said. "You're feeling sorry for
yourself. There's no law that says you have to stay in Solace by
yourself. Don't you have any relatives that you can impose on?"

      "Yes," Tasslehoff added, "you can visit your graybearded, I mean
gray-haired, old mother.

      The dwarf bellowed his outrage. Those sitting closest to Flint
-- Caramon and Sturm -- slid quickly away from the furious dwarf.
Flint banged his tankard on the tabletop, sending a splash of ale at
Tasslehoff. ъivulets of sticky golden ale ran off the kender's nose
and soaked into his topknot of wild brown hair. He rubbed the brew
from his eyes.

      "Nobody makes sport of my mother!" Flint declared.

      "Not more than once, anyway," Tanis observed sagely.

      Tas wiped his face on his sleeve. He picked up his own
scaled-down tankard (it was empty) and tucked it under his arm like an
absurd helm. Assuming an air of injured dignity, he declaimed, "Now we
must fight a duel!"

      Kitiara said gleefully. "I'll be your second, Tas."

      "I'll stand for Flint!" Caramon cried.

      "Who has choice of weapons?" asked Tanis.

      "Flint's challenged; it is his choice," Sturm said, smiling.

      "What'll it be, old bear? Apple cores at ten paces? Ladles and
pot lids?" asked Kitiara.

      "Anything but ale mugs," Tas quipped, his pose of haughty
dignity replaced by his usual grin. The laughter didn't stop until
Tika returned.

      "Shh! Shh, it's late! Will you people be quiet!" she hissed.

      "Go on, before someone spanks you," Caramon said, without
turning to look at her. Tika slipped in behind his stool and made
horrid faces at him. The others laughed at her. Caramon was puzzled.

      "What's so funny?" he demanded.

      Tika deftly lifted the dagger from Caramon's belt sheath. She
raised it over her head with a terrifying grimace, as though to stab
Caramon in the back. Tears ran down Kitiara's face, and Tas fell off
his chair. "What?" shouted Caramon. Then he snapped his head around
and spied Tika in midgrimace. "Aha!" He started after her. The girl
darted around the nearby empty tables. Caramon blundered after her,
upsetting chairs and stumbling against stools.

      Otik appeared from the kitchen with a lamp in his hand. His
nightshirt was askew and his sparse white hair was standing up in
comic tufts. "What's this row? Can't a man get some sleep around here?
Tika, where are you, girl?" The red-haired girl peeked over the rim of
a table. "You were supposed to hush them, not join in the party."

      "That man was chasing me." She pointed at Caramon, who was busy
studying the candle-lit rafters. "Go to your room." Tika went
regretfully. She cast a last grin back at Caramon and stuck out her
tongue. When he started toward her, she flipped his dagger at him. It
struck the floor quivering, inches from his feet. Tika vanished
through the kitchen's swinging doors.

      Otik planted his fists on his hips. "Flint Fireforge! I expected
better of you. You're old enough to know better. And you, Master
Sturm; a well-bred fellow like you ought to know better than to be
roistering this late at night." Flint looked properly abashed. Sturm
smoothed his long mustache with his right forefinger and said nothing.

      "Don't be an old sop," said Kitiara. "Tika was very amusing.
Besides, this is a going-away party."

      "Everything is amusing to people who've got four kegs of ale in
their bellies," growled Otik. "Who's going away?"

      "Well, everybody."

      Otik turned back to the kitchen. He said, "Well, for pity's
sake, go quietly!" and left.

      Caramon returned to the table. Through a gaping yawn he said,
"That Tika's the ugliest girl in Solace. Old Otik'll have to put up a
big dowry to get her married off!"

      "You never know," said ъaistlin with a glance at the kitchen.
"People change."

      It was time to part. There was no reason to delay any longer.
Sensing this, Tanis stood with folded hands and said, "Though we
friends will separate, our good wishes cannot be diminished by time or
distance. But to keep the circle in our hearts, we must come together
again, each year on this day, here in the inn."

      "And if we cannot!" asked Sturm.

      "Then five years from today, everyone here tonight shall return
to the Inn of the Last Home. No matter what. Let's make this a sacred
vow. Who will take it with me?"

      Kitiara pushed back her stool and put her right hand in the
center of the table. "I'll take that vow," she said. Her eyes fixed
Tanis in a powerful hold. "Five years."

      Tanis lowered his hand on hers. "Five years."

      "Upon my honor, and in the name of the house of Brightblade,"
Sturm said solemnly, "I vow to return in five years." He placed his
sword hand on Tanis's.

      "Me, too," said Caramon. His broad palm hid even Sturm's hand
from sight.

