[Meetings 03] - Dark Heart Read online

  It took Kit some time to convince herself, calm down, dry her eyes, and return to Aureleen, who had fallen asleep on her back and was dozing with a smile on her lips.

  "Any good news?" inquired her pretty friend after Kit woke her.

  "A charlatan," Kit said firmly, with a shake of her head. "A waste of good tickets. C'mon, it's late. I have to get home."

  * * * * *

  Well past sunset, Kit eased open the door to the cottage and slipped inside. Her face was tired and dirt-streaked, her clothes torn and mussed. But she had blocked the fortuneteller's prediction from her mind and was more than usually happy. It took her a moment to adjust her eyesight, from the darkness of night to the strange light of the interior.

  "Shhh!" Gilon grabbed her arm and pulled her down next to him where he sat on the floor.

  "Where have you been?" Caramon demanded to know. He was sitting next to his father.

  Before she could answer, Gilon whispered, "That's OK." With his hand he gently brushed back Kit's black hair. "Watch!"

  Now she could see what was going on. Raistlin was in the center of the room, doing some kind of show. Magic tricks? Yes, Raistlin was doing magic tricks.

  "I don't know how he learned them," Caramon leaned over to confide, "but he's been doing them all night. He's pretty good!"

  The look on Raistlin's face was solemn, intense. The boy held his hands aloft. Suspended between them—somehow, Kitiara couldn't figure out how—was a ball of white light. Raist's hands were moving slightly, fluttering, and out of his mouth came a low chant of words that were mostly indistinguishable, if they were words at all. After a moment, Kit had the uncomfortable realization that they sounded like Rosamun's gibberish during one of her trances.

  Raistlin moved his hands, the ball of light separated into several balls of light, and he began to juggle them. He made a rapid movement. The balls separated again, this time into dozens of smaller spheres of light. One more movement, and they became hundreds of tiny globes, shimmering snowflakes, pulsing and throbbing as if alive, moving in an artfully conceived pattern.

  Finally, as Kitiara watched, Raistlin's words and gestures slowed. The lights, too, slowed in tandem, almost to a halt. Gilon, Caramon, and Kit were silent, watching Raistlin's face, which now carried a look of almost painful concentration. Abruptly Raist murmured something and did a quick, elaborate charade with his hands.

  The globes of light began to spin, to expand and glow with deep, bright colors. Then, more rapidly than could be distinguished, the globes exploded into tiny shapes: fire-flowers, shell blossoms, comet butterflies. There was a fusillade of tiny popping noises, climaxed by an explosion of white light that left all of them momentarily stunned and blinded.

  "What's going on? What's the trouble?" asked Rosamun, her voice shaking with terror. She was clinging to the door frame of her small room, her face twisted with anxiety.

  Gilon rose hurriedly to take her back to bed and reassure her.

  All was back to normal now. Raistlin came and sat down. He held out his arms to his sister and brother, and they each took him by the hand. Kitiara and Caramon laughed with joy, and, most extraordinary, Raistlin laughed with them.

  Chapter 4

  The Mage School

  Gilon wrapped up some cheese and bread for the trip while Kitiara looked over Raistlin one last time. Hands and face—clean. Tunic and leggings—darned at the knees and elbows, but presentable. Kit stretched and yawned. The early spring sun had not been visible in the sky when Gilon had roused her to prepare for the day's outing.

  Raistlin watched her solemnly. Kit knew by how still he held himself just how excited Raist was to be going to the mage school today. Faced with a similar outing, Caramon—and most six-year-olds—would be bouncing up and down uncontrollably, asking a million questions.

  Not Raist. Always quiet and watchful, he grew even more so when anticipating his audience with the master mage.

  "I'll never be as tall or strong as Caramon, will I? No matter how much gunk you rub on my legs?" he had asked Kit the night before, as she was getting him ready for bed by spreading some foul-smelling ointment on his legs and arms. It had been part of his nightly ritual ever since the last visit of the healer, Bigardus. After treating Rosamun that day, Bigardus had stared at the spindly arms and legs of little Raistlin and made a tch-tch face. He then rummaged around in his bag of palliatives and produced some wortwood salve, telling Kit to rub it over Raist's limbs every night, to strengthen them. Well, Kitiara had thought skeptically, maybe the ointment was worth trying.

