Raistlin took a circuitous route home, one that was longer but would insure he did not cross his sister’s path. He mulled over Kit’s conversation, trying to ferret out a meaning, but he was too stupid with fatigue to make any sense of it. His body was drained. It was all he could do to force himself to place one foot in front of the other, trudge the weary way back home.
Caramon would be awake, worried sick, asking questions.
Raistlin smiled grimly. He wouldn’t have to lie. He would simply say that he’d spent the evening with their sister.
6
THE TWINS TURNED TWENTY THAT SUMMER.
Their Day of Life Gift was supposed to have been a joyous celebration. Kitiara gave them a party, inviting their friends to the Inn of the Last Home, treating them to supper and all the ale they could drink, which, in the dwarf’s case, was an alarming amount. Everyone was having a good time, with the exception of the guests of honor.
Raistlin had been in a foul mood since spring, more than usually sarcastic and bitter, especially with his brother. Their mutual birthday, with its necessary reminders of their dead parents, only appeared to sharpen the edge of his bad humor.
Caramon was glum, having just heard the news that Miranda, the girl he currently adored, had suddenly up and married the miller’s son. The unseemly haste with which the wedding was held gave rise to speculations of the most scandalous nature. Caramon’s disappointment in the matter was lightened somewhat when he noticed that news of Miranda’s nuptials actually brought a smile to Raistlin’s face. The smile was dark and unpleasant, not the sort of smile that warms the heart, but it was a smile. Caramon took this as a good sign and hoped fervently that his currently unhappy home life would improve.
The Day of Life Gift party lasted well into the night, and the warmth and good spirits of everyone else soon thawed Raistlin’s chill. This was the first celebration Kitiara had attended for her brothers since they were small, almost too small to remember. These past months were the longest period of time she had spent in Solace since her girlhood.
“For a backwater town, it isn’t nearly as boring as I remember,” she replied in answer to Raistlin’s caustic query. “I don’t have to be anywhere, not for a while, at least. I’m having fun, baby brother.”
She was in wonderful spirits that night, and so was Tanis Half-Elven. The two sat next to each other and their mutual admiration was obvious. Each watched the other with warm, bright eyes. Each urged the other to tell favorite stories. With secret smiles and sidelong glances, each reminded the other of some joke known only to the two of them.
“Tonight’s celebration is on me,” said Kit, when it came time to settle the reckoning. “I’m paying for everything.”
She tossed three large coins onto the table. Otik, his broad face beaming, reached out for them. Raistlin deftly slid his hand under Otik’s, snatched up one of the coins, and held it to the light.
“Steel. Minted in Sanction,” Raistlin observed, studying them. “Newly minted, I would say.”
“Sanction,” Tanis repeated, frowning. “That city has the reputation of an evil place. How did you come by coins from Sanction, Kit?”
“Yes, where did you find such an interesting coin, Sister?” Raistlin asked. “Look at this—it has a five-headed dragon stamped on it.”
“An evil image,” said Tanis, looking grave. “The ancient sign of the Dark Queen.”
“Don’t be silly! It’s a coin, not some evil artifact! I won it playing at bones with a sailor,” Kit said, her crooked smile limpid. “Lucky at bones, unlucky at love, so they say. But I proved them wrong. The very next day, I met you, lover.” She leaned over to Tanis, kissed him on the cheek.
Her tone was easy, casual, her smile genuine. Raistlin would never have had reason to doubt her if he had not seen that coin, or one like it, sparkle in Lunitari’s light only a month ago.
The half-elf believed her; that much was certain. But then Tanis was so besotted with Kitiara that she could have told him she’d sailed to the moon and back on a gnome ship and he would have asked her for details of the voyage.
None of the others questioned her either. Flint regarded all his friends with a patronizing, grandfatherly air, which was degenerating rapidly with every ale the dwarf drank. Tasslehoff roamed happily around the inn, much to the dismay of the other customers. The members of the party took turns rescuing people from the kender, who, after two pints of ale, was wont to regale them with his favorite Uncle Trapspringer stories. Flint and Tanis returned the customers’ belongings or made restitution if the “borrowed, strayed or otherwise abandoned” personal possessions were irretrievably lost in the kender’s many pouches.
