Kit peered cautiously around the door. By the light of the witch’s ring, she saw two piles of stone dust—the remnants of two baaz draconians. Kitiara regarded the witch with new respect.
Iolanthe lifted the hem of her robes to keep them out of the dust and stepped gingerly over the remains, her mouth twisting in disgust. Kit walked right through the piles, kicking dust everywhere.
“We should get rid of that,” she said, pointing back at the disturbed dust heaps. “Anyone who sees it will know that’s a dead draco.”
“No time,” said Iolanthe. “We’ll have to take our chances. Fortunately, this hall is rarely lit. And few people ever have reason to come to this part of the Temple. This way.”
Kitiara recognized the staircase by which she had descended in the company of the guards. She and Iolanthe passed it and continued on, and soon she could hear voices chanting, praising the Dark Queen. Kitiara had never attended one of the services in the Dark Abbey. She had, in fact, gone out of her way to avoid them. She was not even sure where the Dark Abbey was located. She had the vague idea it was opposite the dungeons. The corridors were lit with a purplish-white light that had no apparent source, but seemed to shine eerily from the walls. The light had the effect of washing out all color, all distinguishing features, all differences, making every object ghastly white etched with darkness.
Everyone who walked these corridors, even those who walked them daily, experienced the sense of unreality. Floors were not quite level, walls slanted oddly, corridors shifted position, chambers were not where they should be, doors were not where they had been the day before. Iolanthe, guided by the light of her ring, walked the strange halls with assurance. On her own, Kit would have been hopelessly lost.
She assumed the chanting emanated from the service. She had thought it would be easy to follow the voices, but sounds were distorted down here. Sometimes the chanting dinned in her ears and she was certain they must have arrived at the Abbey, only to find, with another turning, the chants fading away almost to silence. Then they would boom loudly again at the next turning. At one point in the service, a shrill scream reverberated through the corridors, causing the hair on the back of Kit’s neck to prickle. The horrible scream ended abruptly.
“What was that?” Kit asked.
“The evening’s sacrifice,” said Iolanthe. “The Abbey is up ahead.”
“Thank the Queen,” Kit muttered. She had never before been on the dungeon level, and she could not wait to leave. Kit liked her life uncomplicated, not cluttered up with gods—which reminded her uneasily of her bargain with her Queen. Kit put that out of her mind. She had more urgent matters to consider and, besides, Takhisis hadn’t saved her yet.
Rounding a curve, she and Iolanthe almost ran into one of the dark priests. Kitiara yanked her cowl down to hide her face, and she kept her head lowered. Her hand, folded in the capacious sleeve, grasped the poignard’s hilt.
The dark priest eyed them. Kit held her breath, but the man’s frowning gaze was fixed on Iolanthe. He pulled back his hood to glare at her. He was pale, gaunt, and cadaverous. A hideous red weal ran across his nose.
“You are here at a late hour, Black Robe,” he said to Iolanthe in disapproving tones.
Kit’s grip on the poignard tightened.
Iolanthe drew back the folds of her hood. The eerie light illuminated her face, shimmered in her violet eyes.
The dark priest looked startled, and fell back a step.
“I see you recognize me,” Iolanthe said. “My escort and I are here for the service and I am late, so I ask that you do not detain us.”
The dark priest had recovered from his shock. He glanced without interest at Kit, turned back to Iolanthe. “You are indeed late, Madame. The service is almost half over.”
“Therefore I am certain you will excuse us.”
Iolanthe swept past him, her black robes rustling around her, the scent of flowers lingering in the hallway. Kit followed humbly. She glanced over her shoulder, pushing aside her cowl to keep an eye on the dark priest. He stared after them and for a moment Kit thought he meant to come after them. Then, muttering something, he turned and stalked off.
“I’m not sure you’re such a safe companion,” said Kitiara. “You’re not very popular around here.”
“The dark priests do not trust me,” said Iolanthe calmly. “They do not trust any magic-user. They do not understand how we can be loyal to Takhisis and at the same time serve Nuitari.”
She smiled disdainfully. “And they are jealous of my power. The Nightlord is trying to convince Ariakas that wizards should be banned from the Temple. Some of his clerics want us thrown out of the city. Hardly feasible, considering the Emperor is himself a user of magic.
“Hush now,” she cautioned. “The Abbey is ahead. Do you know any of the prayers?”
Kitiara, of course, did not.
“Then make this sign if someone asks you why you do not join in.” Iolanthe moved her hand in a circle. “That means you have taken an oath of silence.”
The Abbey was crowded. Kitiara and Iolanthe found places inside the entryway. A strong smell of bodies sweating beneath black robes, burning candle wax, incense, and fresh blood wafted from the chamber. The body of a young woman lay across the altar, blood streaming from a gash in her throat. A priest with blood smeared over his hands was chanting prayers, exhorting the crowd to praise Takhisis.
Kitiara stood, fidgeting, in the crowd, the smell of blood in her nostrils, the sound of off-key yammering in her ears, and suddenly she felt she had to leave. She couldn’t bear to stand here and just wait for someone to discover that she was missing from her prison and raise the alarm.
“Let’s just get the hell out of here,” Kit whispered urgently.
“They would stop us at the gate and ask questions,” said Iolanthe in a smothered whisper, grasping hold of a fold of Kit’s sleeve. “If we go out with the crowd, no one will notice us.”
Kitiara sighed, frustrated, but she had to admit this was sound planning. She steeled herself for the ordeal.
The Abbey was a circular room, with a high, domed ceiling beneath which stood a large statue of Queen Takhisis in her dragon form. The statue was a wonder. The body was carved out of black marble, with each of the five heads done in different colored marble. The ten eyes were gems that shone with magical light that illuminated the room. By some miraculous means, the heads of the statue seemed to move; the eyes looked this way and that, with the dread light of their watchful gaze constantly sweeping the crowd.
Kit stared at the statue of Queen Takhisis as the heads bobbed and weaved, and glanced at Iolanthe, standing beside her, barely visible in the ever-shifting colored lights. Kit could not see the witch’s face for the cowl she had again drawn over her head. Kit was jittery, gripping the poignard in a sweaty palm, wishing the time to pass, wishing herself far away. Iolanthe was calm, not moving, not the least bit nervous, yet if Ariakas found out she had helped Kit escape, Iolanthe’s life would not be worth living. Whatever punishment Kit would face, Iolanthe would find it trebled.
“Why are you doing this?” Kit whispered under the cover of the chanting. “Why are you helping me? And don’t give me that crap about being the answer to my prayers.”
Iolanthe glanced at Kit sidelong from under her hood. Her violet eyes glittered in the light of the Queen’s multicolored and multi-faceted eyes. Iolanthe shifted her gaze back to the statue, and Kit thought that she was going to refuse to answer.
At length, however, Iolanthe whispered, “I do not want you for my enemy, Blue Lady.” The violet eyes, wide and intense, fixed on Kit. “If you do what you say you mean to do and you succeed, you will have one of the most powerful beings on Krynn on your side. Lord Soth will make you a force to be reckoned with. Don’t you understand, Kitiara? Her Dark Majesty is starting to have doubts about Ariakas. She is looking for someone else to wear the Crown of Power. If you prove to be the one—and I think you will—I want you to think well of me.”