  Last night, looking forward to his trip to meet the master mage, Raist had protested at the smelly routine.

  "This stuff isn't going to change the way I am," he said sincerely. "I'll always be small and weak. I know that. It doesn't matter. You can stop thinking you'll always have to look out for me."

  Kit had leaned over, giving her little brother a quick hug while wondering at his perceptiveness. Not a day went by, truly, that she didn't think about ways she could stop being her younger brothers' caretaker—not just Raistlin, but Caramon, too. She was almost fourteen. She longed to set out on her own, to see the world, perhaps even to track down her father. She was bone-tired of doing everything Rosamun should have been doing, if it weren't for her stupid trances.

  Raist had pushed her away and sat up straight in bed, flushed, his eyes glittering.

  "Once I become a mage," the little boy vowed, "nobody is going to have to take care of me! I'll be the one who takes care of Mother and Father and Caramon. And I'll take care of anybody else, any way I see fit."

  "Big talk," Kit said fondly, mussing his hair and putting the rest of the ointment away. "Just like your brother."

  "Yeah, big talker," piped up Caramon sleepily from his bed.

  "You'll see," Raistlin said.

  "Go to sleep, both of you. Tomorrow's a big day."

  Always exhausted by the end of the day, Raist had fallen back against his pillow, pale and glistening with sweat from his defiant declaration. His eyelids fluttered, then he fell into a restless sleep.

  Kit had watched Raist for a few minutes to make sure he would stay asleep. That was a habit she had developed during his infancy, when she'd watched over him, sometimes staying up with him all through the night to make sure his breathing didn't falter.

  In contrast, she never had needed to check on Caramon. He already snored contentedly on the small wooden bed next to Raist's along the wall opposite Rosamun's and Gilon's bedroom. For all his energy, Caramon usually preceded his twin brother into slumber.

  The morning of Raist's visit to the master mage, Caramon still lay in bed, all tangled up in the bedding, as if he had been dreaming about wrestling with a serpent. He had protested when Gilon told him he would be staying behind, but his arguments had died quickly when Rosamun promised they would bake sunflower seed muffins.

  Rosamun was in the midst of one of her longer periods of good health. She had begun to dress up a little, to comb her hair regularly, and to set it off with beads and flowers. For weeks her face, usually so tense and lined with worry, had been more relaxed and almost happy.

  Kit's mother stood by the kitchen table now, preparing tea for the trio of travelers. Kit avoided her mother's solicitous gaze as she went over to take a warm mug. When Rosamun turned to tend to the fire, Gilon, who had just emerged from the bedroom, drew Kit aside.

  "Caramon knows to run and get Bigardus if Rosamun... if ... you know ..." he trailed off, looking at Kit anxiously.

  "If she goes off her head, you mean," Kit said bluntly, ignoring the look of hurt that crossed Gilon's face. "Yes. Caramon may not be able to do anything else for Mother, but he certainly knows how to run.

  "And," she added, seeing Gilon's anxiety mounting, "it wouldn't take him much time to get to Bigardus's and back, as long as he doesn't run into one of his dumb friends and—"

  "Perhaps we shouldn't go," Gilon said. "I mean, if you think your mother won't be all right or that Caramo
n can't manage without us . . ." He lifted his hands questioningly.

  It had been Gilon's idea to pay a visit to the mage school today. Kit's stepfather had spent two long evenings at the kitchen table, laboring over a letter to the master mage asking for permission to enroll Raist. He had searched his brain for the right wording, the proper tone. But he was not satisfied with any one of his dozen drafts, and at the end of the second night he had stood up and crumpled his latest effort into the fire.

  "Letters are so cold," he had declared. He would go himself to make a plea for his youngest child. Then the master mage could see for himself what a gifted pupil Raist would make.

  The mage school was mysteriously situated on the outskirts of Solace, its location a source of rumor and gossip, and Kit did not know anyone who could make a credible claim to have actually been there. Yet Gilon, with his simple, stubborn nature, was determined to go. Kit knew Gilon wanted to get Raist's future "settled" as much as she did, if for different reasons.

