“—you would have had an even more interesting reception planned for me, no doubt!” she snarled with an angry toss of her dark, curly hair. “I come and go where I please, especially to pay a visit to my brother!” Her voice literally shook with rage. “I made my way through those god-cursed trees of yours out there, then I’m attacked at his front door!” Her hand drew her sword. She took a step forward. “By the gods, I should teach you a lesson, elven slime—”
“I repeat my apologies,” Dalamar said calmly, but there was a glint in his slanted eyes that made Kit hesitate in her reckless act.
Like most warriors, Kitiara tended to regard magic-users as weaklings who spent time reading books that could be put to better use wielding cold steel. Oh, they could produce some flashy results, no doubt, but when put to the test, she would much rather rely on her sword and her skill than weird words and bat dung.
Thus she pictured Raistlin, her half-brother, in her mind, and this was how she pictured his apprentice—with the added mark against Dalamar that he was only an elf—a race noted for its weakness.
But Kitiara was, in another respect, different from most warriors—the main reason she had outlived all who opposed her. She was skilled at assessing her opponents. One look at Dalamar’s cool eyes and composed stature—in the face of her anger—and Kitiara wondered if she might not have encountered a foe worthy of her.
She didn’t understand him, not yet—not by any means. But she saw and recognized the danger in this man and, even as she made a note to be wary of it and to use it, if possible, she found herself attracted to it. The fact that it went with such handsome features (he didn’t look at all elvish, now that she thought of it) and such a strong, muscular body (whose frame admirably filled out the black robes), made it suddenly occur to her that she might accomplish more by being friendly than intimidating. Certainly, she thought, her eyes lingering on the elf’s chest, where the black robes had parted slightly and she could see bronze skin beneath, it might be much more entertaining.
Thrusting her sword back in its sheath, Kitiara continued her step forward, only now the light that had flashed on the blade flashed in her eyes.
“Forgive me, Dalamar—that’s your name, isn’t it?” Her scowl melted into the crooked, charming smile that had won so many. “That damned Grove unnerves me. You are right. I should have notified my brother I was coming, but I acted on impulse.” She stood close to Dalamar now, very close. Looking up into his face, hidden as it was by the shadows of his hood, she added, “I … often act on impulse.”
With a gesture, Dalamar dismissed the Guardians. Then the young elf regarded the woman before him with a smile of charm that rivaled her own.
Seeing his smile, Kitiara held out her gloved hand. “Forgiven?”
Dalamar’s smile deepened, but he only said, “Remove your glove, lord.”
Kitiara started and, for an instant, the brown eyes dilated dangerously. But Dalamar continued to smile at her. Shrugging, Kitiara jerked one by one at the fingers of the leather glove, baring her hand.
“There,” she said, her voice tinged with scorn, “you see that I hold no concealed weapon.”
“Oh, I already knew that,” Dalamar replied, now taking the hand in his own. His eyes still on hers, the dark elf drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. “Would you have had me deny myself this pleasure?”
His lips were warm, his hands strong, and Kitiara felt the blood surge through her body at his touch. But she saw in his eyes that he knew her game and she saw, too, that it was one he played himself. Her respect rose, as did her guard. Truly a foe worthy of her attention—her undivided attention.
Slipping her hand from his grasp, Kitiara put it behind her back with a playful female gesture that contrasted oddly with her armor and her manlike, warrior stance. It was a gesture designed to attract and confuse, and she saw from the elf’s slightly flushed features that it had succeeded.
“Perhaps I have concealed weapons beneath my armor you should search for sometime,” she said with a mocking grin.
“On the contrary,” Dalamar returned, folding his hands in his black robes, “your weapons seem to me to be in plain sight. Were I to search you, lord, I would seek out that which the armor guards and which, though many men have penetrated, none has yet touched.” The elven eyes laughed.
Kitiara caught her breath. Tantalized by his words, remembering still the feel of those warm lips upon her skin, she took another step forward, tilting her face to the man’s.
Coolly, without seeming aware of his action, Dalamar made a graceful move to one side, slightly turning away from Kitiara. Expecting to be caught up in the man’s arms, Kit was, instead, thrown off balance. Awkwardly, she stumbled.