      "If I am living, I will be here," said ъaistlin, with a strange
lilt in his voice. He added his gracile touch to his brother's.

      "And me! I'll be here waiting for all of you!" So saying,
Tasslehoff stepped up on the tabletop. His tiny hand rested next to
ъaistlin's, both lost on Caramon's wide hand.

      "Lot of confounded nonsense," Flint grumbled. "How do I know
what I'll be doing five years from now'? Could be a lot more important
than sitting in an inn, waiting for a pack of errant rascals."

      "C'mon, Flint. We're all taking the oath," said the kender.

      "Hmph." The old dwarf leaned over and set his age- and work-worn
hands around the others. "ъeorx be with you until we meet again," he
said. His voice caught, and his friends knew him for the sentimental
old fraud he was.

      They left Flint at the table. The twins departed. Tanis,
Kitiara, and Sturm strolled to the foot of the stairway. Tasslehoff
trailed after them.

      "I will say good night," said Sturm, with a glance at Tanis.

      "But not good-bye." They clasped hands. "Kit, my horse is
stabled at the farrier's. Will you meet me there?"

      "That's good. My beast is there, too. Sunrise tomorrow?" Sturm
nodded and looked around for Tas.

      "Tas?" he called. "Where did he get to? I wanted to say
good-bye."

      Tanis gestured toward the inn above. "He went back up, I think."
Sturm nodded and strode away into the cool night. Tanis and Kitiara
were left with the crickets, which sang from the massive trees, a
symphony of hundreds.

      "Walk with me?" asked Tanis.

      "Wherever you like," Kitiara replied.

      They strolled a dozen paces from the inn before Kitiara took the
opportunity to slip her arm through Tanis's. "I have a thought," she
said slyly.

      "What's that?"

      "That you should stay with me tonight. It may be five years
before we see each other again."

      He halted and drew his arm free. "I cannot," said Tanis.

      "Oh? And why not? There was a time not so long ago when you
couldn't keep away from me."

      "Yes, in between the times you spent far away, campaigning for
whoever would pay you."

      Kitiara lifted her chin. "I'm not ashamed of what I do."

      "I don't expect you to be. The point is, I've come to realize
more and more clearly that you and I are of two worlds, Kit. Worlds
that can never hope to be reconciled."

      "So what are you saying?"

      "I had a birthday while you were gone. Do you know how old I am?
Ninety-seven. Ninety-seven years old, Kit! If I were a human, I'd be a
withered ancient. Or dead."

      She eyed his willowy form appreciatively. "You're not withered
or ancient."

      "That's the point! My elvish blood will extend my life far
beyond the normal span of humans." Tanis stepped closer and took her
hands. "While you, Kit, will age and die."

      Kitiara laughed. "Let me worry about that!"

      "You won't. I know you, Kit. You're burning your youth out like
a two-ended candle in a gale. How do you think I feel, knowing that
you might be killed in battle for some petty warlord, while I would
live on and on without you? It has to end, Kit. Tonight. Here and
now."

      Though it was dark, and the white moon, Solinari, was hidden by
boughs of val1enwood Tanis saw the hurt in Kitiara's expression. It
was there but an instant. She mastered it and forced a superior smile.

      "Maybe it's just as well," she said. "I never did like being
tied down. My poor fool of a mother was like that -- she never could
get along without a husband to tell her what's what. That's not my
style. I take after my father. Burning in the wind, am I? So be it! I
ought to thank you, Tanthalus Half-Elven, for holding a mirror up to
the truth --"

      He interrupted her tirade with a kiss. It was a gentle,
brotherly kiss on the cheek. Kitiara glared.

      "It's not what I want, Kit," Tanis said with great sorrow.

      "It's how it must be."

      She slapped him. Being the warrior she was, Kitiara's slap was
no light tap. Tanis staggered and put a hand to his face. A thin smear
of blood showed in the corner of his mouth. "Keep your pretty
gestures," she spat. "Save them for your next lover, if you find one!
Who will it be, Tanis? A full-blooded elf maiden? But no, the elves
would despise you as a half-breed. You need a female version of
yourself to love." She marched away, leaving Tanis staring. "You'll
never find her!" Kitiara called from the darkness. "Never!"

      The crickets had quieted under Kitiara's shouts. In their own
time they began to sing again. Tanis stood alone in the night, finding
no comfort in their song.



