This was the end. She was finished. She cursed that idiot Verminaard for getting himself assassinated, cursed Tanis for killing him, cursed Feal-Thas for spying on her, cursed Toede for having been born, and cursed Ariakas for not letting her pursue the war in Solamnia. Fighting the knights would have kept her out of trouble.
The bent-wing bozak, Targ, led her to the imperial suite which was located far below ground level, hidden from public view. The chambers belonging to the Highlords were all at the top of the temple structure, above the Hall of Audience. Kit had often wondered why Ariakas had chosen subterranean rooms for his apartment. When she saw them, she understood. This was not a dwelling place. It was a bunker. Here, underground, accessible only by a steeply winding staircase, were quarters for his troops and an attached storehouse stocked with supplies. A small force could hold out here for a long time, perhaps indefinitely.
The priest lit a torch and went on ahead down the staircase to disable the traps. The air was fetid and damp. Murder holes lined the walls. Any force descending those stairs would have to move in single file, and the narrow stairs were deliberately rough and uneven. Even the draconians with their clawed feet had to watch their footing or risk a fall. At the bottom, a massive iron door, operated by a complex mechanism, stood open. The bozaks led Kit through this door and into the apartments that were spacious, luxurious, dark, and oppressive.
No wonder Ariakas refused to live here, Kitiara thought with a shiver. This was where, if all went badly, he would make his final stand, fight his last battle, and, if defeat were imminent, this was where he would die.
At least he would die fighting, Kitiara reflected bitterly.
Ariakas had said she was to be locked in the storeroom. Targ escorted her to the room, which turned out to be a large pantry, dark and windowless, off the kitchen. The dark pilgrim brought her a blanket to spread on the cold stone floor and a slop bucket for her needs, and asked if she wanted anything to eat. Kit declined with scorn. The truth was, her stomach was clenched in knots. She feared she would throw up if she ate a morsel.
The dark priest asked about manacles. Despite Toede’s insistence on shackling Kit, the bozak had not thought to bring any along, and there were none to be found in the apartment. At length it was decided between Targ and the priest that for the moment manacles would be unnecessary. Kit obviously was not going anywhere until morning, when she would be led to her execution. The priest promised he would have manacles for her then. Targ shoved her inside the storeroom and started to shut the door.
“Targ, tell Ariakas I am innocent!” Kitiara pleaded with the draconian. “Tell him I can prove it! If he will only come to see me—”
Targ slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.
Alone in pitch darkness, Kitiara heard the clawed feet of the bozak scraping over the stone floor. Then there was silence.
She could hear the beating of her own heart, each beat falling into the silence like grains of sand, counting out the seconds to her death. Kitiara listened to her heartbeat until the thudding grew so loud the walls of her prison seemed to expand and contract with this sound.
Kit was, for the first time in her life, almost sick with fear.
She had witnessed people being hanged, drawn, and quartered. The ordeal was terrible. She’d known veteran soldiers forced to turn away their heads, unable to stomach the gruesome sight. First, she would be hanged, but not until she died, only until she lost consciousness. Then she would be roused and staked down on the ground. The executioner would cut her organs from her still-living body. Screaming and writhing in unbearable agony, she would be forced to watch as her entrails were thrown into a fire and burned. She would be left to slowly bleed to death until, near the end, they would hack the limbs from her body and cut off her head. The various parts of her would be thrust onto pikes and left to rot at the Temple gates.
Kitiara imagined what the knife would feel like as it sliced into her gut. She imagined the cheers of the crowd as the blood spurted, cheers that, though loud, would not drown out her screams. The chill sweat rolled down her face and neck. Her stomach heaved; her hands began to shake. She could not swallow; she could not breathe. She gasped for air and jumped to her feet with some wild idea of flinging herself headlong into the wall, to end it by dashing out her brains against the stone.
Reason prevailed. Fearing she was on the verge of madness, she forced herself to think this through. She was down, but not out. It was only mid morning. She had the rest of the day and all the night to come up with a plan of escape.
What then? What if she did escape?
Kitiara sank down upon the chair. She would be alive, that was true, and that counted for something, but she would spend the rest of her life on the run. She, who had been a Dragon Highlord, a leader of armies, a conqueror of nations, would now skulk about the woods, forced to sleep in caves, reduced to thieving. The ignominy and shame of such a wretched existence would be harder for her to endure than the few terrible hours of agony she would suffer at her execution.
Kitiara let her head sink into her hands. A single tear burned her cheek; she angrily dashed it away. She had never known such despair, never been in such a hopeless position. She might try to make a bargain with Ariakas, but she had nothing to give.
A bargain.
Kitiara raised her head. She stared into the darkness. She could strike a bargain, but not with Ariakas—someone higher. She didn’t know if it would work. Half of her thought it might, the other half scoffed. Still, it was worth a try.
Kitiara had never in her life asked a boon of anyone. She had never said a prayer, was not even certain how one went about praying. Priests and clerics went down on their knees, humiliated and abased themselves before the god. Kitiara did not think any god would be pleased with that, particularly a strong goddess, a warrior goddess, a goddess who had dared to wage war on earth and in heaven.
Kitiara stood up. She clenched her fists and shouted out, “Queen Takhisis. You want Lord Soth. I can bring him to you. I am the only one of your Highlords, my Queen, with the skill and the courage to confront the death knight in his keep and convince him of the worthiness of our cause. Help me escape this prison tonight, Dark Majesty, and I will do the rest.”
Kitiara fell silent. She waited expectantly, though she was not sure for what. Some sort of sign, perhaps, that the goddess had heard her bargain, accepted her deal. She’d seen the priests receive such signs, or so they claimed. Flames flaring upon the altar, blood seeping from solid stone. She had always assumed these were nothing more than tricks. Her little brother, Raistlin, had taught her how such fakery could be accomplished.
Kitiara did not believe in miracles, yet she had asked for one.
Perhaps that was the reason no sign came. The darkness remained dark. She heard no voice, heard nothing except her beating heart. Kit sat back down. She felt foolish, but also calm—the calm of despair.
She had only now to wait for death.
7
The white bean. The Ice Folk
The day that started out disastrously for Kitiara proved better for her rival. Laurana had asked the griffons to take them to Icereach and the griffons did so, though they refused to go near Ice Wall castle, telling her it was inhabited by a white dragon. The griffons made it clear they did not fear the dragon, but said they would have difficulty fighting a dragon while carrying riders.
The griffons told Laurana she and her companions would need help if they were going to remain in this region, stating they would not survive long without shelter, food, and heavier clothing. The land was inhabited by nomadic humans, known as the Ice Folk, who might be able to assist them, if they could convince the people they had no hostile intent.