[Meetings 03] - Dark Heart Read online

  In exasperation Kitiara sank to the ground. Realizing the fun was over, most of the onlookers had moved off into the larger crowd. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her anymore. Kit felt her ear and reached over to adjust one of her boots that had somehow almost wriggled off.

  "You should have let him best you!"

  She looked up to see a girl her age, with blue eyes and strawberry blond hair that fell in ringlets over her shoulders. Aureleen Damark, the coquettish daughter of a local furniture-maker, was one of Kit's few friends. They were practically opposites, but Kitiara had to admit that Aureleen made her laugh.

  "Who, Caramon?" Kit scoffed, as she flashed a welcoming grin at her friend.

  "No, Speckleface!" answered Aureleen earnestly. "Why do you think he's always picking on you, anyway?"

  "Probably just mean and dumb," said Kit flatly.

  Aureleen sat down beside Kit and spread her gangly legs out. "Not at all," scolded Aureleen. "Although I won't argue with you that he's dumb." She giggled. "He likes you!"

  Kitiara looked sternly into the eyes of her friend, finding it hard to believe Aureleen wasn't kidding. "Speckleface?"

  "He's not so ugly really," said Aureleen decidedly, arranging her pink and white dress so that it spread out around her like a coral shell in the dirt and dust. With her rosy cheeks and long-lashed eyes, Aureleen was the picture of femininity. "Guys like a girl who acts tough, Father says. Although," she paused and thought for a moment. "Mother says they prefer one with a soft heart. Hard outside, soft inside. What does your father say?"

  Kitiara sighed. She could never keep up with the line of Aureleen's prattle. "Did say . . . did say. I haven't seen my father in almost six years, Aureleen. You know that."

  "Yes, I do," said Aureleen reprovingly. "I mean Gilon— your stepfather, if you want to be technical. What does he say?"

  "He doesn't say much, thank the spirits," said Kitiara. She glared fiercely at her friend. "Life isn't just about getting a man anyway," she declared.

  "Oh, I disagree," said Aureleen, fluffing out her hair prettily. "My point is that Bronk likes you because you act strong and tough. But it would be better to let him win if it comes to wrestling or fighting. Men have their pride, and boys are worse."

  With that, she reached into a fold of her skirt and brought out a thick square of fruit bread, broke it in half, and offered Kitiara a share.

  Kit had to smile. Soon the two girls were whispering and laughing as they ate the treat. The fairgoers simply walked around them; the Red Moon Fair was casual if nothing else.

  "Miss Kitiara . . ."

  This time Kit looked up to see Minna, her mother's former midwife, staring down at her with a most calculating expression. Kit hadn't seen the old biddy in several months. Aureleen jumped to her feet politely, and Kitiara reluctantly followed suit.

  "How's your dear mother been?" Minna asked.

  "Fine, thank you," Kit said in a low voice.

  "I haven't seen her about much lately," continued Minna, her eyes narrowing to slits.

  No, and you won't you old witch, Kitiara thought to say, but her tongue was tied and her eyes cast to the ground.

  "Why, she's right here, enjoying herself at the fair," piped up Aureleen in an ingenuous tone.

  "What? Here?" Minna looked thrown by this report.

  "Yes 'm," said Aureleen pertly. "She accompanied us here, and then . . . you know how it is, she had to go off with those two rascal boys somewhere. They were pulling her arms and legs—it was very funny to see—and she laughing and enjoying herself so very much."

  "Where? Where did they go?" Minna gazed over the heads of the crowd, avid for a new piece of gossip.

  "Oh, you might look for them over by the games, if you just want to say hello, ma'am," said Aureleen innocently.

  "I might just do that," Minna replied, suspicious.

  She peered intently at Kit, but Kitiara's mask of politeness betrayed nothing.

  "If you do, please tell her we're dawdling behind," said Aureleen.

  "Yes, yes. I will," said Minna busily, looking over her shoulder at them as she hurried off through the crowd. The midwife was certain she had been gulled, but just in case, she would try to track Rosamun down.

  When Minna was out of sight, the girls collapsed on each other. They were laughing so hard they could hardly stop for several minutes.

  'That was royal," said Kit finally, catching her breath.

