way home in a day or two."
    "Can't be too soon for me," she replied.
    "Oh? Do you have plans?"
    Kitiara  cradled  the  tankard  in  her  lap.  "Do  you really
 want to know?"
    "I  feel  a  bit  useless  with  the  gnomes working,  and the
 Micones working, and us not doing anything."
    She  let  her  head  fall back  as she  slouched lower  in the
 small  chair.  "I  was  thinking  how  I would  like to  raise an
 army  of  my  own  and  not  be  a   mercenary  any   longer.  My
 own troops, loyal to me."
    "And what would you do with your own army?"
    "Make  myself  a  kingdom. Seize  an existing  one in  a weak-
 ened  state,  or  carve  one  out of  a larger  country." Kitiara
 looked Sturm in the eye. "What do you think of that?"
    He sensed she was baiting him. He merely replied, "Do
 you think you're up to commanding an entire army?"
    She  made  a  fist.  "I'm  almost  an  army  on  my  own. With
 my  new  strength  and  my  old  experience, yes,  I'm up  to it.
 Would  you  like  a  commission  in   my  guard?   You're  pretty
 decent  with  a  sword.  If  I  could break  you of  your foolish
 notions of honor, you'd be even better."
    "No, thank you, Kit," he spoke  seriously. "I  have a  duty to
 my heritage.  I know  that one  day in  my lifetime,  the Knights
 of Solamnia will recover from  their disgrace.  I shall  be there
 when  they  do."  He  turned  away  to  the  wide  windows.  "And
 I have other obligations. There's still my  father to  find. He's
 alive, I've seen that. He has left a legacy for me at our castle,
 and I intend to claim it." His voice trailed off.
    "Is that your final word?" she asked. Sturm nodded. "I
 don't understand you. Don't you ever think of yourself?"
    "Of course I do. Entirely too much, sometimes."
    Kitiara let the tankard dangle from her fingers. "Name an
 occasion. It can't have been since I've known you."

    Sturm  opened  his  mouth to  speak, but  before he  could a
 shadow  fell  across  the  bow  of  the   Cloudmaster.  Kitiara
 jumped up. It was the shadow of the dragon.
    Will you come  out a  moment, my  friends? he  thought at
 them.   Kitiara   and   Sturm   went   down  the   ramp  and
 descended to the obelisk floor.
    "What is it?" asked Kitiara.
    "I have set the Micones to building  a rampart  that will
 impede  the  tree-folk  from  entering  the  obelisk,"  Cupelix
 said. He preened himself with a  foreclaw, as  if proud  of his
 ingenuity.
    "I thought you said they  didn't dare  come in,"  Sturm said
 sharply. Cupelix stopped in midpreen.
    "That  was  true of  ordinary times,  but you,  dear fellow,
 have  incited  the Lunitarians  to overcome  their fear  of me.
 Their presence here is  proof of  that. It  does not  take deep
 wisdom  to  deduce  they  may  soon  decide  to  go  where they
 have never been."
    "We can't have that," said Kitiara, folding her arms bellig-
 erently.
    "No indeed. So  I thought  you might  like to  inspect my
 defenses, as it is your lives they will defend."
    Sturm  roused  the  gnomes  from  their  current  work, sal-
 vaging  scraps  of  wood from  the Cloudmaster  to burn  in the
 forge  fire.  Everyone  trooped to  the open  door to  see what
 Cupelix had set the Micones doing.
    The giant ants  were lined  up in  echelon, parallel  to the
 door of the obelisk. At some  invisible, inaudible  signal, the
 Micones  lowered  their  triangular heads  to the  ground. They
 pushed the red soil forward in a long  heap, and  repeated this
 process  many  times.  Thus  they created  a trench  around the
 obelisk. The dirt they piled into a high rampart.
   "Satisfactory?" asked the dragon from his perch.
   Kitiara  shrugged  and  sauntered  back  to the  ship. The
 gnomes  followed in  twos and  threes as  they grew  bored with
 watching  the  mighty Micones  shift the  red earth.  Soon only
 Sturm was left. He watched until  all the  gaps in  the rampart
 were filled. The loose dirt spilled  down from  the top  of the
 wall,  burying  the  nearest tree-men  until only  their jagged
 tops protruded from the crimson soil.

