Dragons of Spring Dawning

by Margaret Weis

  “Caramon!” Tas whispered. “I’ve got a message. Can you hear me?”

  Caramon did not turn, but kept staring straight ahead, his face set rock-hard. But Tas saw one eyelid flutter.

  “Tanis said to trust him!” Tas whispered swiftly. “No matter what. And … and to … keep up the act … I think that’s what he said.”

  Tas saw Caramon frown.

  “He spoke in elven,” Tas added huffily. “And it was hard to hear.”

  Caramon’s expression did not change. If anything, it grew darker.

  Tas swallowed. Edging closer, he pressed up against the wall right behind the big warrior’s broad back. “That … that Dragon Highlord,” the kender said hesitantly. “That … was Kitiara, wasn’t it?”

  Caramon did not answer. But Tas saw the muscles in the man’s jaw tighten, he saw a nerve begin to twitch in Caramon’s neck.

  Tas sighed. Forgetting where he was, he raised his voice. “You do trust him, don’t you, Caramon? Because—”

  Without warning, Tas’s draconian guard turned and bashed the kender across the mouth, slamming him into the wall. Dazed with pain, Tasslehoff sank down to the ground. A dark shadow bent over him. His vision fuzzy, Tas couldn’t see who it was and he braced himself for another blow. Then he felt strong, gentle hands lift him by his fleecy vest.

  “I told you not to damage them,” growled Caramon.

  “Bah! A kender!” The draconian spat.

  The troops had nearly all passed by now. Caramon set Tas on his feet. The kender tried to stand up, but for some reason the sidewalk kept sliding out from underneath him.

  “I—I’m sorry …” he heard himself mumble. “Legs acting funny …” Finally he felt himself hoisted in the air and, with a protesting squeak, was flung over Caramon’s broad shoulder like a meal sack.

  “He’s got information,” Caramon said in his deep voice. “I hope you haven’t addled his brain so that he’s lost it. The Dark Lady won’t be pleased.”

  “What brain?” snarled the draconian, but Tas, from his upside-down position on Caramon’s back, thought the creature appeared a bit shaken.

  They began walking again. Tas’s head hurt horribly, his cheek stung. Putting his hand to it, he felt sticky blood where the draconian’s claws had dug into his skin. There was a sound in his ears like a hundred bees had taken up residence in his brain. The world seemed to be slowly circling around him, making his stomach queasy, and being jounced around on Caramon’s armor-plated back wasn’t helping.

  “How much farther is it?” He could feel Caramon’s voice vibrate in the big man’s chest. “The little bastard’s heavy.”

  In answer, the draconian pointed a long, bony claw.

  With a great effort, trying to take his mind off his pain and dizziness, Tas twisted his head to see. He could manage only a glance, but it was enough. The building had been growing larger and larger as they approached until it filled, not only the vision, but the mind as well.

  Tas slumped back. His sight was growing dim and he wondered drowsily why it was getting so foggy. The last thing he remembered was hearing the words, “To the dungeons … beneath the Temple of Her Majesty, Takhisis, Queen of Darkness.”

  6

  Tanis bargains. Gakhan investigates.

  W ine?”

  “No.”

  Kitiara shrugged. Taking the pitcher from the bowl of snow in which it rested to keep cool, she slowly poured some for herself, idly watching the blood-red liquid run out of the crystal carafe and into her glass. Then she carefully set the crystal carafe back into the snow and sat down opposite Tanis, regarding him coolly.

  She had taken off the dragon helm, but she wore her armor still, the night-blue armor, gilded with gold, that fit over her lithe body like scaled skin. The light from the many candles in the room gleamed in the polished surfaces and glinted off the sharp metal edges until Kitiara seemed ablaze in flame. Her dark hair, damp with perspiration, curled around her face. Her brown eyes were bright as fire, shadowed by long, dark lashes.

  “Why are you here, Tanis?” she asked softly, running her finger along the rim of her glass as she gazed steadily at him.

  “You know why,” he answered briefly.

  “Laurana, of course,” Kitiara said.

  Tanis shrugged, careful to keep his face a mask, yet fearing that this woman—who sometimes knew him better than he knew himself—could read every thought.