                              Chapter 2
High Crest
 The sky hab not yet lost its violet hue when Sturm
reached the farrier's shop. Tirien, the farrier, had his estab-
lishment in a vallenwood tree. The winding ramp to Tirien's
shop was doubly wide and strongly braced for horses.
Tirien, ruddy-faced from leaning over forge fires, and with
heavily muscled arms and shoulders from wielding his farri-
er's hammer, was already up and about when the knight
arrived.
"Sturm!" he boomed. "Come in, lad. I'm just straighten-
ing some nails." Tirien's helper, a boy named Mercot,
plucked a red-hot spike from the furnace with a pair of
tongs. He set the bent nail in the groove atop Tirien's anvil,
and the brawny farrier smote it twice. Mercot flicked the
straight nail into a bucket of water. A serpent's hiss and a

wisp of steam arose.
"I need my horse, Tirien," said Sturm.
"ъight. Mercot, fetch Master Brightblade's animal."
The boy's eyes widened. ъings of soot around them made
him look like a startled owl. "The chestnut gelding?"
"Aye, and be quick about it!" said Tirien. To Sturm he
continued, "ъeshod him, as you asked. A good mount."
Sturm paid his bill while Mercot led Tallfox, his horse, to
the lower platform. Sturm had bought Tallfox from a Que-
kiri tribesman only a few weeks before, and he was still
learning the horse's manners.
He shouldered his bedroll and pack and descended the
ramp to where Mercot had tied his mount. Tirien's hammer
rang out again, banging twisted scrap iron into arrow-
straight horseshoe spikes.
Sturm distributed his baggage over Tallfox's sides and
rump. He filled his water bottle and heard, "You're late."
Kitiara was slouched in a corner under the livery's eaves.
She was wrapped to her ears in a red horse blanket.
"Am I?" asked Sturm. "The sun is just rising. When did
you get here!"
"Hours ago. I slept here," she said, casting off the blanket.
Underneath, Kitiara still wore the clothes she'd had on the
previous night. She stretched her arms and braced the knots
out of her stiff back.
"Why in the gods' names did you sleep here?" asked
Sturm. "Did you think I'd forget and leave without you?"
"Oh, not you, noble friend. It seemed like a good place to
sleep, that's all. Besides, Pira needed a shoe repaired."
Sturm led Tallfox down to the ground. He swung into
Tallfox's saddle and waited for his companion. Kitiara came
loping down the ramp, leading a rather nondescript brown
and white spotted mare.
"Something wrong?" she asked, mounting beside Sturm.
"I just imagined that you would prefer a fiery stallion for
your mount," he replied. "This, ah, quaint animal doesn't
suit you at all."
"This 'quaint animal' will still be walking a steady pace
long after that beast of yours is no more than bones and
hide," Kitiara said. Her fitful sleep had not improved her

temperament since her parting with Tanis. "I've been on six
campaigns with Pira, and she's always carried me home."
"My apologies."
They rode out of Solace, north by east. The new sun
pierced the hills around Solace and warmed the air. Sturm
and Kitiara breakfasted simply, on jerky and water. The fine
dawn became an even finer morning, and Kitiara's spirits
rose.
"I can't be unhappy on the road," she said. "There's too
much to see and do."
"We should be on guard as well," Sturm said. "I heard
travelers in the inn say there were brigands about."
"Tshaw. Peasants on foot may have reason to fear brig-
ands, but two warriors, armed and mounted -- it's the rob-
bers who'd best be afraid!" Sturm made polite assent, but
still kept his eyes on the horizon and his sword hilt handy.
 Their route was simple enough. Once clear of Solace's
hills, the two would turn northwest and make for the coast.
On the shore of the Straits of Schallsea was a small fishing
port called Zaradene. From there Kitiara and Sturm could
easily take passage to Caergoth in southern Thelgaard.
North of Caergoth lay Solamnia proper, their ultimate des-
tination.
Such was their plan. But plans, as said the sage wizard
Arcanist, are like figures drawn in sand: easily made and
just as easily disturbed.
The forests and hills of Abanasinia thinned with the
miles. Kitiara filled the hours with tales of her past adven-
tures.
"My first hire was with Mikkian's Marauders. They were
a bad lot. Mikkian was a low-born lout from Lemish. He
had the bad fortune of always losing parts of himself in
battle -- an eye, an arm, half an ear. Pretty ugly he was, and
mean! I walked into his camp, sure of my skill with a blade.
In those days, I had to pretend to be a boy, else the churls
would have ganged up on me," she said.
"How does one go about getting hired as a mercenary?"
"In Mikkian's band, there was only one way: kill one of
his men. Mikkian had only so many openings on his pay-
roll, and he wouldn't expand it for anybody." Kitiara wrin-

