A glass jar sealed with a stopper covered with wax and trimmed with golden filigree nestled inside a hole cut in the “pages”. Alongside the jar in another small pocket was a paintbrush, the tip made with hair from a lion’s mane.
Iolanthe lifted the jar carefully. Placing it on the table, she broke the wax seal and pried out the cork lid. The substance inside the jar was thick and viscous, like quicksilver, and it shimmered in the light. This was Iolanthe’s most valued possession, a gift from Ladonna, head of the Order of the Black Robes, upon the successful completion of Iolanthe’s test. The substance quivered as Iolanthe carried the jar and paintbrush over to a portion of the room concealed by a thick curtain.
Iolanthe drew aside the curtain, letting it fall behind her. There was nothing at all in this part of the room. It was empty of furniture. No pictures hung on a wall made of bare plaster covered with whitewash. Iolanthe placed the jar on the floor. She dipped the paintbrush in the silver substance and, beginning at floor level, she painted a straight line up the wall, a line as long as she was tall. She painted another line perpendicular to the first, then added a third line down to the floor. This done, she carefully replaced the stopper in the jar. She poured melted candle wax over the cork and set it aside to let it dry. She checked to make certain the little silver knife was secure in her sleeve then returned to the curtained alcove.
Iolanthe stood before the lines painted on the wall and spoke the requisite words of the magic. The silver paint on the wall flared brilliantly, dazzling her eyes. For a moment all she could see was blinding white light. She summoned up an image in her mind of the bedroom in the Broken Shield Inn and forced herself to stare into the bright light.
The wall on which the silver lines were painted dissolved. The hallway in the inn stretched before her. Iolanthe did not immediately enter the hall, but looked about carefully, not wanting to be interrupted. She did not enter until she was certain no one was about, then she walked through the wall and the silver lines as another might walk through a door and, traversing the corridors of magic, she stood in room 16.
Iolanthe glanced behind her. The faintest gleam of silver, like the slimy trail made by a snail, shone on the wall, marking her return path. Embers burned in the fireplace, and by their light she could make out the bed and the woman sleeping in it.
The room reeked of ale.
Iolanthe drew the silver knife from her sleeve. She padded on slippered feet across the floor and came to stand beside the bed. Kitiara lay on her back, sprawled out, with one arm flung over her head. She still wore her boots and her clothes; either she had been too tired or too drunk to change. Her breathing was even, her slumber deep. Her sword hung in its sheath from one of the bedposts.
Knife in hand, Iolanthe bent over the slumbering woman. She did not think Kit was shamming sleep, but there was always the possibility. Iolanthe held the knife poised over Kitiara’s wrist and dug the blade into her skin, drawing a little drop of blood.
Kitiara never stirred.
“What a fine assassin I would make,” Iolanthe reflected. “But enough foolery. Down to business.”
She shifted the blade from Kitiara’s throat to her hair. She took gentle hold of a silky black lock that lay tousled on the pillow, and, tugging it to its full length, placed the knife at the roots and sliced it off. She cut off another curl and yet another and was going to take a fourth, when Kitiara gave a deep sigh, frowned, and rolled over.
Iolanthe froze, not daring to move, not daring to even breathe. She was in no danger. The words to a sleep spell were on her lips and a requisite pinch of sand was in her hand, ready to be tossed over the slumberer. She didn’t want to have to resort to the use of magic, however, for Kitiara might wake the next morning, and, finding sand in her bed, deduce she’d been ensorcelled during the night. She must suspect nothing. As for the cut on her wrist, warriors were always cutting themselves on their armor or their weapons. She would think nothing of such a small mark.
Kit wrapped her arms around the pillow, and murmuring a word that sounded like “tanning,” she sighed, smiled, and drifted back to sleep. Iolanthe couldn’t imagine why Kit would be dreaming about tanning leather hides, but one never knew. Tucking the lock of hair in a velvet bag, Iolanthe tied the bag to her belt and left Kit’s bedside.
The snail-slime trail of silver gleamed faintly on the wall, marking the exit. Iolanthe walked through the silver doorway and stepped into the curtained alcove of her own home, her night’s work a success.
