Darkness and Light p-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  "Where and when?" asked Caramon, pleased to be going anywhere.

  "I cannot say where just now," Raistlin said. His pale blue eyes stared fixedly at his nearly untouched plate of food. "It may be a long and perilous voyage."

  Caramon jumped up. "I'm ready."

  "Siddown," Kitiara said, dragging on her brother's vest tail. Caramon plumped down on his stool.

  Flint sighed a great, gusty sigh. "You're all leaving me," he said. "I'll not go a-tinkering this season, and all my friends are going their own way He sighed again, so heavily that the rack of candles flickered.

  "You old bear," Kitiara said. "You're feeling sorry for yourself. There's no law that says you have to stay in Solace by yourself. Don't you have any relatives that you can impose on?"

  "Yes," Tasslehoff added, "you can visit your graybearded, I mean gray-haired, old mother.

  The dwarf bellowed his outrage. Those sitting closest to Flint — Caramon and Sturm — slid quickly away from the furious dwarf. Flint banged his tankard on the tabletop, sending a splash of ale at Tasslehoff. Rivulets of sticky golden ale ran off the kender's nose and soaked into his topknot of wild brown hair. He rubbed the brew from his eyes.

  "Nobody makes sport of my mother!" Flint declared.

  "Not more than once, anyway," Tanis observed sagely.

  Tas wiped his face on his sleeve. He picked up his own scaled-down tankard (it was empty) and tucked it under his arm like an absurd helm. Assuming an air of injured dignity, he declaimed, "Now we must fight a duel!"

  Kitiara said gleefully. "I'll be your second, Tas."

  "I'll stand for Flint!" Caramon cried.

  "Who has choice of weapons?" asked Tanis.

  "Flint's challenged; it is his choice," Sturm said, smiling.

  "What'll it be, old bear? Apple cores at ten paces? Ladles and pot lids?" asked Kitiara.

  "Anything but ale mugs," Tas quipped, his pose of haughty dignity replaced by his usual grin. The laughter didn't stop until Tika returned.

  "Shh! Shh, it's late! Will you people be quiet!" she hissed.

  "Go on, before someone spanks you," Caramon said, without turning to look at her. Tika slipped in behind his stool and made horrid faces at him. The others laughed at her. Caramon was puzzled.

  "What's so funny?" he demanded.

  Tika deftly lifted the dagger from Caramon's belt sheath. She raised it over her head with a terrifying grimace, as though to stab Caramon in the back. Tears ran down Kitiara's face, and Tas fell off his chair. "What?" shouted Caramon. Then he snapped his head around and spied Tika in midgrimace. "Aha!" He started after her. The girl darted around the nearby empty tables. Caramon blundered after her, upsetting chairs and stumbling against stools.

  Otik appeared from the kitchen with a lamp in his hand. His nightshirt was askew and his sparse white hair was standing up in comic tufts. "What's this row? Can't a man get some sleep around here? Tika, where are you, girl?" The red-haired girl peeked over the rim of a table. "You were supposed to hush them, not join in the party."

  "That man was chasing me." She pointed at Caramon, who was busy studying the candle-lit rafters. "Go to your room." Tika went regretfully. She cast a last grin back at Caramon and stuck out her tongue. When he started toward her, she flipped his dagger at him. It struck the floor quivering, inches from his feet. Tika vanished through the kitchen's swinging doors.

  Otik planted his fists on his hips. "Flint Fireforge! I expected better of you. You're old enough to know better. And you, Master Sturm; a well-bred fellow like you ought to know better than to be roistering this late at night." Flint looked properly abashed. Sturm smoothed his long mustache with his right forefinger and said nothing.

  "Don't be an old sop," said Kitiara. "Tika was very amusing. Besides, this is a going-away party."

  "Everything is amusing to people who've got four kegs of ale in their bellies," growled Otik. "Who's going away?"

  "Well, everybody."

  Otik turned back to the kitchen. He said, "Well, for pity's sake, go quietly!" and left.

  Caramon returned to the table. Through a gaping yawn he said, "That Tika's the ugliest girl in Solace. Old Otik'll have to put up a big dowry to get her married off!"

  "You never know," said Raistlin with a glance at the kitchen. "People change."

  It was time to part. There was no reason to delay any longer. Sensing this, Tanis stood with folded hands and said, "Though we friends will separate, our good wishes cannot be diminished by time or distance. But to keep the circle in our hearts, we must come together again, each year on this day, here in the inn."