  “You came alone?” Kitiara asked, sipping at the wine.

  “Yes,” Tanis replied, returning her gaze without faltering.

  Kitiara raised an eyebrow in obvious disbelief.

  “Flint’s dead,” he added, his voice breaking. Even in his fear, he still could not think of his friend without pain. “And Tasslehoff wandered off somewhere. I couldn’t find him. I … I didn’t really want to bring him anyway.”

  “I can understand,” Kit said wryly. “So Flint is dead.”

  “Like Sturm,” Tanis could not help but add through clenched teeth.

  Kit glanced at him sharply. “The fortunes of war, my dear,” she said. “We were both soldiers, he and I. He understands. His spirit bears me no malice.”

  Tanis choked angrily, swallowing his words. What she said was true. Sturm would understand.

  Kitiara was silent as she watched Tanis’s face a few moments. Then she set the glass down with a clink.

  “What about my brothers?” she asked. “Where—”

  “Why don’t you just take me to the dungeons and interrogate me?” Tanis snarled. Rising out of his chair, he began to pace the luxurious room.

  Kitiara smiled, an introspective, thoughtful smile. “Yes,” she said, “I could interrogate you there. And you would talk, dear Tanis. You would tell me all I wanted to hear, and then you would beg to tell me more. Not only do we have those who are skilled in the art of torture, but they are passionately dedicated to their profession.” Rising languorously, Kitiara walked over to stand in front of Tanis. Her wine glass in one hand, she placed her other hand on his chest and slowly ran her palm up over his shoulder. “But this is not an interrogation. Say, rather, it is a sister, concerned about her family. Where are my brothers?”

  “I don’t know,” Tanis said. Catching her wrist firmly in his hand, he held her hand away from him. “They were both lost in the Blood Sea.…”

  “With the Green Gemstone Man?”

  “With the Green Gemstone Man.”

  “And how did you survive?”

  “Sea elves rescued me.”

  “Then they might have rescued the others?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I am elven, after all. The others were human.”

  Kitiara stared at Tanis long moments. He still held her wrist in his hand. Unconsciously, under her penetrating gaze, his fingers closed around it.

  “You’re hurting me …” Kit whispered softly. “Why did you come, Tanis? To rescue Laurana … alone? Even you were never that foolish—”

  “No,” Tanis said, tightening his grasp on Kitiara’s arm. “I came to make a trade. Take me. Let her go.”

  Kitiara’s eye opened wide. Then, suddenly, she threw back her head and laughed. With a quick, easy move, she broke free of Tanis’s grip and, turning, walked over to the table to refill her wine glass.

  She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Why, Tanis,” she said, laughing again, “what are you to me that I should make this trade?”

  Tanis felt his face flush. Still grinning, Kitiara continued.

  “I have captured their Golden General, Tanis. I have taken their good-luck charm, their beautiful elven warrior. She wasn’t a bad general, either, for that matter. She brought them the dragonlances and taught them to fight. Her brother brought back the good dragons, but everyone credits her. She kept the Knights together, when they should have split apart long before this. And you want me to exchange her for”—Kitiara gestured contemptuously—“a half-elf who’s been wandering the countryside in the company of kender, barbarians, and dwarves!�
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  Kitiara began to laugh again, laughing so hard she was forced to sit down and wipe tears from her eyes. “Really, Tanis, you have a high opinion of yourself. What did you think I’d take you back for? Love?”

  There was a subtle change in Kit’s voice, her laugh seemed forced. Frowning suddenly, she twisted the wineglass in her hand.

  Tanis did not respond. He could only stand before her, his skin burning at her ridicule. Kitiara stared at him, then lowered her gaze.

  “Suppose I said yes?” she asked in a cold voice, her eyes on the glass in her hand. “What could you give me in return for what I would lose?”

  Tanis drew a deep breath. “The commander of your forces is dead,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I know. Tas told me he killed him. I’ll take his place.”

  “You’d serve under … in the dragonarmies?” Kit’s eyes widened in genuine astonishment.