  They giggled some more. "Yes'm, laughing and enjoying herself so much, she was!" Aureleen mimicked herself.

  Kitiara stopped suddenly and drew an intake of breath. "Oh, I've got to find the twins!" she muttered.

  "Don't worry," Aureleen reassured her, "they'll be—"

  "I'd better," said Kitiara, turning to go.

  "Oh, all right," grumbled Aureleen, following her. "Darned nuisances, both of 'em."

  * * * * *

  While Kitiara was tussling with Caramon, a tall, thin man with piercing feline eyes, frosted eyelashes, and a dry, leathery face weaved through the crowd near Raistlin, handing out cards. Instinctively Raist reached out his hand, and the man put one of the cards in his tiny palm. On it was a weird inscription. The little boy could not read so very well yet, but he could decipher a symbol on the slip of paper—one of the many iconic symbols for a traveling magician.

  When the man moved off, Raistlin got up and followed. In liquid motion the man threaded his way through the crowd, past this booth and that stall, around a patch of rocks and trees, down a path where people were clumped around, eating their lunches, to a small clearing that had been set aside for a presentation. The shambling man nodded at Raist conspiratorially and continued on his way, handing out cards. The crowd seemed to divide for him, then to swallow him up.

  Raistlin looked to the center of the clearing. There, a circle of people had begun to tighten around a man preparing a show. When the man looked up for a moment, Raistlin had a flash of recognition. He looked behind him, to where he had last glimpsed the man with the cards, and then back at the other. The man setting up the show was almost identical to the one he had been following, except that this man was dressed in a yellow robe of somewhat faded grandeur.

  Twins I thought Raistlin to himself, like me and Caramon. Intrigued by the coincidence, the boy moved closer. Soon he was only one of the dozen or so people who stood around, talking amongst themselves and waiting for the traveling magician to begin his act.

  The man was arranging containers and scrolls and small objects on a stand that he had unfolded. As he did so, he murmured and cackled, seemingly to himself, but with some winking and nods to members of the crowd. One of the audience, a young maid with long, braided hair and a peach complexion, seemed to interest him particularly. When he cleared his throat to begin, for a moment his eyes rested on her.

  Plucking a small coin from the recesses of his garment, the magician held it up to his audience, and then, with a flourish, carried it to the edge of the clearing and placed it against the forehead of a bowlegged farmer who stood gaping at him. "Think. Think hard," intoned the illusionist. "Think of something important to you. One word or two. Don't try to fool a clever old magician. . . ."

  The farmer fretted his brow intensely, the job of thinking apparently every bit as arduous as that of plowing soil. "New cow," proclaimed the magician with a flourish, and the farmer's face flushed with an astonished expression that indicated the magician had got it right.

  The magician moved down the row and came to the maid he had been eyeing. More gently, he held the coin to this one's forehead, looking deeply into her fresh face. Her expression, unlike the farmer's, was carefree. The magician seemed to ponder thoughtfully before crying out, "A young man named . . . Artis!" She clapped her hands in delight as he continued, a slight frown on his face as if he were a little disappointed at what her thoughts revealed.

  Raistlin was startled to see the mage's hand with the coin in it stretch out toward him. As he watched the man intently, t
he magic coin was planted against his own perspiring forehead. "Now, a child. Children's minds are easy to plumb," exclaimed the magician, bending over as if to listen with one ear to the message of the coin. Raistlin's face was terrified. He squirmed a bit, but he stayed rooted to the spot, awaiting the revelation.

  Probably no one but Raistlin noticed the surprise that flickered over the man's face as he strained for the insight that did not come. The yellow-robed magician bent closer, and so did the crowd as it listened for what he would say. There was a suspense of nearly one minute.

  "Candy!" declared the magician, straightening up with an impressive gesture. The spectators cheered and applauded. "Candy," repeated the magician, turning back to his array of objects and stealing another furtive glance at the pretty young girl.

  Nobody paid much attention to Raistlin. "I wasn't thinking of candy," he said irritably under his breath. But he had to admit the old professional was a crowd-pleaser. The boy moved closer, for the illusionist was already in the middle of his next stunt.