  "And if we cannot!" asked Sturm.

  "Then five years from today, everyone here tonight shall return to the Inn of the Last Home. No matter what. Let's make this a sacred vow. Who will take it with me?"

  Kitiara pushed back her stool and put her right hand in the center of the table. "I'll take that vow," she said. Her eyes fixed Tanis in a powerful hold. "Five years."

  Tanis lowered his hand on hers. "Five years."

  "Upon my honor, and in the name of the house of Brightblade," Sturm said solemnly, "I vow to return in five years." He placed his sword hand on Tanis's.

  "Me, too," said Caramon. His broad palm hid even Sturm's hand from sight.

  "If I am living, I will be here," said Raistlin, with a strange lilt in his voice. He added his gracile touch to his brother's.

  "And me! I'll be here waiting for all of you!" So saying, Tasslehoff stepped up on the tabletop. His tiny hand rested next to Raistlin's, both lost on Caramon's wide hand.

  "Lot of confounded nonsense," Flint grumbled. "How do I know what I'll be doing five years from now'? Could be a lot more important than sitting in an inn, waiting for a pack of errant rascals."

  "C'mon, Flint. We're all taking the oath," said the kender.

  "Hmph." The old dwarf leaned over and set his age- and work-worn hands around the others. "Reorx be with you until we meet again," he said. His voice caught, and his friends knew him for the sentimental old fraud he was.

  They left Flint at the table. The twins departed. Tanis, Kitiara, and Sturm strolled to the foot of the stairway. Tasslehoff trailed after them.

  "I will say good night," said Sturm, with a glance at Tanis.

  "But not good-bye." They clasped hands. "Kit, my horse is stabled at the farrier's. Will you meet me there?"

  "That's good. My beast is there, too. Sunrise tomorrow?" Sturm nodded and looked around for Tas.

  "Tas?" he called. "Where did he get to? I wanted to say good-bye."

  Tanis gestured toward the inn above. "He went back up, I think." Sturm nodded and strode away into the cool night. Tanis and Kitiara were left with the crickets, which sang from the massive trees, a symphony of hundreds.

  "Walk with me?" asked Tanis.

  "Wherever you like," Kitiara replied.

  They strolled a dozen paces from the inn before Kitiara took the opportunity to slip her arm through Tanis's. "I have a thought," she said slyly.

  "What's that?"

  "That you should stay with me tonight. It may be five years before we see each other again."

  He halted and drew his arm free. "I cannot," said Tanis.

  "Oh? And why not? There was a time not so long ago when you couldn't keep away from me."

  "Yes, in between the times you spent far away, campaigning for whoever would pay you."

  Kitiara lifted her chin. "I'm not ashamed of what I do."

  "I don't expect you to be. The point is, I've come to realize more and more clearly that you and I are of two worlds, Kit. Worlds that can never hope to be reconciled."

  "So what are you saying?"

  "I had a birthday while you were gone. Do you know how old I am? Ninety-seven. Ninety-seven years old, Kit! If I were a human, I'd be a withered ancient. Or dead."

  She eyed his willowy form appreciatively. "You're not withered or ancient."

  "That's the point! My elvish blood will extend my life far beyond the
normal span of humans." Tanis stepped closer and took her hands. "While you, Kit, will age and die."

  Kitiara laughed. "Let me worry about that!"

  "You won't. I know you, Kit. You're burning your youth out like a two-ended candle in a gale. How do you think I feel, knowing that you might be killed in battle for some petty warlord, while I would live on and on without you? It has to end, Kit. Tonight. Here and now."

  Though it was dark, and the white moon, Solinari, was hidden by boughs of val1enwood Tanis saw the hurt in Kitiara's expression. It was there but an instant. She mastered it and forced a superior smile.

  "Maybe it's just as well," she said. "I never did like being tied down. My poor fool of a mother was like that — she never could get along without a husband to tell her what's what. That's not my style. I take after my father. Burning in the wind, am I? So be it! I ought to thank you, Tanthalus Half-Elven, for holding a mirror up to the truth — "

  He interrupted her tirade with a kiss. It was a gentle, brotherly kiss on the cheek. Kitiara glared.

  "It's not what I want, Kit," Tanis said with great sorrow.