4
A Dragon and his rider. itiara’s mount, a blue dragon named Skie, waited for her in a secret location outside of the city. Stalls for dragons were provided near each of the military quarters of the Highlords in Neraka, but just as Kitiara preferred to stay in an inn rather than the cramped quarters of military housing, Skie liked his privacy and comfort too well to live in the crowded conditions of the dragon stables. He did pay his fellow dragons a visit, however, and he was ready with the latest gossip and news of dragonkind for Kitiara when she arrived.
The blue dragon had spent a comfortable evening. He’d gone out hunting that morning and brought down a fat deer. After dining, he’d found a patch of autumn sunlight, and lying down, he extended his blue wings. Resting his head on the warm rocks, he basked in the warmth. When Kitiara arrived, he roused himself, shaking his head with its blue mane and flicking his long scaly tail.
The greeting between Highlord and dragon was warm. Skie was the only being Kitiara truly trusted and the dragon was devoted to his rider, something rare for dragons, who generally disdained all lower forms of life. Skie admired Kitiara’s courage and her cool-headed skill in battle, and thus he was willing to overlook her defects, putting them down to the fact that she had been born, lamentably, a human.
“What a dragon she would have made!” Skie often commented regretfully.
Kitiara patted the blue’s long scaled neck with her hand and asked if he had eaten. Skie indicated the remains of a deer carcass nearby. Few other human riders ever bothered to check on the welfare of their dragons, but Kitiara never forgot. She nodded and then, instead of mounting, as he expected, she stood by his side, her hand resting on his neck, staring at her boots.
Skie saw at once that something was wrong.
“What did the emperor think of your plan to attack the High Clerist’s Tower?” Skie asked.
Kitiara sighed. “He thinks it is too reckless, too risky, so he did not approve it. That is true, I suppose, but to my mind we risk far more by curling up all snug and complacent in our dens.”
“The man is a fool,” Skie remarked.
“No, if Ariakas were a fool, I would not mind so much,” said Kitiara somberly. “He is a brilliant commander. Witness the fact that his armies control almost all of Ansalon. But those very victories will be his downfall. Back at the start of the war, when he had nothing to lose, he would have taken my advice and attacked the High Clerist’s Tower. Since then, he has grown too fond of victory. He is afraid of defeat so he bets only on the sure thing. Hazarding little, he wonders why his winnings decrease.”
Skie shook his head. His belly rumbled. He’d eaten too fast and the deer wasn’t sitting well.
“Did you visit the dragon mews?” Kitiara asked. “What news did you hear?”
“As you say, the emperor’s war is going well,” Skie returned in grudging tones. “The Black Dragon Highlord, Lucien of Takar, has strengthened his hold on the eastern lands, putting down minor uprisings and rebellions, though his greatest achievement appears to have been forcing those lay-about slugs of black dragons to crawl out of their swamps and fight. Lucien has joined with the Highlord of Icereach, Feal-Thas, and his white dragons to conquer the Goodland Peninsula. Feal-Thas is putting it about that he was the one responsible for the victory, but all know the pointy-eared elf was merely following Lucien’s order.”
“Of course, no human thinks an elf has a brain in his head, so they discount Feal-Thas,” Kitiara remarked, “probably at
their peril. We will see for ourselves. We are to pay this elf Highlord a visit. I should learn more about him.”
“What, travel to Icereach!” Skie snorted. Sparks of lightning sizzled from between his teeth. “If you go there, you go without me. Nothing but snow and ice. Why anyone would want to travel to such a dreadful place is a mystery to me!”
He didn’t mean it, of course. Skie would never think of entrusting Kit’s welfare to another mount. Still, let her worry a little.
Kitiara dragged the heavy leather harness out of the brush where she had stashed it for safekeeping. Skie detested the harness, as did all self-respecting dragons. “Harness” equated to “horse” in Skie’s mind, and he wore one only because it ensured the safety of the rider. Some riders mounted their dragons with the mistaken idea that they could use the harness to guide and control the dragon. Every dragon soon disabused his rider of that notion.
