Dark Heart

Chapter 3

Thanks to Gilon, there was always plenty of good, slow-burning oak ready to heap on the overnight fire. But the flames usually died down in the middle of the night, and especially on the worst, most forbidding nights, no one wanted to get up and tread across the cold floor to replenish the blaze.

Kitiara preferred to sleep in her own quarters, though they were farthest away from the heat. Up a ladder and divided from the rest of the cottage by a thin muslin curtain, the loft at least gave her some privacy. The price for that privacy could be a bit high. More mornings than not in the long winters, she woke up curled into a tight ball and shivering.

Gnomes had a saying about Solace winters, which were notoriously harsh: "Three layers not enough, and noses always stick out." The winters seemed never-ending, yet practically overnight, when everyone felt at the breaking point, spring would arrive, catching even the most vigilant of the Solace citizenry by surprise.

On this particular morning, twelve-year-old Kitiara was still sleeping. She wasn't curled up-a good sign of the weather to come. In fact, she was stretched out luxuriously across her straw mattress. Her feet hung over the end of it, an indication that she was outgrowing her little nook. Her face in repose was childish, almost gentle, quite unlike the cool, practiced expression she had already adopted, if not always convincingly, as part of her armor against the world.

The softness evaporated as something blunt and unwelcome poked her in the side.

Out of Kit's mouth came some rather imaginative muttering, and, without opening her eyes, she turned on her side against the wall, pulling the quilted blanket tightly over her. After a pause, the poking resumed, this time in the small of her back.

"Go away, Caramon," she murmured sullenly.

Poke, poke.

Slowly she faced the obnoxious intrusion, still more than half asleep, her eyes bleary.

Oh. Her eyes opened with mild surprise as she made out the diminutive form of, not Caramon, but Raistlin. Thin and pale, an oval face framed by wisps of light brown hair, the four-year-old was standing at the edge of the bed. He was smiling mysteriously. Smiling was out of the ordinary for Raistlin, an unusually preoccupied little boy.

"I woke up early…" he began reedily.

"Uh-huh." By now Kitiara was unfortunately wide-eyed and knew she was not going to be able to steal any more sleep. She propped herself up on one elbow and regarded her odd little brother, whom she loved enough, yet would just as soon strangle breathless some days-no, most days-particularly right now.

A glance downstairs told her that his more high-spirited brother, Caramon, was still fast asleep, lying on his back, his toes pointed in the air, snoring lightly. The twins had small beds alongside each other, but Caramon was usually sprawled at an angle over both of them. Kit knew Caramon had been up late the night before, practicing, under Gilon's tutelage, how to whittle. He was applying his newfound expertise to creating his first wooden dagger.

As was his wont, Raistlin had gone to bed shortly after supper, and Kitiara must have fallen asleep in front of the smoldering fire. Good, reliable Gilon would have lifted her up the ladder and into bed.

Kitiara sighed. How early was it anyway?

Poke, poke.

"Will you stop that, Raist?"

He still had that vague smile. What was he so smiley about today?

"I was saying," he said unnecessarily, now that he had renewed her attention, "a bird was talking to me…"

Kitiara lifted one eyebrow suspiciously. The story did not seem very likely-but with Raistlin, you never could be sure. The child had a peculiarity about him, a singularity. Since he didn't talk much to other children, he might as well talk to birds. But did birds talk back to him? What birds were there anyway, this time of year, in Solace?

"What kind of bird?" she asked in exasperation.

"Brown bird," replied Raistlin, shrugging as if this was unimportant information. "Wings got white tips," he said, almost as an afterthought. "Just passing through on its way somewhere else."

"Well. What did the brown bird say?" persisted Kitiara, beginning to roll into a sitting position.

"Said it was going to be an extra-special day."

"Oh," she said, unimpressed. "Extra-special good, or extra-special bad?"

"Hmm," Raist said thoughtfully. "Probably good. He sounded happy." His older sister began to pull on her boots. "Of course with brown birds," he added authoritatively,

"you never know. They think every day's special. It doesn't take much to convince them."

"Optimists," Kit said drily.

"Uh-huh," Raist agreed.

She stopped and gave him an appraising look. His expression was certainly ingenuous, almost angelic. Well, Raistlin was the imaginative twin.

She yawned as she grabbed a tunic and pulled it over her head. Caramon-he was the predictable one. If he saw a brown bird, he wouldn't try to talk to it; he'd try to catch it with a net or whack it with a stone. Listen for the rowdy mischief, there was Caramon.