  "No, no. Caramon can manage fine. It's Rosamun who can't. We'll just have to keep our fingers crossed," she reassured Gilon—without comforting him much.

  During this whispered exchange, Caramon had woken up and trudged sleepily over to the table, where Rosamun was coaxing Raist to eat some porridge. Kit watched her mother turn toward Caramon with a loving smile and hug him before serving up a generous bowl of porridge. Caramon dug into his portion eagerly, asking, with his mouth full, what else there was to eat.

  Both boys watched their mother avidly, obviously delighted to have her up and about. Rosamun glanced up from her duties and met Kit's judgmental gaze.

  "Kitiara, won't you have something to eat before you leave? You have a busy morning ahead, and who knows what hospitality you will find at your destination," Rosamun said kindly.

  "Don't worry about me, Mother." Kit must have put an edge on the word that caused Rosamun to flinch. "I've packed some bread and cheese, enough for me, Gilon, and Raist. I know how to fend for myself—I've been doing just that for years. Don't start worrying about me now."

  Flushing, Rosamun turned back to the twins. Caramon, busy shoveling porridge into his mouth, hadn't paid any attention to the exchange, but Raistlin, ever observant, had been listening with a frown.

  Gilon stepped in from the outside, breaking the tension. "Hurry up, Raist. We want to arrive early enough so that the master mage will have time to see us. Kitiara, are you ready?"

  Raistlin slipped off his chair, had his face wiped by Rosamun, and joined Gilon at the door. Kit tied a rope around the sack of food she had prepared and slung it over her shoulder. Gilon planted a gentle kiss on Rosamun's forehead, then hesitated, obviously torn about leaving her and Caramon for the day.

  Rosamun, looking the very image of a typical, if slightly disheveled, homebody, shrugged off his concern affectionately. "Go on," she urged. "We'll be just fine."

  As they filed out the door, Caramon had already pulled out a mortar and pestle from the kitchen cabinet and was kneeling on a chair next to the eating table, determinedly grinding sunflower seeds while his mother looked on, beaming with approval.

  The last to leave, Kitiara took in the domestic scene before closing the door, gripped by envy as well as resentment. She hated the way the twins and Gilon doted on Rosamun during her "normal" periods. If her mother had ever spent any special time with Kit, it was so long ago she could not remember it.

  * * * * *

  The trio descended along the ropeways and ramps between the vallenwoods toward one of the paths that wound through the trunks of the giant trees and to the southern outskirts of Solace. Kit, who had not helped herself to any breakfast back at the cottage, pulled a piece of black bread and cheese from her pack and began munching as she walked.

  Dropping back alongside her, Gilon spoke to Kit in a lowered voice, out of Raist's earshot. "Though I have never been there, I judge it to be a good hour's walk to where the master mage is said to keep his school. Will Raist be all right? Should we rest halfway? We don't want him to be too tired once he gets there."

  Kit eyed the slight figure walking dutifully in front of them. His curious eyes roamed the sky, the treetops, the side of the path, picking out things that intrigued him. He paid no attention to Kit and Gilon and imagined himself the bold leader of their little expedition.

  "If he looks like he's tiring, we can take turns carrying him on our backs," Kit said, adding under her breath, "it won't be the first time." Though Raistlin resembled his sister, especially his deep brown eyes, he had none of her wiry strength.

  The early morning was warm, with the songs of birds returning from their winter migrations carried on welcome breezes. Kit felt her spirits lift as she headed toward the ancient bridge that spanned Solace Stream. They soon veered off the road. Gilon knew a shortcut through the forest that lined the edge of Crystalmir Lake, one that would help them reach their destination more quickly.

  Before long, the three of them emerged from the shadows of the vallenwoods into less wooded, hilly country. Raist continued to trod ahead of Kitiara and Gilon, showing no signs that his energy was flagging. He really must be excited about this, Kit thought to herself.

  Three quarters of an hour passed with very little conversation between them. Single file, they followed a narrow, pebbly path that snaked through the tall yellow grass and wildflowers that heralded spring. Little crawling creatures scuttled across the path in front of them, and wild game flew up out of nowhere. The land was beautiful, and its natural harmony had a blissful effect on the travelers.