                       Chapter 22

                         Keeper
                   of the New Lives

         The forge fine's making shgowed the party yet
 another  of  Cupelix's  powers.  With  scavenged  stones, they
 erected a  crude hearth.  Kitiara, stripped  to her  shirt and
 with her pants legs rolled up, stood by, sweating, as the last
 of the stones was put in place.
 "Now," she said, "who's got the flint?"
 Stutts  put  his  hand  out  to  Wingover. Wingover  stared at
 the open palm. "Come, come, give me the flint," Stutts said.
 "I haven't got the flint," his colleague replied.
 "I gave it to you when you went off on your march."
 "No, you  didn't. Maybe  you gave  it to  one of  the others."
 A quick poll of  the remaining  gnomes failed  to turn  up any
 flint.

   "This is ridiculous! Who made the fires while we were on
 our own?" asked Kitiara.
   Fitter raised a hand timidly. "Bellcrank," he said.
     Stutts clapped a hand to his head. "He had the flint!"
   "I  think  so," said  Wingover, looking  at his  dusty, worn-
 out shoes.
   "Not  to  worry, little  friends," said  a voice  from above.
 With  amazing  silence,  Cupelix  drifted  down  the  shaft  to
 alight  on  the  nearest  ledge.  "Fire is  what we  dragons do
 best."
   Kitiara  and the  gnomes took  shelter in  the far  corner of
 the obelisk, after first taking the precaution of  dragging the
 Cloudmaster  aside  as  well.  Cupelix  raised his  long, scaly
 neck  and inhaled  so sharply  that the  air shrieked  into his
 nostrils.  The  gnomes flattened  themselves against  the wall.
 Cupelix raked his wing claws  back and  forth across  his brass
 cheeks,  throwing   out  cascades   of  sparks.   Then  Cupelix
 exhaled,  hard,  through  the  fountain  of sparks.  His breath
 caught fire  with a  dull 'whuffing'  sound, and  streamed down
 over the kindling. Thick smoke roiled out  of the  hearth, fol-
 lowed  by  lighter white  smoke, then  flame. His  great convex
 chest  almost  inverted  from  the  exhalation,  Cupelix ceased
 his fire-making. Smoke drifted in the still air, rising to hid-
 den heights of the tower.
   "Come  along,"  said Stutts.  With a  cheer, the  gnomes hur-
 ried to their tools. They laid out all  the scrap  metal they'd
 liberated from  ъapaldo's horde  - copper  tree nails  and iron
 brackets, bronze chain  and tin  buckets. All  of it  was going
 under  the  hammer,  to  be  recast  and  reforged  into engine
 parts. The interior of the obelisk rang with the sound of steel
 and iron melding together. The  firelight cast  distorted, mon-
 strous  shapes  on  the  marble  walls.  The monsters  were the
 gnomes, toiling around the fire.
   Kitiara slipped past the  busy little  men and  went outside.
 The cool  air washed  over her  like a  splash of  fresh water.
 Over  the  head-high  wall  that  the  Micones  had  built  she
 could see the  cold stars.  Faint streaks  of haze  crossed the
 sky, lit by a distant  light source.  She walked  slowly around
 the obelisk's massive base and  found Sturm,  gazing up  at the
 blue-white splendor of Krynn.