Weary to the bone after almost five years of trailing after the twins, of taking care of them and worrying about them, of teaching them as best she could-of being their mother, practically-Kitiara felt as if she could sleep for an entire month. Her body ached and her mind often felt dulled. She hated the thought of what she would feel like after five more years of such duty.

Her mother had never really recovered from the trauma of the twins' birth. Nothing seemed to be actually wrong with Rosamun, not physically at least, but she was more often in her bed than out of it. For five years she had eaten little and had wasted away to gauntness. Her pale blond hair had turned a ghostly white. In Rosamun's shrunken face, her gray eyes were immense, spooky, and pegged be-yond the horizon. Beyond this world.

For a short time after the twins were born, Yarly had tended to Rosamun. But Yarly was even less skilled and less accommodating than her sister, Minna. It wasn't long before she was counted a nuisance even in Gilon's eyes. They sti1l owed the two midwife sisters a pile of money, and not a week went by that Minna didn't stop by to mention it. Good-hearted Gilon was paying the debt a little at a time.

Yarly had been unable to do much to alleviate Rosamun's mysterious malady, in any case. So for a long time now, the family had made do with the resources of the local healer, a fat, well-intentioned man with appalling horsebreath, name of Bigardus.

Bigardus had known Rosamun for many years and seemed to have a genuine fondness for her. A simple-Kit would be tempted to say simple-minded-healer, he had none of Minna's airs or "never-fail" pretensions. He admitted he did not have the slightest idea what was wrong with Rosamun, and he did not boast about cures. But he kept the Majere family stocked with various pouches and vials of exotic medicines that were arranged on a small stand next to Rosamun's bed. They seemed to ease her recurring pains. Bigardus came periodically now, to check on Rosamun or to observe one of her spells. Kit liked him. She could almost say she looked forward to his jolly visits.

Rosamun would drift in and out of a half-sleep for months at a stretch. At times, she seemed almost serene, watching everything so quietly with her big eyes that one almost forgot she was nearby. Sometimes she would surprise everyone by suddenly sitting up in bed and calling the twins to her to hear a story. This usually marked the start of one of those rare periods during which Rosamun appeared almost normal. She might get up to bake her special sunflower seed muffins that Caramon and Raistlin loved. Sometimes she even ventured out to go shopping, or for a walk in the woods, as long as Gilon was by her side.

During these normal-seeming periods, Rosamun devoted most of her precious energy to the twins and Gilon. Rarely-Kitiara felt certain she could count the times on one hand-did Rosamun make any effort to spend time with her daughter. It was as if she were uncertain how to act toward this self-sufficient girl who most of the time functioned as the surrogate mother of the household. At first Kit had been hurt by what she took to be her mother's indifference, but no longer.

Rosamun's interludes of normalcy would disintegrate without warning. Kitiara or Gilon or one of the boys would find her crumpled on the floor and endeavor to help her into bed. Then, for brief minutes or weeks on end, Rosamun went into one of her spells, suffering agonizing and horrifying visions that mystified everyone.

In fact, only Bigardus called them "visions." What they consisted of, what her mother actually envisioned, Kit could hardly guess. The spells came upon her without warning. All of a sudden Rosamun's face would twist and contort, her arms would begin to flail. She might even leap out of bed with astonishing energy and roam about the room, knocking down furniture and breaking objects in a strange fury. The words that poured from her mouth were jumbled, without meaning. Warnings screamed at Gregor, at the twins, at Kitiara herself. Nonsense warnings.

Once, in her befuddlement, Rosamun had seen Kitiara brandishing her wooden sword and mistaken her daughter for the girl's father. She had bolted upright, stretched out her hands, and cried out in pathetic joy, "Gregor, you have come back to me!"

Kitiara scoffed to herself in thinking it over. Gregor had been gone without any word for six winters.

If Rosamun grew too agitated, they might have to tie her down to the bed. And when her mother came out of one of her spells-after hours, days or weeks-she would have no recollection of what had transpired. She would lay back on her pillow, drained of all spirit and vigor, her white hair soaked with sweat and plastered around her face. After one of these spells, Kitiara had learned from experience, her mother became even more useless and even more irrelevant to the daily life of the family.

Kitiara had taught herself everything-how to cook, how to sew and mend, how to watch and instruct the boys. Aside from cooking, she may not have done these things well, but, by the gods, she did them. And Kitiara was proud of what she had done, proud of surviving, even while she despised the homemaking skills she had learned.

Kit remembered, long ago, feeling something like love for her mother. It must have been love. What else could it have been? But nowadays she felt nothing but pity for her. Pity and growing distance.