As for Caramon, he was watching his twin with almost pitiful anxiety, willing desperately that Raistlin should have a good time. Caramon was elated when his morose brother actually looked up from the single glass of wine he had not even touched to ask, “Speaking of dragons, I am currently pursuing a course of study on beasts from antiquity. Does anyone know any stories about dragons?”
“I know one,” offered Sturm, who, having imbibed two mugs of mead in honor of the occasion, was unusually loquacious.
He told the company a story about the Solamnic knight Huma and how he had fallen in love with a silver dragon, who had taken the disguise of a human female. The tale was well received and raised speculation. Dragons, good and evil, had once lived on Krynn; the old tales were filled with stories of them. Were such tales true? Did dragons really exist, and if so, what had happened to them?
“I’ve lived in this world a long time,” said Tanis, “and I’ve never seen any sign of dragons. It’s my belief that they exist only in the lays of the minstrels.”
“If you deny the existence of dragons, you deny the existence of Huma Dragonbane,” said Sturm. “He was the one who drove the dragons from the world, the good dragons agreeing to leave with the evil in order not to upset the balance. That is why you see no dragons.”
“Uncle Trapspringer met a dragon once—” Tasslehoff began excitedly, but the party was slated to hear no more. Flint kicked the stool out from under Tas, depositing the kender and his ale on the floor.
“Dragons are kender tales,” said Flint with a disgusted snort. “Nothing more.”
“Dwarves tell dragon stories, too,” Tas said, not at all disconcerted. He picked himself up, looked sadly into his empty ale mug, and traipsed off to ask Otik for a refill.
“Dwarves tell the best dragon stories,” Flint stated. “Which is only natural, considering that we once competed with the great beasts for living space. Dragons, being quite sensible creatures, preferred to live underground. Oftentimes a dwarven thane would pick out a snug, dry mountain for his people, only to find that a dragon had entertained the same idea.”
Tanis laughed. “You can’t have it both ways, old friend. Dragons can’t be false in kender tales and true in dwarf tales.”
“And why not?” Flint demanded angrily. “Have you ever known a kender to speak a true word? And have you ever known a dwarf to lie?”
He was quite pleased with his argument, which made sense when viewed through the bottom of an ale mug.
“What do you say, Raist?” Caramon asked. His brother appeared to be taking an interest in this subject, unlike many subjects previous.
“As I said, I have read of dragons in my books,” Raistlin replied. “They mention magical spells and artifacts related to dragons. The books are old, admittedly, but why would such spells and artifacts have been created if the beasts were only mythological?”
“Exactly!” cried Sturm, tapping his mug on the table and bestowing a rare look of approbation on Raistlin. “What you say is quite logical.”
“Raist knows a story about Huma.” Caramon was pleased to see the two almost friendly. “Tell it, Raist.”
When he heard that the story dealt with magic-users, Sturm frowned again and pulled at his mustaches, but the frown gradually lessened as the story went along. He gave it grudging appr
oval at the end, stating with a brusque nod, “The wizard showed great courage—for a magic-user.”
Caramon flinched, fearing his brother would take offense at this remark and launch an attack. But Raistlin, his tale concluded, was watching Kitiara, did not even appear to have heard Sturm’s comment. Relaxing, Caramon gulped down his ale, called for another, and yelped in pain as a small girl with fiery red curls leapt on him from behind, crawled like a squirrel up his back.
“Ouch! Confound it, Tika!” Caramon endeavored to rid himself of the child. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” he demanded, glaring around at the little girl with a mock ferocity that made her giggle. “Where’s Waylan, your good-for-nothing father?”
“I don’t know,” the youngster replied with equanimity. “He went off somewhere. He’s always going off somewhere. I’m staying with Otik until he comes back.”
Otik bustled over, apologizing and scolding in the same breath. “I’m sorry, Caramon. Here, you young imp, what are you doing bothering the customers?” He grasped the child firmly, led her off. “You know better than that!”
