Kitiara thought all this and then she let it go with a shake of her black curls and a shrug. Hers was a practical nature that looked always ahead, never behind. She did not waste time in regret.
“As you will, my lord. What is your lordship’s plan?”
“This is the reason I summoned you.” Ariakas rose from the desk and walked to the door. Leaning out, he shouted, “Send for Iolanthe!”
“Who is Iolanthe?” Kit asked.
“The idea is hers,” said Ariakas. “She is my new witch.”
From the glistening of lust in his eye, Kitiara guessed immediately that this new witch was also his new lover.
She leaned her hip on the desk again, resigned to hearing whatever lame-brained scheme Ariakas’s latest paramour had whispered to him during the throes of their love-making. And she was a witch, a user of magic. That made this even worse.
Kitiara was more comfortable around magic-users than most warriors. Her mother, Rosamun, had been born with magic in her blood, given to strange visions and trances that had eventually driven her insane. The same magic flowed strongly in the veins of her younger half-brother, Raistlin. It had been Kitiara who, seeing this talent in him, understood that he could someday earn his bread with his art—provided it didn’t kill him first.
Like most warriors, Kitiara did not like nor trust magic-users. They did not fight fair. Give her a foe who came lunging at her with a sword, not one who pranced about chanting sing-song words and tossing bat dung.
The witch arrived, ushered in by one of the ogre guards who couldn’t quit ogling her. Iolanthe had responded to the summons with such alacrity that Kitiara suspected the witch had been ensconced in a nearby chamber. From the glance she and Ariakas exchanged, Kitiara guessed the woman had been invited to eavesdrop on the conversation.
Iolanthe was what Kitiara would have expected in one of Ariakas’s lovers. She was human, young (late twenties, perhaps), and Kitiara supposed men might consider her beautiful, if you happened to like a nubile, sensuous, voluptuous sort of beauty.
There had been a time when Ariakas had liked Kitiara’s lean and muscular sort of beauty, but that time was long gone. Kit was quite content to let it remain in the past. She’d slept with Ariakas for one reason and that was to gain an advantage over the hundreds of other aspiring and ambitious commanders clamoring for Ariakas’s favor.
Kit greeted Iolanthe with a cool nod and a quirk of her lips, which let the witch understand immediately that Kit knew why and how Iolanthe came to be here.
Iolanthe returned the woman’s crooked smile with a charming smile of her own. Iolanthe had heard a great deal about Kitiara uth Matar from Ariakas and the witch had been intensely curious to meet her. Iolanthe was not jealous of Kitiara. Jealousy of an individual means that one suffers from feelings of inferiority and inadequacy, and Iolanthe was supremely confident of her powers—both physical and magical. She did not see the need to be jealous of anyone.
Kitiara did have one thing Iolanthe wanted. Kit was a Dragon Highlord. She commanded men and dragons; she had wealth and status. She was an equal in the eyes of Ariakas, while Iolanthe was only his witch and his mistress—one in a long line of mistresses. The ogres standing guard outside treated Kitiara with marked respect. They leered at Iolanthe.
The witch wanted what Kitiara had—power—and she meant to get it, though Iolanthe had not yet decided how. She was from Khur, a land of fierce nomadic warriors who fought blood feuds dating back centuries. Iolanthe might make a friend of Kitiara. She might become her most deadly foe. Much depended on Kitiara.
“Explain your idea to the Blue Lady,” said Ariakas, as Iolanthe entered.
Iolanthe made a graceful bow of acquiescence. Her eyes were violet, and she lined them with black kohl to enhance their unusual color. Those eyes met Kitiara’s, their gaze one of cool appraisal.
Kitiara had little use for most men she met and no use at all for women, who, in her mind, tended to be soft creatures given to babies and hysterics. Kit could see why Ariakas had brought this woman to his bed. Iolanthe was one of the most striking, exotic females Kitiara had ever seen.
“You are of Solamnic descent, I believe, Kitiara—” Iolanthe began.
“I am properly addressed as Highlord,” Kitiara stated.