"A bird!" exclaimed Kitiara, startled back to the present moment. She looked again at Raistlin, who was peering at her from atop the ladder, as if trying to discern her thoughts. She reached over and cuffed him affectionately on the ear. "You were talking to a bird! That means…"

She lunged past him and hurtled down to the ground floor. Crossing the room, Kit threw one of the shutters open. Sunshine streamed through the window.

Spring! Sunshine, blue sky, fragrant air-and yes, birds, birds everywhere.

"Spring!" She leaned contentedly on the narrow sill.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," said Raistlin earnestly, following her. "What do you think I was talking about?"

She gazed out the window. The snow, there in patches only the afternoon before, was practically all gone. The ground was wet, and buds and blossoms were peeking out. There was a brightness and color all around. From a ways off, she could hear music and laughter, the augury of a celebration. Then she remembered this was the first morning of the annual Red Moon Fair.

Eagerly, she stooped to lace up her boots and leggings. Gilon, she noted, was already gone, out chopping wood no doubt. Every morning her stepfather rose at dawn and went out to do his work accompanied by the faithful Amber. Gilon was solitary and secretive about his woodcutting, like a fisherman guarding his favorite trawling spots. Kitiara had never been asked to come with him, though she was thankful for that. Alone among the siblings, husky little Caramon had been invited to tag along once. When he came back from the day of chopping wood, he didn't say much. "Lot of work," he confided to Kit and Raistlin. "Boring."

Swiftly, Kitiara crossed the room, followed by Raistlin. She peered through the homespun drape Gilon had hung across the doorway of the small area that served as his and Rosamun's private space. Her mother was still sleeping, Kitiara saw with an apprehensive glance. Good. Let her sleep. She motioned Raist to be quiet.

She crept to where Caramon was still blithely snoring.

Raist followed her, as he always did. Caramon didn't even stir at their approach. That little imp could sleep through a rock slide, Kitiara thought.

She got a good grip on his pillow and leaned over to position herself close to his ear. As Kit yanked the pillow out from under her little brother, she gave a wild shout, "Surrounded by enemies!"

Caramon's eyes flew open as his head thunked down on the headboard. The next instant, he sprang off the bed into a boyish fighting stance. His dazed look turned to a sheepish one when he saw Kitiara sprawled on the floor, clutching her sides and trying to muffle her laughter. As for Raistlin, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Aw," said Caramon, "I was in the middle of a dream."

"Maybe you dream too much," said Raist blandly.

Caramon shot him an offended glance.

"First day of spring!" announced Kitiara. "The fair is on." She had already scrambled to her feet and was heading toward the door, Raistlin in tow.

"What about Mother? Shouldn't we wait for Father?" asked Caramon plaintively.

But Kit and Raist were already out the door, and Caramon, pulling on his clothes, had to hurry if he wanted to catch up.

By midmorning the sun was hot in the sky, and all memory of winter had been banished. For someone stuck in Solace through the cold months, not to mention those stuck there for their whole lives, this first festival of spring was the happiest time of the year. It was a day when the proverbial small-town door opened and the whole rest of the world seemed to step in and gaudily introduce itself.

The town's activity had moved completely from the elevated walkways between the vallenwoods to the spaces below, where the town square and smithy lay. Townspeople milled around the green, hailing friends and forming groups that set off for the Northfields on the outskirts of town where the Red Moon Fair set up. Kitiara and her two brothers scouted out the square before joining those headed for the fairgrounds.

When the dense vallenwoods ended and the Red Moon Fair began, Kit and the boys stopped for a moment to drink it all in-the sights and sounds and strangers.

Merchants who spent their entire lives journeying from fair to festival in Ansalon had set up tents with bright pennants. Booths offered dry goods and tapestries, glass vessels and ornaments, quills and precious spices, bulk commodities, medicinal herbs, copperware and shoes, linen and garments-anything and everything. Notaries stood ready with wax and parchment to seal contracts; groups of music-makers spun through the press of people; there were shows by stunt animals and rope dancers. Everywhere were crowds.

It was a veritable honeycomb of humanity, and some who were decidedly not human. Among the long lines of travelers who had arrived for the occasion were many kender and some elves, dwarves who kept to themselves mostly, and even a lone, haughty minotaur, hulking and sullen, who, wherever he chose to stroll, was given a wide berth among the people.

Caramon had stopped to gaze enviously at some metal wares. He listened to the craftsman extol the virtues of his handiwork as he hawked the items to several listeners. Safely below the man's line of vision, Caramon reached up to finger the elaborate buckles and spurs.