“ ’Bye, Caramon!” Tika called, waving her hand delightedly.
“What an ugly little kid,” Caramon muttered, turning back to his drink. “Did you ever see so many freckles?”
Raistlin had taken advantage of the distraction to lean over to his sister. “What do you think, Kit?” he asked with a slight smile.
“About what?” she asked nonchalantly. Her gaze was fixed on Tanis, who had gone to the bar for two more ales.
“Dragons,” he said.
Kit cast him a sharp glance.
Raistlin met her scrutinizing gaze with bland innocence.
Kit shrugged, gave an affected laugh. “I don’t think about dragons at all. Why should I?”
“It’s just that I saw your expression change when I first brought up the subject. As if you were going to say something, then didn’t. You’ve traveled so much. I’d be interested to hear what you had to say,” he concluded respectfully.
“Pah!” Kit was brusque, appeared displeased. “The expression on my face was pain. My stomach’s churning. I think that venison Otik fed us tonight was tainted. You were wise not to eat it. I’ve heard enough about Solamnic knights and about dragons,” she added when Tanis returned. “It’s silly arguing about something no one can prove. Let’s change the subject.”
“Very well,” said Raistlin. “Let’s talk about the gods, then.”
“Gods! That’s even worse!” Kit said, groaning. “I suppose you’ve become a convert of Belzor now, little brother, and that you’re going to proselytize. Let’s leave, Tanis, before he starts his harangue.”
“I am not speaking of Belzor,” Raistlin returned with a touch of asperity. “I am speaking of the old gods, those who were worshiped before the Cataclysm. The old gods were equated with dragons, and it is said that some of them existed in dragon form. Queen Takhisis, for example. Like her image on the coin. It seems to me that a belief in dragons must of necessity argue a belief in these gods. Or the other way round.”
Everyone—with the exception of Kit, who rolled her eyes and kicked Tanis underneath the table—had an opinion. Sturm stated that he’d done some thinking about this since their last conversation, had spoken to his mother about Paladine. His mother stated that the knights still believed in the god of light. They were waiting for Paladine to return home with an apology for being gone so long. If so, the knights might be willing to forgive and forget the god’s past misdeeds.
The elves, according to Tanis, were convinced that the gods—all the gods—had left the world due to the wickedness of humans. When humans were finally eradicated from the world—which must surely happen, since they were notoriously combative-then the true gods would return.
After giving the matter considerable thought, Flint was inclined to believe that Reorx, having been fed lies by the mountain dwarves, was holed up inside Thorbardin, with no knowledge that the hill dwarves were in need of his divine help.
“Trust a mountain dwarf to pretend that we don’t exist. They wish we’d fall off the face of Krynn, that’s what. We’re a shame and an embarrassment to them,” Flint concluded.
“Could you fall off the face of Krynn?” Tas asked eagerly. “How would you do it? My feet seem to be pretty firmly planted on the ground. I don’t think I could drop off. What if I stood on my head?”
“If there was a true god in this world, the kender would have all dropped off it by now,” Flint grumbled. “Would you look at that doorknob? Standing on his head!”
It might be more accurate to say that Tasslehoff was attempting to stand on his head. He had his head planted on the floor and was kicking his legs, trying to get his feet into the air, but not having much success. Finally he did manage to stand on his head, with the result that he almost immediately toppled over. Nothing daunted, he tried again, this time taking the precaution of placing himself next to a wall. Fortunately for the party and the rest of the customers, this endeavor absorbed the kender’s attention and energies for a considerable length of time.
“If the ancient gods are still around somewhere,” said Tanis, resting his hand on Kit’s, urging her to be patient, to stay awhile longer, “then there should be some sign of their presence. In the old days, it was said that the clerics of the gods had the power to heal sickness and injuries, that they could even restore life to the dead. The clerics disappeared right before the Cataclysm and have not been seen since, at least that the elves have heard.”
“Clerics of Reorx live,” Flint maintained, his tone bitter. “I’m convinced of it. They’re inside Thorbardin. All sorts of miracles are performed in the halls of our ancestors, halls where by rights we hill dwarves should be now!” He thumped the table with his fist.
