floating in the water looked like mold upon his image.
Then the scene began to shimmer in the water. Janusz saw a rose-gray granite slab carved with the leaves, flowers, and animals Dreena had loved. The mage forced himself to look at the inscription. Despite his fatigue, the sight stirred his strength and anger.
Dreena ten Valdane
Lagrimat
Ei Avenganit
“Dreena, daughter of Valdane,” Janusz translated from Old Kernish. “We mourn. And we will avenge.”
Janusz ended the scrying with a shiver. He hadn’t been truly warm for months. He longed for the comforting embrace of the stone fireplaces of the Valdane’s castle back in the woodlands of Kern. He recalled the earthy smell of woodsmoke, the tang of warm drinks, the infectious music of lyre and flute that formed a backdrop for the movements of serving girls bearing trays of fruit and cheese. That had been a splendid time.
It was before the war, of course. And long before Dreena’s marriage. He’d worn the red robe of neutral magic then, having discarded the white garb of the mages who followed the path of good. Not yet had he donned the black robe he wore now.
Janusz shook off the image of the gravestone. The two fiefdoms, Kern and Meir, were now one, he knew—ruled, to worsen the insult to the Valdane, by a committee of minor nobles who’d served under the Valdane and the Meir. They’d even hinted at giving peasants limited governance over aspects of their lives—aspects that wouldn’t inconvenience the ruling families too greatly, of course.
Soon Res-Lacua would bear Kitiara Uth Matar and Lida Tenaka to the pinnacle of Fever Mountain. Soon Janusz would draw out his remaining ice jewel and command the ettin, through the Talking Stone, to bring out the ice jewel that the monster held in its possession. Then Janusz would speak the words, engender the magic that would teleport the women and the ettin across the continent of Ansalon. He would torture Kitiara until he discovered the whereabouts of the other ice jewels, and he would also satisfy his curiosity about Lida’s mysterious connection with the swordswoman.
He was being indulgent in abducting the servingwoman, too, he knew. It was difficult enough to harness the power of the ice jewels to teleport one, much less two or three beings. He’d spent long hours coaching the ettin, practicing with the jewels; once he had teleported a bewildered gully dwarf who, upon arriving at the snowy Icereach, had taken one look around and passed out cold. The next instant, thanks to the mage’s powers, the nasty little creature had been sent back to a knoll north of Que-kiri. Upon awakening, the gully dwarf had instantly proclaimed that the long-dead rat he carried around with him had given him inestimable powers to travel through time and space.
Janusz smiled. He’d gained better control since the gully dwarf incident. He was actually looking forward to using the ice jewels again.
* * * * *
The first thing Kitiara noticed was that she seemed to be outside her own body, observing herself dispassionately. This is absurd, Kit thought hazily. I’m dreaming.
The Kitiara she saw wasn’t wearing chain mail. This woman crouched over a fire in a hearth, dressed in—of all the ridiculous costumes—a flower-print dress and an apron, both festooned with lace. The dress was pink, the apron white, and as the dream-Kitiara moved to check the cornbread and lamb stew that bubbled in a pot above the embers, the lace of her dress kept tearing against the bricks of the hearth. It was steaming in the kitchen. Sweat poured down her neck; the brocade of the impossible dress clung to her arms and back. Yet this dream-Kitiara hummed as she slaved over the hearth, apparently mindless of the torturous heat, even as the real Kitiara—who would rather be caught dead than in a dress or a kitchen—watched from a side corner, unable, in the way of dreams, to protest.
When the domesticated dream-Kitiara rose from the hearth, something else was apparent—she was very pregnant. As she moved toward the work table, it was obvious that she must be under a physical strain. Her ankles were swollen, her face puffy. Yet she was singing, by the Abyss! Some witless song—a nursery rhyme set to a simple tune.
A wail rose from a cradle in the corner, and the pink-and-white Kitiara brushed floury hands against her apron and raised a dimpled creature of about nine months. The baby was as bald as a marble, but what caught the real Kitiara’s attention were the infant’s huge, pointed ears and its eyes so tilted that the baby could barely open them. How could a quarter-elf baby look more elven than even its half-elf father?
As the dream-Kitiara settled into the rocker, proceeding to balance the infant over her pregnant abdomen and offer it a breast, a door slammed somewhere, and the kitchen filled with screaming children—all with ludicrously large and pointed ears. They were constantly in motion, like a school of fish; there seemed to be hundreds!
Kitiara had watched wounded comrades choke to death on their own blood without feeling much except annoyance that they’d gotten themselves killed. Now, however, she found herself dumb with horror at the thought of such an army of children clinging to her skirts. The real Kitiara would rather face a phalanx of goblins than this mob of urchins.