Iolanthe’s black lashes flickered. “I beg your pardon, Highlord. Forgive me.”
Kitiara gave an abrupt nod. “Proceed. My time is short.”
Iolanthe cast a covert glance at Ariakas. As she expected, he was enjoying this. He generally found it expedient to keep his subordinates at each other’s throats, encouraging the survival of the fittest. Iolanthe had the idea that perhaps she could use them both, play one off the other in her own rise to power. A dangerous game, but Iolanthe was born with the blood of warrior-kings in her veins, and she had not come to Neraka merely to feel Ariakas’s calloused hands groping her.
“Your father was a knight,” Iolanthe added, refraining from adding that Kitiara’s father had been a disgraced knight, “and therefore you are familiar with the politics of the Solamnic knighthood—”
“I know that I get a blinding headache whenever politics are discussed,” said Kitiara disdainfully.
“I heard you were a woman of action.” Iolanthe favored Kit with a pretty smile. “Do you know a knight named Derek Crownguard?”
“I know of him. I’ve never met him. He is a Lord of the Rose from a wealthy family, who is vying with Gunthar uth Wistan for the leadership of the knighthood.”
Politics might give Kitiara a headache, but she took care to keep herself informed as to what was happening in the nation she was about to conquer. “Crownguard is ambitious. A glory-seeker. He is a strict follower of the Oath and the Measure. He will not take a crap but that he first consults the Measure to make sure he’s doing it right.”
“Crudely put, but accurate,” said Iolanthe.
“This Crownguard is the key to the destruction of the knighthood,” said Ariakas.
“You want me to have him killed?” Kitiara asked.
She was speaking to Ariakas, but it was Iolanthe who responded with a shake of her head. She wore her long black hair shoulder-length with straight-cut bangs adorned by a slender gold band. Her thick hair swung when she moved her head, giving forth a hint of fragrant perfume. Her robes were made of black silk trimmed in gold, sewn together in layers so that the diaphanous, filmy fabric clung to her here and floated away from her there, providing a fleeting and tantalizing glimpse of brown flesh beneath. She wore golden bracelets on her arms and golden rings on her hands and around her ankles. Her feet were bare.
Kitiara, by contrast, was clad in dragon armor with tall boots, and she smelled of sweat and of leather.
“Assassination would make Derek Crownguard a hero,” said Iolanthe. “The knights need a hero right now and only a fool would provide them with one.”
“Just tell her the plan, Iolanthe,” said Ariakas, who was growing impatient, “or rather I will do it myself. You have heard of dragon orbs?” he asked Kitiara.
“The magical artifact that holds the elf king Lorac in thrall?”
“Another orb like it has been discovered in Icereach. The Dragon Highlord of the White Wing, Feal-Thas, apparently just came across it while cleaning out his closet,” Ariakas said dryly.
“You want me to go take it from him,” said Kit.
Ariakas tapped his fingertips together. “No. Derek Crownguard should be the one to recover this orb.”
Kitiara raised her eyebrows. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this. “Why is that, my lord?”
“Because the orb will seize Crownguard, as it has seized the elf king, and bring him under our control. He will go back to Solamnia—the poison in the Solamnic well. Under our direction, he will lead the knights straight to ruin. This plan has the additional advantage of removing Derek from Solamnia during a critical time. You are familiar with Solamnics. What do you think?”
What Kitiara thought was that a bold at
tack now on the High Clerist’s Tower could win the war, but Ariakas didn’t want to hear that, and Kitiara suddenly understood why. He hated his foes, the Solamnic knights, but as much as he hated them, so too did he believe in them. He believed their mythology. He believed the legend of the knight Huma and how he had driven the Dark Queen and her dragons back into the Abyss. He believed in the myth of the knights’ prowess and strength and he believed in their former glory. He had concocted this elaborate plan because, deep inside, he believed he could not defeat them militarily.
Kitiara was under no such illusions. She was not a believer. She’d seen the knights in the person of her profligate father and she knew their shining silver armor was rusty and dented and that it creaked when they walked.