  “Yes.” Tanis gritted his teeth. His voice was bitter. “We’ve lost anyway. I’ve seen your floating citadels. We can’t win, even if the good dragons stayed. And they won’t—the people will send them back. The people never trusted them anyway, not really. I care for only one thing—let Laurana go free, unharmed.”

  “I truly believe you would do this,” Kitiara said softly, marveling. For long moments she stared at him. “I’ll have to consider …”

  Then, as if arguing with herself, she shook her head. Putting the glass to her lips, she swallowed the wine, set the glass down, and rose to her feet.

  “I’ll consider,” she repeated. “But now I must leave you, Tanis. There is a meeting of the Dragon Highlords tonight. They have come from all over Ansalon to attend. You are right, of course. You have lost the war. Tonight we make plans to clench the fist of iron. You will attend me. I will present you to Her Dark Majesty.”

  “And Laurana?” Tanis persisted.

  “I said I would consider it!” A dark line marred the smooth skin between Kitiara’s feathery eyebrows. Her voice was sharp. “Ceremonial armor will be brought to you. Be dressed and ready to accompany me within the hour.” She started to go, then turned to face Tanis once more. “My decision may depend on how you conduct yourself this evening,” she said softly. “Remember, Half-Elven, from this moment you serve me!”

  The brown eyes glittered clear and cold as they held Tanis in their thrall. Slowly he felt the will of this woman press upon him until it was like a strong hand forcing him down onto the polished marble floor. The might of the dragonarmies was behind her, the shadow of the Dark Queen hovered around her, imbuing her with a power Tanis had noticed before.

  Suddenly Tanis felt the great distance between them. She was supremely, superbly human. For only the humans were endowed with the lust for power so strong that the raw passion of their nature could be easily corrupted. The humans’ brief lives were as flames that could burn with a pure light like Goldmoon’s candle, like Sturm’s shattered sun. Or the flame could destroy, a searing fire that consumed all in its path. He had warmed his cold, sluggish elven blood by that fire; he had nurtured the flame in his heart. Now he saw himself as he would become—as he had seen the bodies of those who died in the flames of Tarsis—a mass of charred flesh, the heart black and still.

  It was his due, the price he must pay. He would lay his soul upon this woman’s altar as another might lay a handful of silver upon a pillow. He owed Laurana that much. She had suffered enough because of him. His death would not free her but his life might.

  Slowly, Tanis placed his hand over his heart and bowed.

  “My lord,” he said.

  Kitiara walked into her private chamber, her mind in a turmoil. She felt her blood pulse through her veins. Excitement, desire, the glorious elation of victory made her more drunk than the wine. Yet beneath was a nagging doubt, all the more irritating because it turned the elation flat and stale. Angrily she tried to banish it from her mind, but it was brought sharply into focus as she opened the door to her room.

  The servants had not expected her so soon. The torches had not been lit; the fire was laid, but not burning. Irritably she reached for the bell rope that would send them scurrying in to be berated for their laxness, when suddenly a cold and fleshless hand closed over her wrist.

  The touch of that hand sent a burning sensation of cold through her bones and blood until it nearly froze her heart. Kitiara gasped with the pain and started to pull free, but the hand held her fast.

  “You have not forgotten our bargain?”

  “No, of course not!” Kitiara said. Trying to keep the quiver of fear from her voice, she commanded sternly, “Let me go!”

  The hand slowly released its grip. Kitiara hurriedly snatched her arm away, rubbing the flesh that, even in that short span of time, had turned bluish white.

  “The elfwoman will be yours when the Queen has finished with her, of course.”

  “Of course. I would not want her otherwise. A living woman is of no use to me, not like a living man is of use to you.…” The dark figure’s voice lingered unpleasantly over the words.

  Kitiara cast a scornful glance at the pallid face, the flickering eyes that floated—disembodied—above the black armor of the knight.

  “Don’t be a fool, Soth,” she said, pulling the bell rope hastily. She felt a need for light. “I am able to separate the pleasures of the flesh from the pleasures of business—something you were unable to do, from what I know of your life.”

  “Then what are your plans for the half-elf?” Lord Soth asked, his voice seeming, as usual, to come from far below ground.

  “He will be mine, utterly and completely,” Kitiara said, gently rubbing her injured wrist.