The dream-Kitiara got up and rested the still-nursing baby on the table as she opened a ceramic container and dispensed
cookies to the jostling children like a cardsharp dealing from the bottom of a deck.
All the girls wore frothy confections of pink and white. Each cradled a fat elf doll; not one wielded a toy shield or battle-ax. The boys, on the other hand, pranced in tiny buckskin outfits and clutched minuscule bows in grubby hands.
Then the door slammed again, and a roar filled the dwelling. The children scattered like leaves before the wind, coalescing again behind their mother. Tanis appeared in the doorway. But this Tanis was overweight, flushed, and unwashed—a very drunken half-elf, who belched as he leaned against the doorframe. He surveyed the crowd of children with a repulsion that matched the real Kitiara’s.
“Where’s my supper?” he demanded. “I’m hungry.”
“You haven’t been home in months!” shrieked the dream-Kitiara. “Where have you been, sloth?”
“Nowhere in particular.” The dream-Tanis did a double-take, leering at her. “What? With child again? Good gods, woman!”
From the corner, the real Kitiara tried to offer advice to the dream-Kitiara, who stood with tears dripping onto her frock. “Draw your sword!” Kitiara tried to shout. “Slice him through! Drop these hellions at the nearest orphanage and get out of there!” But no words issued forth.
The dream-Kitiara turned and, groaning with the effort, stretched for the unsheathed sword that decorated the wall over the hearth. The real Kitiara felt her heart leap. But her dream-twin merely used the blade, which had saved dozens of lives and stolen countless others, to slice a loaf of homemade bread. Then she herded her flock to the supper table. She hustled Tanis’s inebriated frame from the doorway to the head of the table. “Stew again?” he complained.
Wordless and unseen, the real Kitiara shuddered. If this was what awaited her, she’d rather be tortured to death.
Although, truth to tell, what was the difference?
Chapter 14
Power of the Jewels
KITIARA AWAKENED TO FIND HERSELF SLUNG OVER the ettin and staring straight down the near-vertical drop of Fever Mountain. The valley floor spread out hundreds of feet below. From this distance, the valley looked like any ordinary woodland, not the fearsome Darken Wood. Kitiara closed her eyes to let a spell of vertigo pass.
When she opened them again, reason reasserted itself; she yelled and struggled against the grasp of the creature. Its bullish necks held her pinned between them. “You oaf!” the swordswoman shouted, pummeling the ettin’s back. “Let go of me! I can’t breathe!”
Res-Lacua dumped her on a narrow ledge. For a moment, Kitiara clung to the side of the mountain and the world swirled beneath her. Then her vision cleared, and she saw the lady mage’s anxious face behind the ettin. Kitiara filled the air with curses.
“Pretty noisy,” the ettin observed. Kitiara closed her mouth. Res-Lacua pointed to the summit of the mountain, only a few paces away. “Up.”
It was cold and windy at the top of Fever Mountain. Lida’s hood fluttered in the gale, and her hair whipped nearly straight behind her. She clung to Kitiara for support. The ettin was fumbling inside the filthy skin that covered his body, and Kitiara whispered to her companion, “Now what’s he doing?” Lida only shook her head.
There was no giant owl in sight. Was the ettin going to kill them? If so, he wouldn’t succeed without a fight. Kitiara glanced around her, seeking a weapon, but all she saw was shale. As high up as they were, there was no sign of any vegetation.
The ettin was holding a smooth gray pebble and crooning to it. “Master, Master,” he said reverently.
“What’s that?” Kitiara demanded.
“Magic,” Lida whispered.
Kitiara kneeled surreptitiously, picking up two jagged pieces of shale. The ettin was too rapt to notice. Kitiara handed one of the slivers to the mage. “Be ready,” the swordswoman warned. Lida didn’t answer.
The ettin reached again into his covering and pulled out another small object. Kitiara gasped as she recognized it. There was no mistaking the purple jewel, identical to the ones hidden in her pack—the ones she had stolen from Janusz. Bolts of violet lightning flashed from the crystal, and a loud humming drowned out the sound of the wind. The violet light encircled the ettin.
Then the ettin nodded as though he were responding to some unheard directive, turning toward the women as he did. He held the gray pebble in one hand and the ice-jewel, high above his head, in the other. As he moved toward Kitiara and Lida, the air around the trio began to expand and shimmer.
Particles of air swirled around them. “Snow?” Kitiara whispered. Lida, awed by the display, said nothing.
The particles continued to swirl, glittering scarlet, purple, deep green, golden, and white. Kitiara heard the lady mage murmur something. The swirling thickened to a storm as the ettin edged toward them.