  The man was waving his hands gracefully now, chanting a few words. He opened drawers and doves flew out, opened pockets and discovered sparkling trinkets, tore and shredded colored paper and then reconstructed the scraps. Raistlin knew, somewhere inside of himself, that it was only hocus-pocus, not very difficult, certainly not very meaningful magic. But in his almost five years, the boy had never seen such a wondrous show. The crowd watched in respectful silence. Raistlin himself was mesmerized.

  "There you are, Raist!" Caramon came up beside him, huffing with importance. "Kitiara asked me to find you and bring you back right away." He looked over his shoulder, a little disoriented. "Although I'm not quite sure where 'back' is right—"

  "Shhh!" Raistlin gave him a stern glance, and then paid his brother no further attention.

  Caramon looked up just in time to witness the climax of the traveling magician's performance, probably the apex of the man's knowledge and skill. As far as Caramon could tell, the tall, thin mage was juggling several balls of light in the air. Big deal, he thought. In all, Caramon was about as fascinated by magic feats as Raistlin was by his twin's wrestling matches.

  Caramon was glancing over his shoulder, looking for Kitiara, when a huge hurrah went up from the crowd. He looked back, but he was too late. The finale was over, and the mage was packing up his stuff. Another man—almost a ringer for the magician. Caramon thought with a frown— had begun passing a basket for donations.

  "What did he do?" Caramon asked Raistlin. "What did he do?"

  But Raistlin said nothing, and the expression on his face was almost beatific.

  "There you two are!" said a hearty voice, and one hand clasped each of them on the shoulders. "You should be home. And where's Kitiara?"

  It was Gilon, Amber yipping at his heels. He gave both his sons a squeeze and hoisted Raistlin easily to his sturdy shoulders. "C'mon!" he shouted to Caramon. "Where's Kit?" he asked again, looking around hesitantly.

  "Uh," said Caramon, looking behind him. "Back there. Or back somewhere. We got separated because Raist—"

  Gilon scolded Caramon affectionately. "You've got chores to do, and you shouldn't leave your mother at home alone. You know that." He looked round again. "Well," he shrugged, "Kit will catch up."

  Gilon set a vigorous pace. Caramon had to run to keep up. Raistlin, bouncing on his father's shoulders, twisted his head to get a last glimpse of the magician in the faded yellow robe. But he and his look-alike had already vanished.

  Peeking out from behind a tent, Kitiara and Aureleen observed their going. Aureleen pondered the situation, biting the nail of her thumb.

  "I should really go," began Kitiara.

  Aureleen held up one of her decorated pouches and shook it so that Kitiara could hear the coins jingling inside. "I've got enough for both of us," she said invitingly. "They're selling sausage sticks and custard pies and . . ."

  Kitiara frowned, feeling the tug of her family responsibilities.

  "And over there," Aureleen pointed out slyly, "they're setting up the sports and contests. Girls can enter too!"

  Kit didn't need much convincing. "Well, just for a few hours!" she said.

  * * * * *

  More than one teenage boy was dismayed that spring day in Solace when a girl who was several years younger than many of them took first place in the vine climb, barefoot sprint, and wiggleboat races—juvenile category.

  Aureleen, her cheeks flushed, once again tried to explain to Kitiara that she ought to get in the habit of letting a man beat her occasionally, if she ever wanted to attract someone when she grew up and get happily married. But Kit was in a good mood. Aureleen could not faze her.

  Bronk Wister was hanging around with his little brother, Dune, just watching the games. They jeered whenever Kit's name was announced. Aureleen—because, after all, she was Kit's booster—got in the spirit by cheering her friend on from the sidelines.

  Afterward, they shared a prize-bag of chits from Kit's victories that could be swapped for food and trinkets. They stuffed themselves with sugary sweets until their stomachs ached. Then they played a couple of the games of chance run by unsavory characters inside tents, but they had no luck. Aureleen thought the games were probably rigged.

  They browsed the traders' booths where Aureleen bargained for a shiny copper bracelet and Kit bought a pouch of magnets whose geometric shapes pleased her.

  After several hours, low on energy, they sprawled on the grass in one corner of the fairgrounds, idly watching the crowd. A sign on a small striped tent she had not noticed before caught Kit's eye: "Futures Foretold, The Renowned Madame Dragatsnu." A stout, important-looking man left the tent with a satisfied expression.