“Come, old friend,” Tanis admonished mildly. “You remember that time we met the mountain dwarf at the fair in Haven last fall. He claimed that it was the hill dwarves who had clerical powers and refused to share them with their cousins in the mountain.”
“Of course he would say that!” Flint bellowed. “To ease his guilty conscience!”
“Tell us a story about Reorx,” suggested Caramon, the peacemaker, but the dwarf was angry and wouldn’t talk.
“Some of these followers of the new gods claim to have that power,” Tanis stated, giving Flint time to cool off. “The clerics of Belzor, for one. The last time I was in Haven, they made a big show of it. Caused cripples to get up and walk and dumb people to speak. What do you say, Kit?”
He’d caught her in a prodigious yawn, which she didn’t bother to hide. Raking back her curly hair, she laughed carelessly. “Who wants or needs any gods at all? I certainly don’t. No divine force controls my life, and that’s the way I like it. I choose my own destiny. I am slave to no man. Why should I be a slave to a god and let some priest or cleric tell me how to live?”
Tanis applauded her when she finished and saluted her with a raised glass. Flint was frowning and thoughtful. When his glance fell on Tanis, the frown deepened into concern. Sturm stared raptly into the fire, his dark eyes unusually bright, as if he saw Paladine’s knights once more riding into battle in the name of their god. Caramon had long since dozed off. He lay with his head on the table, his hand still wrapped around his ale mug, softly snoring. Tasslehoff, to the wonder and amazement of all, had managed to stand on his head and was shrilly demanding that everyone look at him—quickly, before he fell off the face of Krynn.
“We’ve stayed long enough,” Kit whispered to Tanis. “I can think of lots more interesting things to do than hang around here.” Taking hold of his hand, she brought it to her lips, kissed his knuckles.
Tanis’s heart was in his eyes, as the saying goes. His love and longing for her was apparent to everyone watching him. Everyone except Kit, who was now playfully nibbling on the knuckles she had previously been kissing.
“I’m going to have to leave Solace soon, Kit,” he said to her softly. “Flint will be tak
ing to the road any day now.”
Kitiara rose to her feet. “All the more reason not to waste what time we have left. Good-bye, little brothers,” she said, not looking at them. “Happy Day of Life Gift.”
“Yes, best wishes,” Tanis said, turning to Raistlin with a warm smile. He patted the snoring Caramon on the shoulder.
Kitiara put her arm around the half-elf’s waist, leaned into him. He placed his arm affectionately on her shoulder. Walking side by side, so closely that they almost tripped over each other’s feet, the two left the inn.
Flint sighed and shook his head. “More ale,” he called gruffly.
“Did you see me, Flint? Did you see me?” Tasslehoff, his face bright red, skipped back to the table. “I stood on my head! And I didn’t fall off the face of Krynn. My head stuck to the floor just like my feet do. I guess you’d have to not have any part of you touching. Do you suppose if I jumped off the roof of the inn? …”
“Yes, yes, go ahead,” Flint muttered, preoccupied.
The kender dashed away.
“I’ll go stop him,” Sturm offered and left in hasty pursuit.
Raistlin poked his brother, prodded him awake.
“Uh? What?” Caramon grunted, sitting up and peering around, bleary-eyed. He’d been dreaming of Miranda.
Raistlin raised his half-empty wineglass. “A toast, my brother. To love.”
“To love,” Caramon mumbled, sloshing ale on the table.
7
AS IT TURNED OUT, TANIS AND FLINT DID NOT LEAVE SOLACE THAT summer.
Caramon had already departed for work in the early morning dawn and Raistlin was putting his books together, preparatory to going to his school, when there was a knock on the door. Simultaneous with the knock, the door flew open and Tasslehoff Burrfoot jumped in.
Flint had been trying to teach the kender that a knock on the door was generally conceded among civilized peoples as an announcement of one’s presence and a request to be admitted. One waited patiently at the door until the knock was answered and the door was opened by the person residing in the household.
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