“I will keep my vow,” Kit said.
Iolanthe smiled. “I think you mean it. You will need this when you enter Dargaard Keep.”
The witch took hold of Kitiara’s hand and slid a large silver bracelet decorated with three jewels carved of onyx onto her wrist.
Kit grinned. “You want me to look my best for the death knight? Does it have earrings to match?”
“What do you know of Lord Soth?” Iolanthe asked.
“Not much,” Kit admitted. “He’s a death knight—”
“He can kill you with a single word,” Iolanthe said. “He has an army of undead warriors who are bound to defend him, and if you fight your way past them, which is doubtful, you will encounter banshees. Their song is so horrific that if you hear but one wailing note, your heart will cease to beat and you will drop down dead. You will not survive five minutes in Dargaard Keep, much less an entire night.”
Kit was subdued.
“So I take it this bracelet is magical.” Kit eyed the piece of jewelry doubtfully. “Will it protect me in some way?”
“It will save you from dying of sheer terror. In addition, the onyx gems will absorb magical attacks made against you, though they will only take so much punishment. After that, they will crumble and the bracelet will be useless. Still, it should at least get you inside the front door. Its power is limited. Don’t put it on until you intend to use it.”
Kitiara clasped her hand over the bracelet.
“Good luck,” Iolanthe added. She placed her hand over a ring she wore and began to mutter to herself.
“Wait, Iolanthe,” said Kit, and the witch halted her incantation.
“Well, what now?”
Kit wasn’t used to being grateful. The words stuck in her throat and came out gruff and awkward. “Thank you.”
Iolanthe smiled. “Do not forget what you owe me,” she said and disappeared, her black robes melting into the dark night.
Kitiara hurried down the alleyway. Behind her, she could hear more shouts as the tale spread among the outraged followers of Takhisis that a murderous White Robe had used his magic to infiltrate their Temple.
She found the stables and chose a black horse, liking the look of his powerful musculature, noble stance, the proud arch of his neck and the glint in his eye. She spoke the word Iolanthe had taught her. The horse permitted her to saddle him and within a few moments she was galloping out of the city.
Kitiara took the road north, toward Dargaard Keep.
Back in the Temple, the account of the White Robe caught the imagination of the worshipers and by the time the Nightlord arrived on the scene and was able to interrogate witnesses, several dark priests swore they had been standing right next to the daring wizard. The dark priest with the bald head and the scar across his nose was apprehended by a squad of draconians. Angered over the death of Targ, they gutted the man on the spot, only to discover after he was dead that he was not and never had been a user of magic. By dawn, the entire city of Neraka was being turned upside down as the draconians went house to house searching for the now-infamous White Robe wizard.
Such was the furor and outrage over the killings in the temple that everyone lost interest in the execution of Kitiara uth Matar. Guards were sent to bring her to the Arena of Death, only to find that she had managed to escape during the night’s chaos. Ariakas was given this information by a quaking aide, who expected nothing less than death himself. Iolanthe was weeping and having hysterics in a corner. The Nightlord was raving about his ruined Abbey and demanding to know what the emperor was going to do to fix it. While he was talking, Salah Kahn came storming in, shouting in fury that his favorite horse had been stolen.
Ariakas received all this news with a calm equanimity that astonished everyone. He said nothing. He did not kill the messenger. He listened to the Nightlord’s ravings and Salah Kahn’s rants and Iolanthe’s hysterics in silence, then ordered the Nightlord, the Highlord, the witch, and everyone else to leave.
Once he was alone, Ariakas paced the floor and considered the amazing coincidence that had brought a White Robe wizard to blow up the Dark Abbey on the very same night Kitiara happened to be locked up in the store room in the Temple awaiting execution.
The Emperor shook his head and said to himself in admiration, “What a woman. What a woman!”
9
The spy. The dream. Fire and rainbows
Brian woke from the deep sleep of exhaustion with sudden alertness. He lay still, listening, until he was certain he’d heard the voices, not dreamed them. They spoke again and he flung off the fur blankets, and, moving silently and stealthily, he crept around the slumbering form of Aran to the tent opening.
“Whassamatter?” Aran mumbled.
“My turn at watch,” Brian whispered, and Aran pulled the furs over his head and snuggled down deeper among the animal skins that formed his bed.
Brian, bundled in furs, opened the tent flap and peered into the darkness. No one was stirring. Derek was out there somewhere. He had insisted they set their own guard, though Harald had assured him the Ice Folk kept careful watch. A light shone from under a nearby tent—Sturm’s tent. Brian crept closer.
Night in Icereach was black and silver, brittle with cold, spangled with stars. He could see well in the lambent light and if he could see he could be seen. He stayed in the shadows.
The voice that had awakened him had been Laurana’s. She’d said something about Silvanesti. She was inside Sturm’s tent, and as Brian watched from the shadows, he saw the dwarf join them.
Their voices were muffled. Brian circled around to the back of the tent to hear what they were saying. He despised himself for spying on those he had come to consider friends, but the moment he had heard Laurana’s voice mention the ancient elven kingdom, his suspicions were aroused.
“We know,” Laurana could be heard saying as Flint entered the tent. “You had a dream about Silvanesti.”
“Apparently I’m not the only one?” Flint asked, making it a question. His voice was hoarse. He sounded nervous, uneasy. “I suppose you—you want me to tell you what I dreamed?”
“No!” Sturm spoke out harshly. “No, I do not want to talk about it—ever!”
Laurana murmured something Brian could not hear.
He was perplexed. They were talking about a dream, a dream of Silvanesti. It didn’t make sense. He shuffled his feet to keep them warm and kept listening.
“I couldn’t talk about mine either,” Flint was saying. “I just wanted to see if it was a dream. It seemed so real I expected to find you both—”
Brian heard footsteps and shrank back into the shadows. The kender came dashing right past him, so excited he never noticed the knight. Tas flung open the tent flap and crawled inside.
“Did I hear you talking about a dream? I never dream, at least not that I remember. Kender don’t, much. Oh, I suppose we do. Even animals dream, but—”
The dwarf made a growling sound and Tas returned to the subject. “I had the most fantastic dream! Trees crying blood. Horrible dead elves going around killing people! Raistlin wearing black robes! It was the most incredible thing! And you were there, Sturm, Laurana and Flint. And everyone died! Well, almost everyone. Raistlin didn’t. And there was a green dragon—”
None of the others inside the tent said a word. Even the dwarf had gone silent, which was odd, since Flint rarely let Tas ramble on with such nonsense. Tas faltered in the silence. When he spoke again, he was apparently trying to nudge them into responding.
“Green dragon? Raistlin dressed in black? Did I mention that? Quite becoming, actually. Red always makes him look kind of jaundiced, if you know what I mean.”
Apparently no one did, for the silence continued, grew deeper.
“Well,” said Tas. “I guess I’ll go back to bed if you don’t want to hear anymore.” He spoke hopefully, but no one took him up on it.
“Good night,” Tas said, backing out of the tent.