  Kit was intrigued, but when she counted up the tickets in her hand, she realized that they only had enough for one fortune-telling.

  "Go ahead," said Aureleen, gesturing wearily. She had guessed Kit's mind. "My future is right here for the moment."

  When Kit ducked under the tent flap, she came face to face with Madame Dragatsnu, a small, swarthy woman, ancient, with salt-and-pepper hair and whiskers sprouting from her nose and chin. Sitting on a woven rug, wearing a simple brown dress, the fortune-teller appeared rather unimpressive. Glancing around, Kit saw none of the mysterious paraphernalia she associated with the job of fortune-telling—no crystal sphere, cup of bones, jars of leaf crumbs, or the like.

  "Sit down, child," said Madame Dragatsnu, some irritation in her thick voice. Kit could not place her peculiar accent.

  Kit settled herself with crossed knees in front of the fortune-teller. Madame Dragatsnu's glistening eyes seemed to reach across the space between them and rake her over.

  "It's not for me," the girl said softly, looking down, suddenly abashed. "The fortune, I mean."

  "Your boyfriend then?"

  Kit looked up defiantly. "No." She put down the chits she had been clutching and pushed them over to the old woman, who nodded.

  "You have something that belongs to this person?"

  Kit reached into her tunic and brought out a carefully folded piece of parchment—the Solamnic crest from her father. She had brought it along today in hopes of seeing people from that region who, if she showed the crest to them, might be able to give her information about Gregor or his family.

  "It's—"

  "Your father," said Madame Dragatsnu, cutting her off.

  Kit watched the fortune-teller hopefully. Madame Dragatsnu turned the parchment over and over in her hands, feeling its surface in an almost sensuous way, as if the paper were a rare textile. While doing so, she gazed, not at Gregor's Solamnic symbol, but at Kit herself. The impassive look on Madame Dragatsnu's face didn't tell Kit anything, but oh how her eyes burned!

  "I was hoping," Kit said, softly again, "that you might be able to tell me where he is."

  "I don't reveal the present," said Madame Dragatsnu sharply. "Futures foretold. That's what the sign says."

  Kit flushed. "Can you tell me anyth
ing about his future?"

  "Shush!"

  Several minutes of silence ensued while Madame Dragatsnu continued to finger the parchment's surface and stare at Kit, who was finding it difficult not to fidget.

  "How long has it been since you have seen him?" the fortune-teller asked unexpectedly. The question wasn't as surprising as the manner in which it was asked. Madame Dragatsnu had dropped her businesslike tone and allowed an unmistakable note of sympathy to surface.

  "More than five years."

  "Ummm. I cannot tell you very much. I think, North.

  Yes. Somewhere in the North."

  "He has family in the North, I think, in Solamnia," Kitiara said excitedly.

  "Somewhere else," Madame Dragatsnu declared. Another long spell of silence followed as she traced Gregor's crude ink drawing of the crest with her finger. "A battle," she continued in a trancelike voice. "A big battle, many men—"

  "Will he be in danger?" Kit could hardly contain herself.

  "Yes."

  Kit drew in her breath sharply, her heart pounding. Gregor in danger!

  "But not from the battle," said Madame Dragatsnu with finality. "He will win the battle."

  "How then?" Kit asked urgently.

  Madame Dragatsnu paused. "Afterward."

  "When?" demanded Kit. "When?"

  Madame Dragatsnu stared at her. "Soon. Very soon."

  "What can I do? What more can you tell me?" Kit felt like screaming into the old hag's face.

  The fortune-teller was imperturbable. She took a long time to respond, and before she did, she carefully re-folded Gregor's sketch, handing it back to Kitiara.

  "Nothing. The answer to both of your questions is, nothing."

  In a rage, Kit leaped up and dashed outside the tent. She took refuge behind a tree some distance away, her eyes brimming with tears. It was all some kind of filthy fortune-telling charade. She knew that. At fairs these soothsayers were as common as horseflies. The old hag didn't have a clue as to Gregor's future. That was just a wild guess, when Madame Dragatsnu had said that the ink sketch had to do with her father.