kled her nose at the memories conjured up by Mikkian.
"Worthless rogue! The foot soldiers made a big ring and put
me in it with a snaggletoothed axeman called -- now what
was his name? First man I ever killed. Trigneth? Drigneth?
Some name like that. So we went at it, axe against sword. It
was not a pretty fight, I tell you. We had to stay in the dead
center of the ring, or Mikkian's boys would poke us with
daggers and spear points. Trigneth -- Drigneth? -- fought
like a woodcutter, chop, chop, chop. He never laid an edge
on me. I got him with a straight thrust, right through the
neck." She regarded Sturm. He looked shocked.
"How long were you with Mikkian's company?" he
asked, finally.
"Twelve weeks. We sacked a walled town near Takar, and
Mikkian finally lost a part he couldn't do without." Sturm
raised an eyebrow. "His head," said Kitiara. "That was the
end of the Marauders. It was every man for himself, and the
whole company broke up, looting and killing. The towns-
folk rose up and fought back, wiping out the whole damn
gang. Save for yours truly." She smiled crookedly.
Kitiara had a deep fund of such stories, all exciting and
nearly all bloody. Sturm found himself confused. He'd
known her for about two years now and was no closer to
understanding her. This handsome, bright woman pos-
sessed no small measure of wit and charm, and yet was
enamored with war on its basest level. He had to admit he
marveled at her strength and cunning -- but he feared Kiti-
ara a little, too.
The road petered into a path, and after a score of miles it
merged into a stretch of sandy pine barrens. The air grew
still and heavy with moisture. They camped in the barrens
that night, and the wind gave them their first smell of the
sea.
Pine knots made an acrid, smoky campfire. As Kitiara fed
the flames, Sturm watered the horses. He returned to the
dim circle of firelight and squatted on the sand. Kitiara
handed him a cold mutton joint. Sturm gnawed the pep-
pered meat, and Kitiara leaned back, her feet to the fire and
her head pillowed by her bedroll.
"There's Paladine," she said. "See?" She pointed to the

heavens. "Paladine, Mishakal, Branchala," she said, naming
each constellation in turn. "Do you know the sky?"
"My boyhood tutor, Vedro, was an astrologer," Sturm
said, not really answering. He lifted his eyes. "It is said that
the will of the gods can be divined by the movement of the
stars and planets."
"What gods?" Kitiara replied lazily.
"You don't believe in the gods7"
"Why should I? What have they done for the world
lately? Or for me ever?"
Sturm could tell she was baiting him, so he decided to
drop the subject. "What is that group there?" he asked.
"Opposite Paladine?"
"Takhisis. The Queen of Darkness."
"Oh, yes. The Dragonqueen." He tried to see the author-
ess of evil, but to him it was only a spatter of stars.
The white orb of Solinari climbed above the horizon. In
its glow, the sandy hillocks and solitary pines were pale
ghosts of their daytime selves. Not long after, in the middle
quadrant of the sky, a red glow of equal size appeared.
"Now that I know," said Sturm. "Lunitari, the red moon."
"Luin to the Ergothites, ъed-Eye in Goodlund. A strange
color for a moon, don't you think?" said Kitiara.
He tossed the naked mutton bone aside. "I didn't know
there were proper colors for moons."
"White or black are proper. ъed means nothing." She
propped her head up so that Lunitari was directly in her line
of sight. "I wonder why it's red?"
Sturm reclined on his bedroll'. "The gods ordained it so.
Lunitari is the abode of neutrality, of neutral magic and illu-
sion. Vedro theorized that the color came from the blood
sacrificed to the gods." He offered this cautiously. "Other
philosophers claim the red color represents the heart of
Huma, the first knight of the Dragonlance." There was only
silence from his companion. "Kit?" he said quietly. A rasp
from the shadows revealed the result of his lecture. Kitiara
was asleep.

The village of Zaradene was a low, brown smudge on the
gray-white shore. There were perhaps fifty weatherworn
houses of varying size, none with more than two stories.
Sturm and Kitiara rode down the face of a steeply sloping
dune toward the village. On the way, they had to thread
through lines of sharpened stakes, buried in the sand with
the points slanting out. Here and there the stakes were
scorched by fire.
"A hedgehog," Kitiara remarked. "A defense against cav-
alry. The villagers must have been raided not long ago."
Behind the stakes was a shallow trench, which was spotted
with black clots of blood, soaked into the sand.
The faces of the people of Zaradene were not friendly as
Sturm and Kitiara rode up the single sandy track that was
the main street. Sullen eyes and work-gnarled hands
clenched into fists seemed to be everywhere.
Kitiara reined up and dismounted in front of a sagging
gray tavern that bore the name Three Fishes. Odd white
posts and rafter ends showed between the weatherworn
clapboards. Sturm tied Tallfox to one of the posts. It was
bone, from some enormous, long-dead sea creature.
"What do you suppose it was?" he asked Kit curiously.
Kitiara glanced at the bone and said, "Sea serpent,