This was all so clear to her, yet there was nothing she could do. What was equally clear was that if this scheme of Ariakas’s failed, if the dragonarmies lost the battle for Solamnia, she—as commander of the Blue Wing—would be blamed. Never mind that she had given Ariakas the winning strategy and he had turned it down. He would conveniently forget that when the time came.
He and his witch were both waiting for her to tell them how brilliant they were.
She would do her duty. She was a soldier, after all, and he was her commander.
“It’s an interesting notion,” Kitiara said. “All Solamnics are deeply suspicious and distrustful of anything magic, but”—she smiled at Iolanthe—“I have no doubt some lovely woman could help Sir Derek overcome his misgivings. Now, if that will be all, my lord, I should be returning to my command.”
Kitiara was thinking there might be some way around Ariakas’s refusal to attack the High Clerist’s Tower. He would be angry that she had disobeyed him, at first, but his rage would be mitigated by her victory. Better that than endure his fury after a defeat …
“Excellent,” said Ariakas smoothly. “I’m glad you like the plan, Kitiara, because I’ve decided to send you to ensnare Crownguard.”
His words came as a shock to both women. Iolanthe stared at him in amazement nearly as great as Kit’s.
“My lord,” Iolanthe protested, bristling, “you and I agreed that I should be the one—”
“My lord,” Kitiara spoke at the same time, her dark brows coming together in irritation, “I am commander of the Blue Wing. My place is with my troops—”
Ariakas was gratified. These two powerful women had been growing a bit too sure of themselves.
“I have changed my mind,” he said, his sharp tone cutting them both off. “Iolanthe, the Highlord is right. The knights are distrustful of magic and those who wield it—a fact I had not taken into consideration when I agreed you could go. Kitiara is a warrior and far better suited to this task. As for you, Highlord, your forces are dug in for the winter. You can afford to spend some time away from them.”
Kit turned away, determined to hide her disappointment. She walked over to stare out the window at the compound, where a group of prisoners, chained together at the ankle, was being lined up at the foot of a scaffold. Today was the day for hanging traitors. She watched dispassionately as the executioner placed the noose around the neck of a young man, who was groveling on his knees, protesting his innocence, begging for his life. The guards yanked him to his feet, put a bag over his head.
“Leave us, Iolanthe,” said Ariakas, after a pause. “I need to speak to the Highlord.”
Iolanthe cast Kitiara a baleful look, then took her leave, her silken garments flowing around her. She slammed shut the door behind her.
Kitiara had her feelings once more under control. “The lady was not pleased. I fear you will sleep in a cold bed this night, my lord.”
“No woman ever says ‘no’ to me, Kitiara,” Ariakas replied imperturbably. “You know that, and stop fingering that hidden blade of yours. I am convinced you are the one to handle this business with Crownguard. Once you have completed that assignment, which should not take you long, provided you handle it right—”
“I already have some ideas on that score, my lord,” said Kitiara.
“Good. After that, I want you to fly to Haven and report back to me on this chaotic situation in the Red Wing.”
Kitiara was about to argue against this, for she truly had no care about the Red Wing, when a sudden thought flashed through her mind. Haven was near Solace. A trip back to her old stomping grounds might prove most interesting.
“I am yours to command, my lord,” she said.
“After that, you will travel to Icereach. I do not trust this elf wizard. I find the fact that he has suddenly ‘remembered’ he has a dragon orb in his possession disturbing.”
Ariakas walked over to stand beside her. They both watched as the scaffold’s trap door opened and the young man dropped to his death. Unfortunately for him, the fall did not break his neck, and he writhed and twisted at the end of the noose for some time.
“Ah, a kicker,” remarked Ariakas, amused.
Kitiara watched until the body went still and hung twisting in the wind. Ariakas had more to say. She waited for him to say it.
“This is the main reason I am going along with Iolanthe’s plan for this knight to steal the dragon orb. I do not want it in the possession of Feal-Thas.”
“I could take it from him,” said Kitiara.
Ariakas cast her a cool glance. “I don’t want it in your possession either.”
Kitiara half-smiled. She watched in silence as the soldiers cut down the body and prepared the noose for the next man in line.