  "It's how it must be."

  She slapped him. Being the warrior she was, Kitiara's slap was no light tap. Tanis staggered and put a hand to his face. A thin smear of blood showed in the corner of his mouth. "Keep your pretty gestures," she spat. "Save them for your next lover, if you find one! Who will it be, Tanis? A full-blooded elf maiden? But no, the elves would despise you as a half-breed. You need a female version of yourself to love." She marched away, leaving Tanis staring. "You'll never find her!" Kitiara called from the darkness. "Never!"

  The crickets had quieted under Kitiara's shouts. In their own time they began to sing again. Tanis stood alone in the night, finding no comfort in their song.

  Chapter 2

  High Crest

  The sky hab not yet lost its violet hue when Sturm reached the farrier's shop. Tirien, the farrier, had his establishment in a vallenwood tree. The winding ramp to Tirien's shop was doubly wide and strongly braced for horses. Tirien, ruddy-faced from leaning over forge fires, and with heavily muscled arms and shoulders from wielding his farrier's hammer, was already up and about when the knight arrived.

  "Sturm!" he boomed. "Come in, lad. I'm just straightening some nails."

  Tirien's helper, a boy named Mercot, plucked a red-hot spike from the furnace with a pair of tongs. He set the bent nail in the groove atop Tirien's anvil, and the brawny farrier smote it twice. Mercot flicked the straight nail into a bucket of water. A serpent's hiss and a wisp of steam arose.

  "I need my horse, Tirien," said Sturm.

  "Right. Mercot, fetch Master Brightblade's animal."

  The boy's eyes widened. Rings of soot around them made him look like a startled owl.

  "The chestnut gelding?" "Aye, and be quick about it!" said Tirien. To Sturm he continued, "Reshod him, as you asked. A good mount."

  Sturm paid his bill while Mercot led Tallfox, his horse, to the lower platform. Sturm had bought Tallfox from a Quekiri tribesman only a few weeks before, and he was still learning the horse's manners. He shouldered his bedroll and pack and descended the ramp to where Mercot had tied his mount. Tirien's hammer rang out again, banging twisted scrap iron into arrowstraight horseshoe spikes. Sturm distributed his baggage over Tallfox's sides and rump.

  He filled his water bottle and heard, "You're late."

  Kitiara was slouched in a corner under the livery's eaves. She was wrapped to her ears in a red horse blanket.

  "Am I?" asked Sturm.

  "The sun is just rising. When did you get here!"

  "Hours ago. I slept here," she said, casting off the blanket. Underneath, Kitiara still wore the clothes she'd had on the previous night. She stretched her arms and braced the knots out of her stiff back.

  "Why in the gods' names did you sleep here?" asked Sturm. "Did you think I'd forget and leave without you?"

  "Oh, not you, noble friend. It seemed like a good place to sleep, that's all. Besides, Pira needed a shoe repaired."

  Sturm led Tallfox down to the ground. He swung into Tallfox's saddle and waited for his companion. Kitiara came loping down the ramp, leading a rather nondescript brown and white spotted mare.

  "Something wrong?" she asked, mounting beside Sturm.

  "I just imagined that you would prefer a fiery stallion for your mount," he replied. "This, ah, quaint animal doesn't suit you at all."

  "This 'quaint animal' will still be walking a steady pace long after that beast of yours is no more than bones and hide," Kitiara said. Her fitful sleep had not improved her temperament since her parting with Tanis. "I've been on six campaigns with Pira, and she's always carried me home."

  "My apologies."

  They rode out of Solace, north by east. The new sun pierced the hills around Solace and warmed the air. Sturm and Kitiara breakfasted simply, on jerky and water. The fine dawn became an even finer morning, and Kitiara's spirits rose.

  "I can't be unhappy on the road," she said. "There's too much to see and do."

  "We should be on guard as well," Sturm said. "I heard travelers in the inn say there were brigands about."

  "Tshaw. Peasants on foot may have reason to fear brigands, but two warriors, armed and mounted — it's the robbers who'd best be afraid!"

  Sturm made polite assent, but still kept his eyes on the horizon and his sword hilt handy.