Dragon and rider worked best as a team. Dragon and rider had to trust each other implicitly, for their lives depended on each other. Such trust was difficult for most dragons and riders to acquire, especially the chromatic dragons who were not given to trusting anyone, not even each other. The blue dragons had turned out to be the best mounts thus far. Blue dragons tended to be more gregarious and outgoing than their fellows and worked better with humans. That said, there always came a time in the relationship of every dragon and his rider when the dragon would have to teach the rider who was really in control. This was often done by the dragon flipping over in midair and dumping his offending rider in a lake.
Skie still recalled with an inward chuckle the time he had done that to Kit. She’d been wearing full plate armor and she’d sunk like a boulder. Skie had been forced to plunge in after her and drag her out, half-drowned. He had thought she would be furious, but once she’d quit spewing up water, she had started to laugh. She had admitted that he’d been right and she’d been wrong and she never again sought to impose her will on him.
The first thing Kitiara had learned from Skie was that aerial combat was far different from battles fought on land. In the air, a human had to learn to think and fight like a dragon. Thinking of this made Skie recall the rest of his news.
“The rumor is that soon the metallic dragons will enter the war,” the blue dragon said. “If that happens, Ariakas’s victories may dry up. These metallics are our equals, armed with deadly breath weapons and powerful magicks.”
“Bah! I don’t believe it,” said Kit, shaking her head. “The metallics have sworn an oath promising not to enter the war. They don’t dare, not while we are holding their precious eggs hostage.”
“You and I both know what’s happening to those eggs, and someday the metallics will figure it out. Some are already starting to grow suspicious. Word is that one named Evenstar is going about asking questions about the draconians. When the golds and silvers discover the truth, they will enter this war-with a vengeance!
“Which reminds me, I suppose you heard Verminaard is dead,” Skie added offhandedly.
“Yes, I heard,” said Kitiara.
Skie assisted her in putting on the harness, which fit around his neck and chest and forelegs. At least Kitiara did not insist on using one of the awkward and uncomfortable dragon saddles. She rode bareback, settling herself in front of his wings.
“Did you hear the truth of how he died?” Skie asked chattily. “Not battling dwarves in the dwarven kingdom, as we were led to believe, but ignominiously, at the hands of slaves!”
“The draconian commander said he was killed by assassins,” said Kit, adding with a chuckle, “At his death, an aurak masqueraded as Verminaard. Quite clever of him.”
“The dragons who served under the scaly little bastard were not fooled,” said Skie disparagingly.
“You don’t like draconians,” Kit observed, climbing up on Skie’s back.
“No dragon does,” said Skie, glowering. “They are a perversion, an abomination. I cannot believe Her Dark Majesty sanctioned such a heinous act.”
“Then you do not know Her Dark Majesty,” said Kitiara. She glanced about then said quietly, “I suggest we change the subject. You never know who might be listening.”
Skie grunted in agreement. “Where are we bound? Back to our camp?”
“Why?” Kitiara asked bitterly. “We have nothing to do there but drink and belch and scratch ourselves. We’re not going to be allowed to fight.”
She sighed again then said, “Besides, Lord Ariakas has other assignments for me. First, we go to Palanthas…”
“Palanthas?” Skie repeated, amazed. “That’s in enemy territory. What business do you have in Palanthas?”
“I’m going shopping,” said Kitiara with a laugh.
Skie craned his neck to stare at her. “Shopping? What for?”
“A man’s soul,” Kit replied.
5
The Oath and the Measure. An assignation ir Derek Crownguard did not like being a guest at Castle Wistan, but the knight did not have much choice in the matter. His own holdings-a border castle north of Solanthus-had been overrun by the forces of the Dark Queen and was, so he heard, being occupied and rebuilt by enemy troops, now in control of all of eastern Solamnia. Derek’s younger brother had died in the assault. When it became apparent that the castle would fall, Derek had faced the choice of dying in a hopeless cause or staying alive to one day return and reclaim his family’s holdings and their honor. He had fled, along with those of his friends and troops who had survived. He sent his wife and children to Palanthas to live with her relatives, while he had traveled to Sancrist Isle, there to spend weeks discussing with his fellow knights how best to recruit and organize the forces that would drive the enemy from his homeland.