“That being said, I don’t want Feal-Thas to think I don’t trust him,” Ariakas continued. “He has his uses; I know of no one else I could convince to live in that frozen wasteland. You must be subtle in your dealings with him.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“As for the dragon orb, once I have no further use for this Crownguard, he will be disposed of and I will take the orb for myself. Don’t you see the genius of this plan?”
Kitiara saw the genius of her own plan to attack the High Clerist’s Tower. She sighed inwardly.
“Yes, my lord,” she replied dutifully. Outside in the compound, the guards were dragging the next man up the stairs. She turned away from the window. “Your lordship must give me written orders for Feal-Thas. He won’t believe me.”
“Of course. You will have them by morning. Stop by before you leave.”
“Do you know where I am to find Crownguard, my lord? I seem to recall destroying his castle some time ago…”
“According to my agents, he is on Sancrist Isle, residing at Castle Wistan. He leaves there to go back to Palanthas, however.”
Kitiara stared at Ariakas, incredulous. “That is enemy territory, my lord!”
“A dangerous mission, Kit,” Ariakas said imperturbably. “The reason I chose you.”
Kitiara had the feeling there were other reasons as well. Up until a few moments ago, he had planned on sending Iolanthe to Solamnia. Ariakas was not one to act on impulse. He had a good reason for making the switch. Kitiara wondered uneasily what it was. Had she given herself away? Did he guess she had been planning to disobey him and attack the Tower? She thought back to her words, her actions, and decided she had not. No, he must simply be annoyed at her for pressing him on the issue of the High Clerist’s Tower.
Their business concluded, Kitiara took her leave. The two parted, apparently on the best of terms.
“One thing I like about you, Kitiara,” Ariakas said to her as she was walking to the door. “You take defeat like a man. No sulking or pouting just because you don’t get your way. Keep me apprised of your progress.”
Kitiara was so absorbed in her thoughts when she left that she did not see the door to another room open a crack, nor did she see the bright violet eyes, touched with kohl and shadowed by long dark lashes, watching her.
Kit retrieved her sword and her boot knife from the ogres. Unlike Grag, her hands did not shake as she buckled on her sword belt, but she felt a similar sense of relief. Few left Ariakas�
�s presence alive without feeling relieved.
“Need the location of the nearest bar?” asked the ogre handing over her sword.
“Thanks, I already know it,” said Kitiara.
3
The Inn of the Broken Shield.
Silver magic.
olanthe waited until she saw Kitiara walking down the street, then returned to Ariakas.
He was seated at his desk, writing the promised dispatch. Iolanthe went over to him, put her hands on his broad shoulders and rubbed his neck.
“I could send for your scribe to do that, my lord—” “The fewer people who know of this, the better,” said Ariakas. He wrote rapidly in large block letters, so that there would be no mistaking his words.
Iolanthe, looking over his shoulder, saw that he was writing about the dragon orb.
“Why the change in plans, my lord?” Iolanthe asked. “Why send the Highlord to Solamnia and not me? We had this all arranged …”
“As I told Kitiara, she is better suited to the mission. She already has a plan in mind.”
“I have a feeling there is another reason, my lord.” Iolanthe slid her arms beneath his leather armor, ran her hands over his bare chest. He continued writing.
“The Highlord was concocting some scheme to countermand my orders and attack the High Clerist’s Tower.”
Iolanthe bent closer, so that her hair fell around him, and he could smell her perfume.
“What else?” she said softly.
“She gave in too quickly, especially when I mentioned sending her to Haven. She is keeping something from me,” said Ariakas. His voice had gone hard and grating.
“We all have secrets, my lord,” said Iolanthe, kissing his ear.
“I want to know hers.”
“This can be done,” said Iolanthe.
“She must not suspect.”
“That will be more difficult.” Iolanthe thought a moment. “There is a way, but I must have access to her quarters. What barracks is she in?”
“Kitiara in the barracks?” Ariakas chuckled at the thought. “Sleep on a cot when there’s a comfortable inn in town? I’ll find out for you.”
Dragons of the Highlord Skies Page 4