  Their route was simple enough. Once clear of Solace's hills, the two would turn northwest and make for the coast. On the shore of the Straits of Schallsea was a small fishing port called Zaradene. From there Kitiara and Sturm could easily take passage to Caergoth in southern Thelgaard. North of Caergoth lay Solamnia proper, their ultimate destination. Such was their plan. But plans, as said the sage wizard Arcanist, are like figures drawn in sand: easily made and just as easily disturbed. The forests and hills of Abanasinia thinned with the miles. Kitiara filled the hours with tales of her past adventures.

  "My first hire was with Mikkian's Marauders. They were a bad lot. Mikkian was a low-born lout from Lemish. He had the bad fortune of always losing parts of himself in battle — an eye, an arm, half an ear. Pretty ugly he was, and mean! I walked into his camp, sure of my skill with a blade. In those days, I had to pretend to be a boy, else the churls would have ganged up on me," she said.

  "How does one go about getting hired as a mercenary?"

  "In Mikkian's band, there was only one way: kill one of his men. Mikkian had only so many openings on his payroll, and he wouldn't expand it for anybody." Kitiara wrinkled her nose at the memories conjured up by Mikkian. "Worthless rogue! The foot soldiers made a big ring and put me in it with a snaggletoothed axeman called — now what was his name? First man I ever killed. Trigneth? Drigneth? Some name like that. So we went at it, axe against sword. It was not a pretty fight, I tell you. We had to stay in the dead center of the ring, or Mikkian's boys would poke us with daggers and spear points. Trigneth — Drigneth? — fought like a woodcutter, chop, chop, chop. He never laid an edge on me. I got him with a straight thrust, right through the neck." She regarded Sturm. He looked shocked.

  "How long were you with Mikkian's company?" he asked, finally.

  "Twelve weeks. We sacked a walled town near Takar, and Mikkian finally lost a part he couldn't do without."

  Sturm raised an eyebrow.

  "His head," said Kitiara. "That was the end of the Marauders. It was every man for himself, and the whole company broke up, looting and killing. The townsfolk rose up and fought back, wiping out the whole damn gang. Save for yours truly." She smiled crookedly. Kitiara had a deep fund of such stories, all exciting and nearly all bloody. Sturm found himself confused. He'd known her for about two years now and was no closer to understanding her. This handsome, bright woman possessed no small measure of wit and charm, and yet was enamored with war on its basest level. He had to admit he marveled at her strength and cunning — but he feared Kitiara a little, too. The road petered into a path, and afte
r a score of miles it merged into a stretch of sandy pine barrens. The air grew still and heavy with moisture.

  They camped in the barrens that night, and the wind gave them their first smell of the sea. Pine knots made an acrid, smoky campfire. As Kitiara fed the flames, Sturm watered the horses. He returned to the dim circle of firelight and squatted on the sand. Kitiara handed him a cold mutton joint. Sturm gnawed the peppered meat, and Kitiara leaned back, her feet to the fire and her head pillowed by her bedroll.

  "There's Paladine," she said. "See?"

  She pointed to the heavens. "Paladine, Mishakal, Branchala," she said, naming each constellation in turn. "Do you know the sky?"

  "My boyhood tutor, Vedro, was an astrologer," Sturm said, not really answering. He lifted his eyes. "It is said that the will of the gods can be divined by the movement of the stars and planets."

  "What gods?" Kitiara replied lazily. "You don't believe in the gods7"

  "Why should I? What have they done for the world lately? Or for me ever?" Sturm could tell she was baiting him, so he decided to drop the subject. "What is that group there?" he asked.

  "Opposite Paladine?" "Takhisis. The Queen of Darkness."

  "Oh, yes. The Dragonqueen." He tried to see the authoress of evil, but to him it was only a spatter of stars. The white orb of Solinari climbed above the horizon. In its glow, the sandy hillocks and solitary pines were pale ghosts of their daytime selves. Not long after, in the middle quadrant of the sky, a red glow of equal size appeared.

  "Now that I know," said Sturm. "Lunitari, the red moon."

  "Luin to the Ergothites, Red-Eye in Goodlund. A strange color for a moon, don't you think?" said Kitiara. He tossed the naked mutton bone aside. "I didn't know there were proper colors for moons."

  "White or black are proper. Red means nothing." She propped her head up so that Lunitari was directly in her line of sight.

  "I wonder why it's red?" Sturm reclined on his bedroll'.

  "The gods ordained it so. Lunitari is the abode of neutrality, of neutral magic and illusion. Vedro theorized that the color came from the blood sacrificed to the gods."