  Servants hurried in with hesitant, sideways glances at the Dark Lady, fearing her notorious explosions of wrath. But Kitiara, preoccupied with her thoughts, ignored them. Lord Soth faded back into the shadows as always when the candles were lit.

  “The only way to possess the half-elf is to make him watch as I destroy Laurana,” Kitiara continued.

  “That is hardly the way to win his love,” Lord Soth sneered.

  “I don’t want his love.” Pulling off her gloves and unbuckling her armor, Kitiara laughed shortly. “I want him! As long as she lives, his thoughts will be of her and of the noble sacrifice he has made. No, the only way he will be mine—totally—is to be ground beneath the heel of my boot until he is nothing more than a shapeless mass. Then, he will be of use to me.”

  “Not for long,” Lord Soth remarked caustically. “Death will free him.”

  Kitiara shrugged. The servants had completed their tasks and vanished quickly. The Dark Lady stood in the light, silent and thoughtful, her armor half-on and half-off, her dragon helm dangling from her hand.

  “He has lied to me,” she said softly, after a moment. Then, flinging the helm down on a table, where it struck and shattered a dusty, porcelain vase, Kit began to pace back and forth. “He has lied. My brothers did not die in the Blood Sea—at least one of them lives, I know. And so does he—the Everman!” Peremptorily, Kitiara flung open the door. “Gakhan!” she shouted.

  A draconian hurried into the room.

  “What news? Have they found that captain yet?”

  “No, lord,” the draconian replied. He was the same one who had followed Tanis from the inn in Flotsam, the same who had helped trap Laurana. “He is off-duty, lord,” the creature added as if that explained everything.

  Kitiara understood. “Search every beer tent and brothel until he is found. Then bring him here. Lock him in irons if you have to. I’ll question him when I return from the Highlords’ Assembly. No, wait …” Kitiara paused, then added, “You question him. Find out if the half-elf was truly alone—as he said—or if there were others with him. If so—”

  The draconian bowed. “You will be informed at once, my lord.”

  Kitiara dismissed him with a gesture, and the draconian, bowing again, left, shutting the door behind him. After standing thoughtfully for a moment, Kitiara irritably ran her hand thr
ough her curly hair, then began yanking at the straps of her armor once again.

  “You will attend me, tonight,” she said to Lord Soth, without looking at the apparition of the death knight which, she assumed, was still in its same place behind her.

  “Be watchful. Lord Ariakas will not be pleased with what I intend to do.”

  Tossing the last piece of armor to the floor, Kitiara pulled off the leather tunic and the blue silken hose. Then, stretching in luxurious freedom, she glanced over her shoulder to see Lord Soth’s reaction to her words. He was not there. Startled, she glanced quickly around the room.

  The spectral knight stood beside the dragonhelm that lay on the table amidst pieces of the broken vase. With a wave of his fleshless hand, Lord Soth caused the shattered remains of the vase to rise into the air and hover before him. Holding them by the force of his magic, the death knight turned to regard Kitiara with his flaming orange eyes as she stood naked before him. The firelight turned her tanned skin golden, made her dark hair shine with warmth.

  “You are a woman still, Kitiara,” Lord Soth said slowly. “You love …”

  The knight did not move or speak, but the pieces of the vase fell to the floor. His pallid boot trod upon them as he passed, leaving no trace of his passing.

  “And you hurt,” he said softly to Kitiara as he drew near her. “Do not deceive yourself, Dark Lady. Crush him as you will, the half-elf will always be your master—even in death.”

  Lord Soth melded with the shadows of the room. Kitiara stood for long moments, staring into the blazing fire, seeking, perhaps, to read her fortune in the flames.

  Gakhan walked rapidly down the corridor of the Queen’s palace, his clawed feet clicking on the marble floors. The draconian’s thoughts kept pace with his stride. It had suddenly occurred to him where the captain might be found. Seeing two draconians attached to Kitiara’s command lounging at the end of the corridor, Gakhan motioned them to fall in behind him. They obeyed immediately. Though Gakhan held no rank in the dragonarmy—not any more—he was known officially as the Dark Lady’s military aide. Unofficially he was known as her personal assassin.