Tina Daniell - Dark Heart

Screaming in terror, Bronk and Dune fell over each other scrambling up the path. Their yells continued for several minutes before fading into the distance.

Kit, Raist, and Caramon collapsed on the sand, laughing. They were distracted by a loud hissing sound coming from the water. When they looked up, they saw the garish shape slowly collapsing in on itself.

"I wondered how long those sheep bladders would hold air," Raist said, suddenly thoughtful. "I was worried when we had to force that contraption into a cage and sink it underwater, whether it would deflate and not be able to float when Kit released the lid."

"You were worried!" exclaimed Kit, between fits of laughter. "Bronk was about to try and kiss me!"

"Did you see them take off?" Caramon asked, his face flushed and eyes bright. "It'll be a long time before either of them look in our direction."

"It'll be a long time before they can look each other in the eyes," Raist added solemnly.

"Of course," Caramon felt compelled to add, "I could have beaten them fair and square, if you had let me settle it my way." He struck an injured pose. "But that was fun," he admitted after a moment. "Good job, Raist."

"You built the 'monster'," Raist said.

"Let's leave this junk here," Kit said, standing and surveying the collapsed creation. "Bronk and Dune are bound to slink back and investigate in the safety of daylight. Then they'll see what it was that scared them-birch bark, an empty ale barrel, sheep bladders, and old rags. That's the witch of Crone Lake."

They all laughed again.

"Tomorrow we'll spread the story, right?" exulted Caramon. "That'll teach 'em."

"No," said Raist.

Caramon looked perplexed. Kit nodded understanding.

"Let them wonder why we don't tell people," said Raist wisely. "Let them wonder when we are going to start."

The three of them laughed, reliving their glorious trick on Dune and Bronk all the way back to the cottage, where even Kit was delighted to discover that Rosamun had made vanilla pudding.

Kitiara had itched with restlessness from almost the moment she'd returned to Solace. Yet as the days grew shorter and fall approached, Kit lingered in the Majere household. Before she knew it, another winter had come on, then spring again, then another summer.

Kit wanted desperately to leave, but she didn't have very much money and no real destination in mind. There was no word of her father, and she was so far away from Silverhole that she didn't expect to hear any news of Ursa. And she knew that the mercenary would never come back to her part of the world again.

For the most part, her days revolved around Caramon and Raistlin, but the two of them were so busy with their individual schooling, both were so much older and self-sufficient, that there was less for her to do.

Rosamun's health went into another stage of deterioration, and most of the time she had no idea that Kit was even living there, as before, up in her small loft. Rosamun had so weakened that she was bedridden for weeks at a time, and easy enough to look after. Bigardus came to the house several times a week, at Gilon's bidding.

Kit's old friend Aureleen Damark had developed womanly affectations and a steady boyfriend, Ewen Low, a militia cadet. When the two teenage girls got together, they fell easily enough into their former pattern of giggling conversations. But Aureleen's mother did what she could to see that Kit did not receive many invitations to visit.

Another winter approached. With the onset of colder weather, Kitiara got into the habit of frequenting Otik's in order to keep an eye on parties traveling through Solace.

Though Otik Sandahl had only been proprietor of the Inn of the Last Home for about fifteen years, the reputation of his place had already spread throughout Abanasinia. Travelers made a point of stopping over in Solace in order to sample the specially brewed ale and spicy fried potatoes Otik served. The innkeeper himself was another inducement. His round eyes and equally round belly bespoke an enjoyment of life he worked hard to share with his tavern's clientele.

The current renown of the Inn of the Last Home was the more remarkable because of its reputation under the previous owners. These were a married couple, hill dwarves, whose sour dispositions seemed to taint everything from the ale they served to the generally inhospitable atmosphere

travelers felt the second they entered the inn. The smells from the kitchen were enough to offend a gully dwarf-well, almost.

Maybe the root of it was their dissatisfaction with having to live quite so far above ground or the unending irritation about their clan's exile from the mountains. Whatever the cause, their marriage degenerated into cold stares and public bickering, even as the inn itself crumbled into disrepute.

One day the husband got up earlier than the rest of Solace, packed a meager bag of belongings, and left town. Nobody missed him, least of all his wife, who sold the inn to the next traveler on the road-Otik Sandahl-for "a kender half-penny," according to local wags. Where Otik was coming from, or going, was the subject of some speculation, but whatever his plans had been, Otik had reached that stage in life where he wanted to travel less and to settle down more. In any case, it was a happy happenstance. Otik had found his natural calling.

His first task was to give the inn a thorough cleaning and lovingly polish the vallenwood floors and furniture to perfection. Then he set to work in the kitchen. Of his spicy fried potatoes Otik would say only that the recipe had two basic ingredients: potatoes and spices. "If it don't fill you up, you don't have to pay up," Otik was fond of saying. Soon no one doubted his word.

Not quite as famous, but every bit as tasty, were other dishes he had learned to prepare on his travels-braised trout cheeks, duck liver pudding, buck stew, and cranberry surprise.

His traveling days were also reflected in the decor of the inn's common room. He decorated the walls with various mementoes, curios, and anything else that had caught his fancy during that time. And he kept expanding the collection. Despite protests from his customers, each year Otik insisted on closing up the inn for one month-not really trusting anyone else to run it in the proper manner-and indulging what remained of his wanderlust.

Otik was determined to see as much of Krynn as he could in his time and he journeyed far afield. A rough map behind the long bar, paid in barter for a meal by a kender, showed X-marks for all the places he had visited. Otik always returned with one or two souvenirs. Once it was a fearsome minotaur battle axe. Another time it was a finely embroidered scarf, elfish in origin.

On his first day back, Otik would produce these curios with a great flourish for his regulars and anyone else who happened to be stopping over at the inn. Then he proudly added the objects to his decor, fussing over exactly the right way to display them, with plenty of advice from his patrons.

By now, the Inn of the Last Home was a veritable museum of objects from the disparate Krynnish cultures. This collection was one of the reasons Kitiara both liked and disliked hanging around the inn. She would stare at the different objects and daydream about whence they came, the things they had witnessed. But eventually those daydreams always led Kit back to the fact that she was stuck in Solace, far from any excitement. At that thought she might bury her head in her hands and groan in frustration, stalking out of the place, not to be seen around the premises for a week or so.

But Kitiara always returned. Too young to have a taste for Otik's ale and too cash-pinched to afford his hearty fare, she rarely bought much, just sat alone at a table and sipped one glass of pear juice for hours at a time. Her favorite spot was in a corner near the front door so that she could have first look at the travelers who climbed the long, winding stairs up to the treetop inn. One of them might have news of her father. One of them might be able to alleviate the tedium of Solace.