Kitiara and Raistlin waited patiently for him, some paces off. Kitiara was feeling a little hungry by now, and in vain she searched her pockets for some coins. Skeptically, she looked up at a booth with a sign that offered fried gull or hare, and a green drink that mixed chopped dittany, rue, tansy, mint, and gillyflowers. No coins. No matter. Her chin was in the air, and she was breathing in deep draughts of the smells of cooking all around.

Her attention was drawn to a group of men in motley regalia, standing on the fringes of the grounds. A saddle fell off one of their horses, and a member of the group, a thick, muscled fellow, swatted the head of his squire. But the swat was a good-natured one, and the other men laughed boisterously as the squire hastened to set things right. The men paid no attention to the hurly-burly of the fair. They were on their way to more important adventures.

For a moment Kit wondered if she might approach them and ask about her father, whether they had heard news of Gregor Uth Matar or actually met him on their travels. They looked like rogues who had been around. But she reacted too slowly, and they were already on their way, still yelling and laughing to one another, before she got up the nerve.

Immersed as she was in everything that was going on around her, Kitiara at first did not hear the noises and raucous gaiety coming from the gaggle of youths directly behind her. But now she became aware of some of the comments.

"If it isn't little Miss Woodcutter!"

"Kind of the motherly type!"

"Not much in the beauty department, that's for sure!"

She turned slowly to observe a pack of boys and girls, her own age and older. A few of them she recognized, elbowing and jostling each other, from school days, though she hadn't seen them in a while. With household chores and caring for the twins, Kitiara had found little time for school. In fact, she had little enough time to herself, barely enough to daydream for a few moments or practice her beloved swordplay. This last winter, she told Gilon she would not go to school any longer. Her stepfather knew better than to object when Kit told him something with her hands placed on her hips like that and her mouth set in a thin line.

One of the boys, the beefy one with the pink face swimming in brown freckles, she knew well from past encounters-a bullying lad named Bronk Wister. Bronk was a born troublemaker, the son of a tanner whom Gilon sometimes bartered with. Bronk's father always smiled gently at Kit, but the son had gotten it into his mind that he was superior to her. He liked to taunt her with slurs about Gilon and Rosamun and the twins. To get back at him, Kit called him Speckleface, for the obvious reason.

"If it isn't Speckleface," she responded, placing her hands on her hips in characteristic fashion. At her side, little Raistlin watched the persecutors warily.

"Chop any good trees today?" Bronk's sneering laugh was harsh and dissonant, like a braying donkey.

"Break any mirrors with your ugly face lately?" she retorted.

The crowd of young people jeered. They were spoiling for amusement and didn't care who the butt of the joke might be. Bronk stepped forward, a contemptuous look on his face, and pushed up his sleeves. "I've been meaning to teach you a lesson. What you need is a good pasting. Same as any boy."

Raistlin glanced nervously over his shoulder, but couldn't spot Caramon. Instinctively he took a step back, out of the line of fire. At the same time, by impulse, Kitiara stepped in front of him, shielding her little brother.

Kitiara's smile was a cunning one. Whipping Speckleface in front of his dumb friends would just about make her morning perfect. Win or lose, she had no doubt that the fight would be worthwhile.

The boys and girls cheered encouragingly as Bronk shuffled forward, his fists circling like small shields in front of his eyes. Kit planted her feet and awaited his attack.

Suddenly Kit felt a bump from behind, and as she lost balance she was shoved aside. A new protagonist had gallantly substituted himself for her.

"Leave my sister alone!" shouted Caramon, his not-quite-five-year-old fists threatening fancifully. Clutched in one of them was a stout branch at least as long as Caramon was tall. Her little brother barely reached Kitiara's chest, but he had some girth-and pluck-for his age. His brown eyes, half-hidden by unruly golden brown hair that tumbled over his brow, flashed angrily.

The crowd liked the fresh attraction. They erupted in new laughter, taunts, and yelling. As for Bronk, he stared in disbelief. "Aw, she has to have help from her little baby brother. Isn't that cute!"

"Pssst!" whispered Kitiara, and not much of a whisper at that. "Back off, Caramon. This is my fight."

"It would not be honorable," intoned Caramon solemnly, trying to sound baritone and warriorlike. The sturdier of the two Majere brothers waded forward to meet Bronk, who had paused with uncertainty as to who, or how many, he was going to have to fight.

There was another push from behind, and this time Caramon went sprawling head over heels, jolting a nearby vegetable cart and tipping it precariously. The owner, who was interrupted in the middle of a promising sales pitch, shrieked a curse. He picked the boy up by the nape of his tunic until Caramon's legs dangled off the ground. This the swelling number of onlookers thought the funniest thing yet.