Recovering her balance with feline skill, she whirled to face him, her face flushed with embarrassment and fury. Kitiara had killed men for less than mocking her like this. But she was disconcerted to see that he was, apparently, totally unaware of what he had done. Or was he? His face was carefully devoid of all expression. He was talking about her brother. No, he had done that on purpose. He would pay.…
Kit knew her opponent now, conceded his skill. Characteristically, she did not waste time berating herself for her mistake. She had left herself open, she had taken a wound. Now, she was prepared.
“—I deeply regret that the Shalafi is not here,” Dalamar was saying. “I am certain that your brother will be sorry to learn he has missed you.”
“Not here?” Kit demanded, her attention caught instantly. “Why, where is he? Where would he go?”
“I am certain he told you,” Dalamar said with feigned surprise. “He has gone back to the past to seek the wisdom of Fistandantilus and from thence to discover the Portal through which he will—”
“You mean—he went anyway! Without the cleric?” Suddenly Kit remembered that no one was supposed to have known that she had sent Lord Soth to kill Crysania in order to stop her brother’s insane notion of challenging the Dark Queen. Biting her lip, she glanced behind her at the death knight.
Dalamar followed her gaze, smiling, seeing every thought beneath that lovely, curling hair. “Oh, you knew about the attack on Lady Crysania?” he asked innocently.
Kit scowled. “You know damn well I knew about the attack! And so does my brother. He’s not an idiot, if he is a fool.”
She spun around on her heel. “You told me the woman was dead!”
“She was,” intoned Lord Soth, the death knight, materializing out of the shadows to stand before her, his orange eyes flaring in their invisible sockets. “No human could survive my assault.” The orange eyes turned their undying gaze to the dark elf. “And your master could not have saved her.”
“No,” Dalamar agreed, “but her master could and did. Paladine cast a counter-spell upon his cleric, drawing her soul to him, though he left the shell of her body behind. The Shalafi’s twin, your half-brother, Caramon, lord”—Dalamar bowed to the infuriated Kitiara—“took the woman to the Tower of High Sorcery where the mages sent her back to the only cleric powerful enough to save her—the Kingpriest of Istar.”
“Imbeciles!” Kitiara snarled, her face going livid. “They sent her back to him! That’s just what Raistlin wanted!”
“They knew that,” Dalamar said softly. “I told them—”
“You told them?” Kitiara gasped.
“There are matters I should explain to you,” Dalamar said. “This may take some time. At least let us be comfortable. Will you come to my chambers?”
He extended his arm. Kitiara hesitated, then laid her hand upon his forearm. Catching hold of her around her waist, he pulled her close to his body. Startled, Kitiara tried to pull away, but she didn’t try very hard. Dalamar held her with a grip both strong and firm.
“In order for the spell to transport us,” he said coolly, “you need to stand as close to me as possible.”
“I’m quite capable of walking,” Kit returned. “I have little use for magic!”
But, even as she spoke, her eyes looked into his, her body pressed against his hard, well-muscled body with sensuous abandon.
“Very well,” Dalamar shrugged and suddenly vanished.
Looking around, startled, Kit heard his voice. “Up the spiral staircase, lord. After the five hundred and thirty-ninth step, turn left.”
“And so you see,” Dalamar said, “I have as great a stake in this as do you. I have been sent, by the Conclave of all three Orders—the Black, the White, and the Red—to stop this appalling thing from happening.”
The two relaxed in the dark elf’s private, sumptuously appointed quarters within the Tower. The remains of an elegant repast had been whisked away by a graceful gesture of the elf’s hand. Now, they sat before a fire that had been lit more for the sake of its light than its warmth on this spring night. The dancing flames seemed more conducive to conversation.…
“Then why didn’t you stop him?” Kit demanded angrily, setting her golden goblet down with a sharp clinking sound. “What’s so difficult about that?” Making a gesture with her hand, she added words to suit her action. “A knife in the back. Quick, simple.” Giving Dalamar a look of scorn, she sneered. “Or are you above that, you mages?”
