Kit thought it over and didn’t see why he should, yet the possibility that he might reveal he had seen her and talked to her was troubling. She wished she hadn’t told him her real name. That had been a bit of bravado.
Tarsis—a day’s journey by dragon.
Kitiara sat for a long time gazing at the flames flickering in the bowl of seal oil, making plans. She did not forget Ariakas. Those who forgot Ariakas tended to live very short lives. He had to be appeased, kept happy. He had to be made to think that what she was about to do was being done for him.
She smiled and shook herself from her scheming and went back to finish Toede’s letter, expecting to be entertained by more evidence of the hob’s stupidity. Unfortunately, his stupidity did not prove to be that entertaining. Kitiara sucked in an angry breath that exploded in a curse.
“You bloody fool!”
She bounded to her feet, crumpling the letter in her hand. She started to hurl it into the flames, then checked herself. She made herself read it again, but it didn’t improve the second or third time. She then threw it into the flames and watched it and all her plans go up in smoke.
The idiot hobgoblin was going to attack Tarsis!
She knew why. The red dragons were putting pressure on Toede to take them into battle, and although the hob’s guts spilled out over his belt he apparently didn’t have enough to stand up to the dragons.
Toede should be massing his forces to attack Thorbardin, concentrating on that. Instead he was committing his forces to an assault on a city that had no military value and little wealth, a city he could not hope to keep. He simply did not have troops enough to occupy it. Once, Tarsis might have been a worthy prize, back before the Cataclysm when the city was a seaport. After the fiery mountain struck, the sea departed, leaving Tarsis landlocked, its merchants bankrupt.
She had no idea what Toede was thinking. The answer was—he wasn’t. Kitiara was on her feet, prepared to fly to Haven to try to put a stop to this when she realized, suddenly, that she might be able to use this inane decision on the part of the hob to her advantage.
She recalled the date he’d given for the attack—a fortnight from now. She did not have much time and there was a lot to be done—and done circumspectly. Not even Skie must suspect her true motives. She tucked the sheet of parchment with the names and descriptions of the assassins of Lord Verminaard beneath her shirt, took a couple of swigs of dwarf spirits to enable her to endure the freezing cold of the journey, and, bundled in furs, she gathered up her gear and went out to meet the dragon.
“Where are we bound?” Skie asked. He was in a hurry to leave.
“Thorbardin to fetch the blue wing,” said Kitiara. “Then we’re going to Tarsis.”
Skie snaked his head around to stare at her. “Tarsis! What are we doing in Tarsis?”
“I’ll explain later,” Kit said, her voice resounding hollowly from inside the horned helm.
Skie wanted to hear more about this crazy decision to bring the blue wing to Tarsis, but he decided to wait to discuss it some place where his tail wasn’t stuck to the ice. He spread his wings, wrenched his tail loose, gave a great leap off his powerful hind legs, and soared thankfully into the crystalline blue sky.
BOOK II
1
An Offering to Zeboim. Derek Quotes the Measure.
Derek Crownguard and his fellow knights, Brian Donner and Aran Tallbow, stood at the rail of a merchant ship, watching their entry into the harbor of Rigitt, a port city located about seventy miles from Tarsis. The ship, known as the Marigold, named for the captain’s daughter, had encountered fair weather and smooth seas the entire way.
Aran Tallbow stood head and shoulders over his fellow knights. Aran was a large man and he lived large, being jovial, good-natured, and fun-loving. He had sandy red hair and his mustaches—the traditional mustaches of a Solamnic knight—were long and flowing. He was fond of a “wee dram” as the dwarves say and carried a small flask in a leather holder attached to his sword belt. Inside the flask was the finest brandywine, which he sipped continually. He was never drunk, just always in a good humor. His laughter came from his belly and was as large as himself. He might seem an unlikely knight, but Aran Tallbow was a fierce warrior, his courage and skill in battle renowned. Not even Derek could fault him for that.
As the ship sailed into the harbor of Rigitt, the knights watched with amusement as the sailors offered up gifts of thanksgiving. The gifts ranged from necklaces made of shells to small wooden carvings of various monsters of the deep, all handmade by the sailors during the voyage. Chanting and singing their thanks for a safe journey, they tossed the gifts into the water.
“What is that word they keep repeating, sir?” Aran asked the captain. “Sounds like ‘Zeboim, Zeboim’.”
“That’s it exactly, sir,” said the captain. “Zeboim, goddess of the sea. You should make an offering to her yourselves, my lords. She doesn’t take kindly to being slighted.”
“Despite the fact there has been no sign of this goddess for over three hundred years?” Aran asked, with a wink at his friends.
“Just because we’ve heard no word from her, nor seen a sign, doesn’t mean Zeboim’s not keeping her eye on us,” said the captain gravely.
He leaned over the rail as he spoke to drop a pretty bracelet made of blue crystals into the green water. “Thank you, Zeboim,” he called out. “Bless our journey home!”
Derek watched with stern disapproval. “I can understand ignorant sailors believing in superstitious nonsense, but I can’t believe that you, Captain, an educated man, take part in such a ritual.”
“For one, my men would mutiny if I did not, my lord,” said the captain, “and for another”—he shrugged—“it’s better to be safe than sorry, especially where the Sea Witch is concerned. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, as we are coming into port, I have to attend to my duties.”
The knights stood beside the railing, observing the sights and sounds of the port. With winter fast closing in, the port was almost empty except for the fishing vessels that braved all but the fiercest winter gales.
“Beg pardon, m’luds,” came a voice behind them.
The three knights turned to see one of the sailors bowing and bobbing to them. They knew this man well. He was the oldest aboard ship. He claimed to have been a sailor for sixty years, saying he had gone to sea as a lad at the age of ten. He was wizened and bent, his face burnt brown by the sun and wrinkled with age. He could still climb the ropes as fast as the young men, however. He could predict the coming of a storm by watching the way the gulls flew, and he claimed he could talk to dolphins. He had survived a shipwreck, saying he had been rescued from drowning by a beautiful sea elf.
“For you both, m’luds,” the old man said, gumming the words, for he was missing most of his teeth to scurvy. “For to give to the Sea Witch.”
He held in his hands two carved wooden animals, and these he presented with a bob and a bow and a toothless grin to Aran and Brian.
“What is it?” Brian asked, examining the small hand-carved wooden animal.
“It looks like a wolf,” Aran remarked.
“Yes, m’lud. Wolf,” said the old man, touching his hand to his forehead. “One fer both.” He pointed a gnarled finger first at Aran, then to Brian. “Give ’em to the Sea Witch. So she’ll take kindly to you.”
“Why wolves, Old Salt?” Aran asked. “Wolves are not very sea-like. Wouldn’t a whale suit her better?”
“I was told wolves in a dream,” said the old man, his shrewd eyes glinting. He pointed to the sea. “Give ’em to the goddess. Ask ’er for ‘er blessing.”
“You do and I’ll bring you up on charges before the Council,” Derek stated.
Derek was not noted for his sense of humor, but he did sometimes indulge in small dry jokes (so dry and so small they often went unnoticed). He might be teasing, but then again, he might not. Brian couldn’t tell.