  Kit was daydreaming about her father when a loud declaration from Raist jolted her back to the present. Raist was skipping between Kit and Gilon, tugging at their sleeves and exclaiming as he pointed. "Look, look, there it is! The school!"

  A rocky outcropping had risen out of the contoured landscape the same way a small island seems to appear, without warning, out of the sea. A moment before, they hadn't seen it. The glare of the sun meant they had to shade their eyes. The rocks formed a steep hill, its dimensions lost in the haze of the sun. It was bleached of color, its sides littered with limestone boulders, its top obscured from view. Kitiara had to blink to be certain of what she was seeing.

  "That's it! That's it! Can't you see?" Raist demanded with obvious exasperation.

  Coming closer, Kit and Gilon saw what Raistlin meant: the pale stonework facade of an entrance so artfully blended in with its surroundings as to be almost invisible to passers-by. With such subterfuge, the master mage both ensured his school's exclusivity and protected his students against potential acts of ill will from a local population that, like most sensible people on Krynn, viewed magic with skepticism, mistrust, or plain hostility.

  Gilon's upturned face showed how impressed the woodcutter was with the unusual site. For his part, Raist betrayed no awe. If anything, the child wore a smug expression, as if nothing would surprise him about this place.

  The mage school was built into the hill, camouflaged by rocks and the sparse vegetation that clung to them. Parts of the edifice could be glimpsed, close up, between the boulders and scrub. Kitiara looked up and saw something that made her wonder how she had missed it before. At regular intervals, ducks and other water fowl were alighting on top of the rocky hill, which led her to think there must be some sort of concealed pond there.

  As they stopped a few yards away, they heard a low rumbling and, with amazing fluidity, the massive front door swung open. Someone had opened it without the slightest signal from them! Following Raist inside, Kit had to elbow Gilon, whose mouth was impolitely agape. The door boomed shut behind them.

  They found themselves at the head of a corridor sided with smooth alabaster that gently spiraled upward in a clockwise direction. The corridor had no obvious light source. Illumination seemed to emanate from the pale, gray stone itself. Raistlin was already walking ahead. Gilon and Kit hastened to keep up. The winding hallway was lined with iron doors, all tightly shut, but Raistlin passed them by without
so much as a glance. He seemed certain of his destination.

  They continued up the spiraling corridor for ten minutes, passing twenty-seven doors by Kit's reckoning. At last they came to the top—or at least to the end of the curious hallway. In front of them stood an impressive set of double iron doors, the black metal decorated with runes and elaborate scrollwork.

  Kit found herself holding back and drawing closer to Gilon. Her little brother had reached the doors first, but seemed reluctant to knock. He stood in front of them, leaning forward slightly, straining to perceive what waited for him beyond. It was left to Gilon, who stepped up next to his son a few seconds later, to knock forthrightly.

  Kit waited, fidgeting impatiently, no longer out of any nervousness, but because she was getting annoyed at whoever or whatever was putting them through this rigmarole. It was all quite obviously designed to intimidate visitors.

  The three of them—a roughly dressed, burly woodcutter; a young, undersized six-year-old; and this slender teenager with her dark cap of curly hair—waited with varying attitudes, but with one feeling in common, impatience. For a long time the inner door, unlike the outer, showed no response to their presence.

  Finally the iron hinges creaked and the double door swung inward. Gilon, Raist, and Kitiara stepped forward into a large circular room without any windows or lamplight. Every inch of the walls was lined with shelves, and the shelves groaned with books—hundreds of portentous, leather-bound tomes; hundreds more ordinary volumes with numerical indices; one entire wall of slim pamphlets and sheaves of neatly ordered essays; another wall of yellowed, crumbling manuscripts, stacked and tied neatly in ribbons; and rows upon rows upon more rows of diaries and journals.

  Hazy light filtered in through a translucent, domed ceiling. Not until she gazed upward and saw a pikeshead swim by outside, tailfin wiggling, did Kit realize that this room lay beneath the pond at the top of the camouflaged hill.