“Not above it,” Dalamar said, regarding Kitiara intently. “There are subtler means we of the Black Robes generally use to rid ourselves of our enemies. But not against him, lord. Not your brother.”
Dalamar shivered slightly and drank his wine with undue haste.
“Bah!” Kitiara snorted.
“No, listen to me and understand, Kitiara,” Dalamar said softly. “You do not know your brother. You do not know him and, what is worse, you do not fear him! That will lead to your doom.”
“Fear him? That skinny, hacking wretch? You’re not serious—” Kitiara began, laughing. But her laughter died. She leaned forward. “You are serious. I can see it in your eyes!”
Dalamar smiled grimly. “I fear him as I fear nothing in this world—including death.” Reaching up, the dark elf grasped the seam of his black robes and ripped it open, revealing the wounds on his chest.
Kitiara, mystified, looked at the wounds, then looked up at the dark elf’s pale face. “What weapon made those? I don’t recog—”
“His hand,” Dalamar said without emotion. “The mark of his five fingers. This was his message to Par-Salian and the Conclave when he commanded me to give them his regards.”
Kit had seen many terrible sights—men disemboweled before her eyes, heads hacked off, torture sessions in the dungeons beneath the mountains known as the Lords of Doom. But, seeing those oozing sores and seeing, in her mind, her brother’s slender fingers burning into the dark elf’s flesh, she could not repress a shudder.
Sinking back in her chair, Kit went over carefully in her mind everything Dalamar had told her, and she began to think that, perhaps, she had underestimated Raistlin. Her face grave, she sipped her wine.
“And so he plans to enter the Portal,” she said to Dalamar slowly, trying to readjust her thinking along these new and startling lines. “He will enter the Portal with the cleric. He will find himself in the Abyss. Then what? Surely he knows he cannot fight the Dark Queen on her own plane!”
“Of course he knows,” Dalamar said. “He is strong, but—there—she is stronger. And so he intends to lure her out, to force her to enter this world. Here, he believes, he can destroy her.”
“Mad!” Kitiara whispered with barely enough breath to say the word. “He is mad!” She hastily set her wine goblet down, seeing the liquid slopping over her shaking hand. “He has seen her in this plane when she was but a shadow, when she was blocked from entering completely. He cannot imagine what she would be like—!”
Rising to her feet, Kit nervously crossed the soft carpet with its muted images of trees and flowers so beloved of the elves. Feeling suddenly chilled, she stood before the fire. Dalamar came to stand beside her, his black robes rustling. Even as Kit spoke, absorbed in her own thoughts and fears, she was conscious of the elf’s warm body near hers.
“What do your mages think will happen?” she asked abruptly. “Who will win, if he succeeds in this insane plan? Does he have a chance?”
Dalamar shrugged and, moving a step nearer, put his hands on Kitiara’s slender neck. His fingers softly caressed her smooth skin. The sensation was delicious. Kitiara closed her eyes, drawing a deep, shivering breath.
“The mages do not know,” Dalamar said softly, bending down to kiss Kitiara just below her ear. Stretching like a cat, she arched her body back against his.
“Here he would be in his element,” Dalamar continued, “the Queen would be weakened. But she certainly would not be easily defeated. Some think the magical battle between the two could well destroy the world.”
Lifting her hand, Kitiara ran it through the elf’s thick, silken hair, drawing his eager lips to her throat. “But … does he have a chance?” she persisted in a husky whisper.
Dalamar paused, then drew back away from her. His hands still on her shoulders, he turned Kitiara around to face him. Looking into her eyes, he saw what she was thinking. “Of course. There’s always a chance.”
“And what is it you will do, if he succeeds in entering the Portal?” Kitiara’s hands rested lightly on Dalamar’s chest, where her half-brother had left his terrible mark. Her eyes, looking into the elf’s, were luminous with passion that almost, but not quite, hid her calculating mind.
“I am to stop him from returning to this world,” Dalamar said. “I am to block the Portal so that he cannot come through.” His hand traced her crooked, curving lips.
“What will be your reward for so dangerous an assignment?” She pressed closer, biting playfully at his fingertips.