"I'll let you know what's honorable, and what's not, little brother," scolded Kitiara. "Especially where my honor is concerned."

Caramon broke away from the vegetable man and, with dignity, dusted himself off. He glared at Kit balefully.

"I was trying to be chiv… chiv…"

"Chivalric!" muttered Raistlin half to himself, before sitting down on an outcropping of stone. His watery eyes did not look as fascinated as the rest of the crowd's.

"Chivalric!" exclaimed Caramon, with a look of gratitude at his brother. He marched up to Kitiara, nose to chest, his look determined and fierce.

"Try being chivalric somewhere else," said Kitiara tolerantly. She pushed him off.

"Ingrate!" Caramon said, stepping forward again.

"Squirt!" she retorted, a glint in her eyes.

By now the crowd had forgotten Bronk, and the troublemaker had safely melted-with some relief-back into the throng. All eyes were trained on Caramon as he made the first move, bringing his stick up and whacking Kit hard on her right arm. He followed that swift assault with another one, which caught her across the knees. She bent over, wincing.

Up rose a huzzah from the spectators-now as many adults as young people-as they gathered in a half-circle around the two squabbling siblings. Caramon somehow managed to leapfrog over Kitiara's doubled-over form while delivering a backblow with the knob of his amateur weapon. For such a youngster it was an impressive display of agility.

But even as Caramon turned to grin smugly at the crowd. Kit straightened up and whirled toward him, grabbing the boy by the waist and hoisting him over her shoulders like a bag of potatoes. She spun him in a circle, then tossed him through the air to land on his back in the brackish water of a nearby trough.

The crowd erupted with glee. Their cries were cut short when Caramon sprang out of the trough and, dripping water and sediment, hurled himself at his sister with what he believed to be a Solamnic war cry. It was something Caramon dimly recalled hearing once, which was really more a kender insult cry.

Whack! This time Kitiara blocked his swing with an outstretched arm, another with her hand, so that Caramon had to spin around-Where did he learn to do that? Kit wondered fleetingly-in order to deliver a shot to the back of her shoulder.

Kitiara rubbed her shoulder ruefully, amused in spite of her pain. They had wrestled like this many times in the forest. Good thing that stick was not particularly thick or heavy, she decided. That Caramon was sure getting feisty, though. "Ouch!" she yelped as something caught her on the ear. "Now that stung!"

"Sorry," said Caramon, panting. He was grinning like a drunken kender and plainly having fun, too.

Kitiara flipped around, dove to the ground, and grabbed the upstart by the feet. As Caramon rained blows on her head, Kit thumped him to the ground. He dropped his stick, and she managed to kick it away. In doing so, she pinned him down, got a hold on one of his legs, and bent it back toward his head. But at the same time he was able to reach behind him and grab her head in his hands. They were all pretzeled up together, grunting and sputtering, she twisting his leg, he bending her by the neck.

"Give up!" Kit demanded, pulling his leg so close to his back that the crowd groaned in sympathy with the pain.

"No way!" Caramon roared.

The crowd signaled its approval of the defiant standoff. Kit bent Caramon's leg back even farther; she could almost hear the bones popping. In reply, he tightened his hold on her head. While his face was being pressed into the ground, hers was being bent back to face the sky.

"Give!

"You give!"

"I won!"

"I won first!"

"Let Raist be the judge!"

Pause. "OK."

"Raist? Raist?"

Kitiara managed to swivel her head enough to see that Raistlin had vanished. Caramon's twin had observed this entertaining spectacle a few too many times in his short life, and he was quickly bored by the variations on it. Raist had given up and wandered away.

Kitiara jumped up. "Raistlin!"

Caramon jumped up too, rubbing his face. His tunic was ripped in places. Kitiara's ear was showing a drool of blood. "Aw c'mon," muttered Caramon, "where can he have got to now?"

Kitiara wheeled on him vehemently. "How many times do I have to tell you? You're his brother! He's your responsibility as much as mine!"

Caramon looked not only somewhat beat up but contrite. "Aw, why do I have to look after him all the time? You're his big sister, aren't you? Anyway, I-"

Kitiara practically spat out the words. "You're his twin brother, his twin brother. You're two halves of the same whole. And he's not as strong as you. You know that. I'm not going to babysit the two of you for the rest of my life. So go find him, and hurry up about it!"

She aimed a kick at Caramon but missed by a narrow margin. He had taken her words to heart and was already dashing away to locate his missing twin.

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, the 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 anything 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.

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.