Маргарет Уэйс - Dragons of Spring Dawning

When they had first started down the crowded streets, Tas had hoped he might have a chance to break free. He was an expert in melting in with a crowd. He saw Caramon’s eyes flick about, too; the big man was thinking the same thing. But after walking only a few blocks, after seeing the citadels keeping their dreadful watch above, Tas realized it was hopeless. Apparently Caramon reached the same conclusion, for the kender saw the warrior’s shoulders slump.

Appalled and horrified, Tas suddenly thought of Laurana, being held prisoner here. The kender’s buoyant spirit seemed finally crushed by the weight of the darkness and evil all around him, darkness and evil he had never dreamed existed.

Their guards hurried them along, pushing and shoving their way through the drunken, brawling soldiers, down the clogged and narrow streets. Try as he might, Tas couldn’t figure out any way of relaying Tanis’s message to Caramon. Then they were forced to come to a halt as a contingent of Her Dark Majesty’s troops, lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, came marching through the streets. Those who did not get out of their way were hurled bodily to the sidewalk by the draconian officers or were simply knocked down and trampled. The companions’ guards hastily shoved them up against a crumbling wall and ordered them to stand still until the soldiers had passed.

Tasslehoff found himself flattened between Caramon on one side and a draconian on the other. The guard had loosened its clawed grip on Tas’s shirt, evidently figuring that not even a kender would be foolish enough to try to escape in this mob. Though Tas could feel the reptile’s black eyes on him, he was able to squirm near enough to Caramon to talk. He hoped he wasn’t overheard, and didn’t expect to be, with all the head-bashing and boot-thumping going on around him.

“Caramon!” Tas whispered. “I’ve got a message. Can you hear me?”

Caramon did not turn, but kept staring straight ahead, his face set rock-hard. But Tas saw one eyelid flutter.

“Tanis said to trust him!” Tas whispered swiftly. “No matter what. And... and to... keep up the act... I think that’s what he said.”

Tas saw Caramon frown.

“He spoke in elven,” Tas added huffily. “And it was hard to hear.”

Caramon’s expression did not change. If anything, it grew darker.

Tas swallowed. Edging closer, he pressed up against the wall right behind the big warrior’s broad back. “That . . . that Dragon Highlord,” the kender said hesitantly. “That . . . was Kitiara, wasn’t it?”

Caramon did not answer. But Tas saw the muscles in the man’s jaw tighten, he saw a nerve begin to twitch in Caramon’s neck.

Tas sighed. Forgetting where he was, he raised his voice. “You do trust him, don’t you, Caramon? Because—”

Without warning, Tas’s draconian guard turned and bashed the kender across the mouth, slamming him into the wall. Dazed with pain, Tasslehoff sank down to the ground. A dark shadow bent over him. His vision fuzzy, Tas couldn’t see who it was and he braced himself for another blow. Then he felt strong, gentle hands lift him by his fleecy vest.

“I told you not to damage them,” growled Caramon.

“Bah! A kender!” The draconian spat.

The troops had nearly all passed by now. Caramon set Tas on his feet. The kender tried to stand up, but for some reason the sidewalk kept sliding out from underneath him.

“I-I’m sorry . . .” he heard himself mumble. “Legs acting funny...” Finally he felt himself hoisted in the air and, with a protesting squeak, was flung over Caramon’s broad shoulder like a meal sack.

“He’s got information,” Caramon said in his deep voice. “I hope you haven’t addled his brain so that he’s lost it. The Dark Lady won’t be pleased.”

“What brain?” snarled the draconian, but Tas—from his upside-down position on Caramon’s back—thought the creature appeared a bit shaken.

They began walking again. Tas’s head hurt horribly, his cheek stung. Putting his hand to it, he felt sticky blood where the draconian’s claws had dug into his skin. There was a sound in his ears like a hundred bees had taken up residence in his brain. The world seemed to be slowly circling around him, making his stomach queasy, and being jounced around on Caramon’s armor-plated back wasn’t helping.

“How much farther is it?” He could feel Caramon’s voice vibrate in the big man’s chest. “The little bastard’s heavy.”

In answer, the draconian pointed a long, bony claw.

With a great effort, trying to take his mind off his pain and dizziness, Tas twisted his head to see. He could manage only a glance, but it was enough. The building had been growing larger and larger as they approached until it filled, not only the vision, but the mind as well.

Tas slumped back. His sight was growing dim and he wondered drowsily why it was getting so foggy. The last thing he remembered was hearing the words, “To the dungeons . . . beneath the Temple of Her Majesty, Takhisis, Queen of Darkness.”

“Wine?”

“No.”

Kitiara shrugged. Taking the pitcher from the bowl of snow in which it rested to keep cool, she slowly poured some for herself, idly watching the blood-red liquid run out of the crystal carafe and into her glass. Then she carefully set the crystal carafe back into the snow and sat down opposite Tanis, regarding him coolly.

She had taken off the dragon helm, but she wore her armor still—the night-blue armor, gilded with gold, that fit over her lithe body like scaled skin. The light from the many candles in the room gleamed in the polished surfaces and glinted off the sharp metal edges until Kitiara seemed ablaze in flame. Her dark hair, damp with perspiration, curled around her face. Her brown eyes were bright as fire, shadowed by long, dark lashes.

“Why are you here, Tanis?” she asked softly, running her finger along the rim of her glass as she gazed steadily at him.

“You know why,” he answered briefly.

“Laurana, of course,” Kitiara said.

Tanis shrugged, careful to keep his face a mask, yet fearing that this woman—who sometimes knew him better than he knew himself—could read every thought.

“You came alone?” Kitiara asked, sipping at the wine.

“Yes,” Tanis replied, returning her gaze without faltering.

Kitiara raised an eyebrow in obvious disbelief.

“Flint’s dead,” he added, his voice breaking. Even in his fear, he still could not think of his friend without pain. “And Tasslehoff wandered off somewhere. I couldn’t find him. I... I didn’t really want to bring him anyway.”

“I can understand,” Kit said wryly. “So Flint is dead.”

“Like Sturm,” Tanis could not help but add through clenched teeth.

Kit glanced at him sharply. “The fortunes of war, my dear,” she said. “We were both soldiers, he and I. He understands. His spirit bears me no malice.”

Tanis choked angrily, swallowing his words. What she said was true. Sturm would understand.

Kitiara was silent as she watched Tanis’s face a few moments. Then she set the glass down with a clink.

“What about my brothers?” she asked. “Where—”

“Why don’t you just take me to the dungeons and interrogate me?” Tanis snarled. Rising out of his chair, he began to pace the luxurious room.

Kitiara smiled, an introspective, thoughtful smile. “Yes,” she said, “I could interrogate you there. And you would talk, dear Tanis. You would tell me all I wanted to hear, and then you would beg to tell me more. Not only do we have those who are skilled in the art of torture, but they are passionately dedicated to their profession.” Rising languorously, Kitiara walked over to stand in front of Tanis Her wine glass in one hand, she placed her other hand on his chest and slowly ran her palm up over his shoulder. “But this is not an interrogation. Say, rather, it is a sister, concerned about her family. Where are my brothers?”