“I will be Master of the Tower, then,” he answered. “And the next head of the Order of Black Robes. Why?”
“I could help you,” Kitiara said with a sigh, moving her fingers over Dalamar’s chest and up over his shoulders, kneading her hands into his flesh like a cat’s paws. Almost convulsively, Dalamar’s hands tightened around her, drawing her nearer still.
“I could help,” Kitiara repeated in a fierce whisper. “You cannot fight him alone.”
“Ah, my dear”—Dalamar regarded her with a wry, sardonic smile—“who would you help—me or him?”
“Now that,” said Kitiara, slipping her hands beneath the tear in the fabric of the dark elf’s black robes, “would depend entirely upon who’s winning!”
Dalamar’s smile broadened, his lips brushed her chin. He whispered into her ear, “Just so we understand each, lord.”
“Oh, we understand each other,” Kitiara said, sighing with pleasure. “And now, enough of my brother. There is something I would ask. Something I have long been curious about. What do magic-users wear beneath their robes, dark elf?”
“Very little,” Dalamar murmured. “And what do warrior women wear beneath their armor?”
“Nothing.”
Kitiara was gone.
Dalamar lay, half-awake and half-asleep, in his bed. Upon his pillow, he could still smell the fragrance of her hair—perfume and steel—a strange, intoxicating mixture not unlike Kitiara herself.
The dark elf stretched luxuriously, grinning. She would betray him, he had no doubt about that. And she knew he would destroy her in a second, if necessary, to succeed in his purpose. Neither found the knowledge bitter. Indeed, it added an odd spice to their lovemaking.
Closing his eyes, letting sleep drift over him, Dalamar heard, through his open window, the sound of dragonwings spreading for flight. He imagined her, seated upon her blue dragon, the dragonhelm glinting in the moonlight.…
Dalamar!
The dark elf started and sat up. He was wide awake. Fear coursed through his body. Trembling at the sound of that familiar voice, he glanced about the room.
“Shalafi?” He spoke hesitantly. There was no one there. Dalamar put his hand to his head. “A dream,” he muttered.
Dalamar!
The voice again, this time unmistakable. Dalamar looked around helplessly, his fear increasing. It was completely unlike Raistlin to play games. The archmage had cast the time-travel spell. He had journeyed back in time. He had been gone a week and was not expected to return for many more. Yet Dalamar knew that voice as he knew the sound of his own heartbeat!
“Shalafi, I hear you,” Dalamar said, trying to keep his tone firm. “Yet I cannot see you. Where—”
I am, as you surmise, back in time, apprentice. I speak to you through the dragon orb. I have an assignment for you. Listen to me carefully and follow my instructions exactly. Act at once. No time must be lost. Every second is precious.…
Closing his eyes that he might concentrate, Dalamar heard the voice clearly, yet he also heard sounds of laughter floating in through the open window. A festival of some sort, designed to honor spring, was beginning. Outside the gates of Old City, bonfires burned, young people exchanged flowers in the light and kisses in the dark. The air was sweet with rejoicing and love and the smell of spring blooming roses.
But then Raistlin began speaking and Dalamar heeded none of these. He forgot Kitiara. He forgot love. He forgot springtime. Listening, questioning, understanding, his entire body tingled with the voice of his Shalafi.
CHAPTER
3
ertrem padded softly through the halls of the Great Library of Palanthas. His Aesthetics’ robes whispered about his ankles, their rustle keeping time to the tune Bertrem hummed as he went along. He had been watching the spring festival from the windows of the Great Library and now, as he returned to his work among the thousands and thousands of books and scrolls housed within the Library, the melody of one of the songs lingered in his head.
“Ta-tum, ta-tum,” Bertrem sang in a thin, off-key voice, pitched low so as not to disturb the echoes of the vast, vaulted halls of the Great Library.
The echoes were all that could be disturbed by Bertrem’s singing, the Library itself being closed and locked for the night. Most of the other Aesthetics—members of the order whose lives were spent in study and maintenance of the Great Library’s collection of knowledge gathered from the beginning of Krynn’s time—were either sleeping or absorbed in their own works.
War of the Twins Page 24