Kitiara burst out laughing.
“You are calling on the wrong god if you want to stop me, dark father. Next time, try praying to Paladine. Now strip off those robes. I want your belt, your jewelry and that fat purse of yours. Quickly!”
She emphasized her words with her knife, prodding him in the midriff. The priest tore off his chain and his rings and flung them to the ground at her feet. Then he stood there, glowering, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Dark father, the only reason I don’t gut you is that I don’t want to ruin those warm robes,” Kit told him.
She was nervous, fearing someone might come. She walked forward, the point of her blade darting at his neck.
“But if you force me—”
The priest tossed his purse at her head, then, cursing her to every dark god he could think of, he dragged his robes off over his head. Kit made a bundle, tying up the money and the jewels inside the robes and cloak. She slapped his horse’s rump, so that the animal bounded off down the road, leaving the dark priest to stand shivering in his breeches, still calling down imprecations on her.
Chuckling, Kit entered the forest, wending her way through the thick underbrush to where she had Windracer concealed. The last she saw of the priest, he was running down the road, yelling loudly for his horse. Kit had seen the slash marks made by his riding crop on the animal’s neck, and she guessed the horse was not going to be inclined to stop and wait for him.
Kitiara pulled on the sumptuous black velvet robes of a high ranking priest over her own clothes. She draped the golden chain with the Queen’s medallion around her neck. The rings he’d worn were too big for her fingers. She put them in the purse that was filled with steel coins.
“How do I look?” she asked Windracer, modeling for the horse, who appeared to approve. Perhaps he, too, could foresee the best inns, the finest oats, the warmest stables.
Kitiara was transformed from a lowly sellsword into a wealthy priest of Takhisis. No one would think to question how she came to be in possession of such a valuable horse. She could ride the main roads by day. She could sleep in real beds, not spend her nights in ravines. Her pursuers would be searching for a renegade Highlord, a warrior woman. They would never think to look for a high-ranking spiritor. The wretched priest would tell his tale to the first sheriff he encountered, but as far as he knew, he’d been attacked by a beggar or perhaps, since she’d mentioned Paladine, a servant of the God of Light.
Kitiara laughed heartily. She ate a good meal—the priest’s own dinner—and then mounted her horse. She rode on, heading north. She had left one danger behind.
Unfortunately, that left her plenty of time to reflect upon the truly appalling danger that lay ahead.
11
The frostreaver. The making of a squire
Laurana’s idea for the attack on Ice Wall Castle caused an uproar. The knights were opposed, her friends were in favor, while Harald was dubious but interested. They spent that night and the next day arguing about it. Harald eventually agreed to go along with it, mainly because Raggart the Elder approved it, but partly because Derek was opposed to it. Derek said tersely that no military man of any sense would go into battle armed with only faith in gods who, if they existed at all, had proved themselves faithless. He would have no part of it.
Brian had to admit that on this issue he sided with Derek. Laurana’s plan was ingenious, but it depended on the gods, and even Elistan said that he could not guarantee the gods would join the battle.
“Yet you are willing to risk your life because you believe the gods, on the off-chance, might come to your aid,” Aran pointed out, politely offering his flask around before taking a drink himself.
“I did not say that. I said I have faith the gods will aid us,” Elistan replied.
“But in the next breath, you say you can’t promise they will do so,” Aran argued good-naturedly.
“I would never presume to speak for the gods,” Elistan said. “I will ask them humbly for their help, and if they deem it right, they will grant it. If for some reason they refuse to give their aid, then I will accept their decision, for they know what is best.”
Aran laughed. “You’re giving the gods a break. If they help you, they get the credit, but if they don’t, you supply them with excuses.”
“Let my try to explain,” said Elistan, smiling. “You told me that you have a dearly loved nephew who is five years old. Let us say this child begs you to allow him to play with your sword. Would you give him what he wants?”
“Of course not,” said Aran.
“You love your nephew very much. You want him to be happy, yet you would deny him this. Why?”
“Because he is a child. For him, a sword is a toy. He does not yet have the mental capacity to understand the danger he would pose to himself and others around him.” Aran grinned. “I see what you are saying, sir. You claim this is the reason the gods do not give us everything we ask for. We might cut ourselves to ribbons.”
“Granting us all our wishes and desires would be the same as allowing that little child to play with your sword. We cannot see the gods’ eternal plan and how we fit into it. Thus, we ask in faith and hope we will be given what we want, but if not, we have faith that the gods know what is best for us. We accept the will of the gods and move forward.”
Aran considered this, washing it down with a pull from the flask, but he still shook his head.
“Are you a believer in these gods?” he asked, turning to Sturm.
“I am,” Sturm replied gravely.
“Do you believe that the gods truly know what is best for you?”
“I have proof,” Sturm said. “When we were in Thorbardin, searching for the Hammer of Kharas, I prayed to the gods to give the hammer to me. I wanted the sacred hammer to forge the legendary dragonlances. At least, that is what I told myself. I was angry with the gods when they saw fit to give the hammer to the dwarves.”
“You’re still angry about that!” Flint said with a shake of his head.
Sturm gave a wry smile. “Perhaps I am. I do not to this day understand why the gods saw fit to leave the hammer in the dwarven kingdom when we need it so sorely. But I do know why the gods did not give the hammer to me. I came to realize I did not want the hammer for the good of mankind but for my own good. I wanted the hammer because it would bring me glory and honor. To my shame, I even went so far as to agree to participate in a dishonorable scheme to keep the hammer and defraud the dwarves.
“When I realized what I had done, I asked the gods for forgiveness. I like to think I would have used the hammer for good, but I am not sure. If I was willing to sink so low to obtain it, perhaps I would have sunk even lower. The gods did not give me what I thought I wanted. They gave me a greater gift—knowledge of myself, my weakness, my frailties. I strive daily to overcome these faults, and with the help of the gods and my friends, I will be a better man.”
Brian looked at Derek as Sturm was speaking, especially the part about wanting the hammer for his own glory. But Derek wasn’t listening. He was still arguing with Harald, still trying to persuade the chief to go along with his scheme. Perhaps it was just as well Derek did not hear Sturm’s admission. Derek’s opinion of Sturm, already low, would have dropped below sea level.
Aran continued to question Elistan about the gods, asking their names and how Mishakal differed from Chislev, and why there were gods of neutrality, such as Lillith had talked about, and how the balance of the world was maintained. Aran listened to Elistan’s responses attentively, though Brian guessed that Aran’s interest in these newfound gods was purely academic. Brian couldn’t imagine the cynical Aran embracing religion.
Derek’s voice rose sharply, stopping the discussion.
“You expect me to entrust the success of my mission to the ravings of a couple of old men and the foolish notions of a girl? You are mad!”