Kitiara couldn’t move. Janusz’s magic had already entrapped her, and she stared in horror as Res-Lacua and Lida—and she—began to disintegrate, dissolving into the swirling magic tightening around them, spinning faster, until it was as if the three figures stood at the center of a great vortex. The purple light and the mystical humming intensified until Kitiara’s eyes and ears sensed nothing else.
Then, with a flash of amethyst, they were gone.
* * * * *
As Xanthar and the others neared the valley, the giant owl spotted the strange scene at the summit of Fever Mountain. Screeching futilely, he flapped his wings and tried to fly straight toward the highest ridge where only he, with his farseeing eyes, could see what was happening. But he was too heavy to move very quickly; his great wings strained against the wind. Caven and Tanis watched in puzzlement, not moving.
“What’s with the bird?” Caven muttered. “We’re here, aren’t we? At the valley? So where’s Kitiara?”
“Can’t you feel it?” Tanis interjected. “The charge in the air?” He put a hand to his head and felt his hair cling to his hand. He fought back panic, feeling suddenly as though he were helpless.
Caven had twisted around in the saddle and was gazing at the half-elf with consternation. Then the Kernan looked up at the owl, who was crying out as he swooped upward. “Whatever it is, it’s driven both of you daft,” the mercenary said.
But Tanis wasn’t listening. “We’re too late!” he cried and pointed past Caven to the peak of the bald mountain to the north. A glittering miasma churned around the mountaintop; it seemed to sap energy from the very ground around them, from their own bodies. Now Caven himself swayed in the saddle, and Tanis had to reach to prop him up. At that moment, the mountain pinnacle seemed to explode. But when the explosion faded and the glitter evaporated, the escarpment was unchanged.
“It was them,” Tanis said with great feeling. “They’re gone!”
“Gone?” Caven demanded. “Half-elf, this is Darken Wood! That flash could have been anything.”
“No,” Tanis said stubbornly.
Minutes later, Xanthar landed atop a barren tree nearby. He kept twisting, facing the mountain, then to the south, then the mountain again. Suddenly the bird opened its beak, displaying a gray, wormlike tongue the size of Tanis’s hand. And then Xanthar cried out, his rage and loss and desolation echoing through the valley. Even Caven shuddered.
After a while, the bird quieted down. Xanthar fastened a stare on the half-elf. Lida carried that same look in her eyes, a riveting stare that sucked the victim in, picked him over, practically stole his thoughts. Caven had to glance away, but Tanis held the giant owl’s stern gaze.
On the ground, the creature dwarfed the half-elf. But from his vantage point atop the spire, even with the two men mounted on the Mithas stallion, the bird still towered over them. Fury emanated from the bird. Then the giant owl blinked, and he was the sardonic Xanthar again.
We have erred.
Tanis nodded. Caven did, too, so the half-elf knew the mercenary also had heard the owl’s mind-speak.
They are in the Icereach now.
“Why the Icereach?” Caven snapped. “Because so
me stupid dream said so? The Valdane lost the war in Kern; why go nearly a thousand miles south to a place like the Icereach if you want to conquer the world? Assuming, that is, you and the mage are correct in guessing that’s what he wants. Why the Icereach, owl?”
Perhaps there is something there that he values … something he seeks.
“Like what? Snow?”
The portent mentions jewels.
Caven was having nothing of the owl’s argument. “Jewels in the Icereach? That’s a laugh.”
Stranger things have happened, human.
But the Kernan merely sputtered. “I say we go back to Haven.”
Do what you will, human. You will find it difficult to wend your way out of Darken Wood without the help of a guide.
Caven glared. “You’d abandon us?”
You are nothing to me. I am going to the Icereach.
Tanis finally spoke. “Lida said you couldn’t leave Darken Wood.”
A pause. She was wrong.
Tanis thought for a moment, then slid down from Maleficent. He began to pull his own pack and Kitiara’s from the tangle of equipage behind the saddle.
“Half-elf!” Caven demanded. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going with Xanthar.”
Caven chortled. “You Qualinesti are more talented than I’d thought. You can fly, too, half-elf?”
“No, but he can.”
Caven paled. He grasped the pommel of his saddle and leaned toward the half-elf. “You’d ride a giant owl?”
“If he’ll let me.” Tanis looked at the bird, who dipped his head in what Tanis took for assent.
Caven’s voice hissed, drawing the half-elf’s attention again. “But why? Kitiara isn’t worth the risk. There are millions of other women in the world, half-elf. Besides, what guarantee do we have that she is there?”
Tanis snorted, pawing through his pack. He would have to lighten the load as much as possible. Tanis outweighed Lida. He selected what little food remained in his pack, his bow and quiver, and his sword. Then he picked up Kitiara’s pack, thinking.