Derek had recently returned to Palanthas, frustrated and irate, his plans having been thwarted at every turn by men who, in his opinion, lacked courage, conviction, and vision. In particular, Derek Crownguard despised his host.
“Gunthar has become an old woman, Brian,” Derek said grimly. “When he hears the enemy is on the march, he cries ‘Alack-a-day!’ and dives under the bed!”
Brian Donner knew this was a ridiculous charge, but he also knew that Derek, like some gnomish device, needed to release steam or else blow up and do damage to those around him.
The two knights were similar in build and in coloring and were sometimes mistaken for brothers by those who did not know them-a relationship Derek was quick to refute, for the Crownguards were a noble family of long lineage and the Donners came of more common stock. Both were blonde and blue-eyed, like many Solamnics. Derek’s hair was a darker blonde, now graying, as were his mustaches-the traditional long and flowing mustaches of a Solamnic knight-for he was in his late thirties. The main difference lay in their eyes. Brian’s blue eyes smiled. Derek’s blue eyes glinted.
“I don’t agree with Gunthar’s views, but he’s not a coward, Derek,” Brian said mildly. “He’s cautious. Perhaps too cautious…”
“His ‘caution’ cost me Castle Crownguard!” Derek returned angrily. “If Gunthar had sent the reinforcements I asked for, we could have held off the onslaught.”
Brian wasn’t sure about that either, but he was Derek’s friend and a fellow knight, so he conceded the point. The two refought the battle for the hundredth time, with Derek detailing what he would have done if only the requested troops had arrived. Brian listened patiently and agreed, as always, to everything Derek said.
The two were exercising their horses in the meadows and forests outside the city walls of Palanthas. They were alone, or Derek would not have been talking as he did. Though Derek might despise Lord Gunthar, the Measure required that a knight support a superior in word and deed, and Derek, who lived and died by the Measure, never spoke out against Gunthar in public. The Measure said nothing about respecting and supporting a superior in one’s private thoughts, however, so Derek could vent his anger alone to a friend and not be guilty of breaking the code of conduct that was meant to govern the lives of the Knig
hts of Solamnia.
Derek and his friend had ridden out for a gallop some distance from the city. The two had returned only yesterday from the meeting of the Knightly Council on Sancrist Isle, a meeting that had devolved into a shouting match. Derek and his supporters advocated sending troops into battle against the dragonarmies immediately, while Gunthar and his faction proposed waiting until their troops were better trained and better equipped and suggested that perhaps they should make some attempt to forge an alliance with the elves.
Neither side proved strong enough to prevail. The knighthood was splintered; no decisions could be made, no action undertaken. Derek believed Lord Gunthar wanted a knighthood divided, since that meant nothing would get done, and he had walked out of the meeting in a rage, choking back words a man must never say to a fellow knight. Though Brian did not entirely agree with Derek, he had supported his friend, and they had boarded the first ship to make the channel crossing from Sancrist to Palanthas.
“If I were Grand Master-” Derek began.
“-which you’re not,” Brian pointed out.
“I should be!” Derek declared vehemently. “Lord Alfred thinks so, and my lords Peterkin and Malborough…”
“But only one of those knights is a member of the Grand Circle and eligible to vote-even if a Grand Circle could be convened, which it can’t, due to the fact that there are not enough members.”
“The Measure provides the means to form a Grand Circle in such dire circumstances as we now find ourselves. Gunthar is deliberately blocking the formation because he knows that if a Grand Circle was convened this day, I would be elected Grand Master.”
Brian wasn’t so certain about this. Derek had his supporters, but even they had their doubts about Derek, just as they had doubts about Gunthar. The elder knight could not have blocked the formation of a Grand Circle unless other knights were content to let it be blocked. The reason? Caution. Everyone was cautious these days. But Brian wondered whether caution was just a more palatable word for fear.
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