 "ъather pretty," she said, stopping behind him.
 "Yes, it is," he said noncommittally.
 "I keep wondering if we will ever get back there."
 "We will. I feel it, here." Sturm tapped his chest. "And  it i,
 confirmed  by  these  visions  of  mine. They  seem to  show the
 future."
 Kitiara  managed  a  mildly  crooked   grin.  "You   didn't  hap
 pen  to  see me  on Krynn  while you  were perusing  the future,
 did you? I'd like to know that I'll make it back, too."
 Sturm  tried  to  summon  up  an  image  of  Kit  from  his mem-
 ory. All he got for his effort was a stabbing pain in the chest.
 He coughed and said,  "I'm worried,  Kit. Are  we right  to deal
 with  this dragon?  The gods  and heroes  of ancient  times were
 wise  -  they  knew men  and dragons  could not  coexist. That's
 why the beasts were killed or banished."
 Chill  forgotten,  Kitiara  planted  a foot  in the  rising bank
 of red soil. "You  surprise me,"  she said.  "You, who  are edu-
 cated  and  tolerant  of most  creatures, advocating  hatred for
 all dragons, even one of good lineage, like Cupelix."
 "I'm not advocating hatred. I just don't trust him. He
 wants something from us."
 "Should he help us for nothing?"
 Sturm tugged fitfully at the ends of his mustache. "You
 just  don't  see,  Kit. Anyone  with power,  be he  dragon, gob-
 lin,  gnome  or  human, is  not going  to relinquish  that power
 merely  to help  others. That's  the evil  of power,  and anyone
 or anything who has it is tainted by it."
 'You're   wrong!"  she   said  with   verve.  "Wrong!   A  cruel
 man  is  cruel  no  matter what  his station  in life;  but many
 dragons  skilled  in  magic were  aligned with  good. It  is the
 heart and soul  that are  the seats  of good  or evil.  Power is
 something else. To have power is to live. To lose it is to exist
 as something less than you are."
 He  listened  to  this  short   tirade  in   mute  astonishment.
 Where  was  the  Kit  he once  knew, the  fun-loving, passionate
 woman  who  could  laugh   at  danger?   The  Kit   who  carried
 herself with the  pride of  a queen,  even when  she had  only a
 few coppers in her pocket?
 "Where  is  she?"  he  said  aloud.  Kitiara  asked him  what he
 meant.  "The  Kit  I  knew  in   Solace.  The   good  companion.

 The friend."
   Hurt and anger flowered in her eyes. "She is with you."
   He  could  sense  the  anger  radiating  from  her,  like  heat
 from  a  hearthstone.  She  turned  and  disappeared  around  the
 corner of the obelisk.

 * * * * *

   The  gnomes  forged  a  massive  lever   switch  of   iron  and
 copper,  and  converted  the rest  of the  scrap into  huge coup-
 lings  that  could  be  clamped  over the  severed cables  in the
 Cloudmaster   and  closed   by  great   iron  hooks.   This  work
 took  most  of the  night, and  when it  was done,  ъainspot pre-
 cipitated a short shower inside  the obelisk  to quench  the fire
 and  dispel  the  pall  of  smoke  that  hung   over  everything.
 Cupelix  watched  it  all  from  his  perch,  never  questioning,
 hardly  even  moving  for  nine  and  a  half  hours.  Afterward,
 the  tired  gnomes climbed  the ramp  into the  ship for  a rest,
 leaving Cupelix to admire their work.
   Sturm  looked  over  the  metalwork,  too, as  he idly  ate his
 supper  of  dried  spear  plant  and  cold beans.  Cupelix teased
 him   with  magically   produced  haunches   of  roast   pig  and
 pitchers  of  sweet  cream,  but   Sturm  stolidly   ignored  the
 proffered treats.
   "You're  a  stubborn fellow,"  said the  dragon, as  Sturm con-
 tinued to munch his meager fare.
   "Principles  are  not  to  be cast  aside whenever  they become
 inconvenient," he replied.

   "Principles don't fill empty belly".

   "Nor does magic salve an empty heart."
   "Very good!" exclaimed Cupelix. "Let us trade proverbs
     that contradict each other; that's a worthy entertainment."
   "Some other time. I'm not in the mood for games," said
 Sturm with a sigh.
   "Ah, I see the fair face of Mistress Kitiara in this," said the
 dragon with a mischievous  lilt in  his voice.  "Do you  pine for
 her, my boy? Shall I put in a good word for you?"
           "No!" Sturm snapped. "You really are quite irritating
 sometimes."
   "Inasmuch  as  I've  had  no one  to talk  to for  nearly three

  millennia,  I  admit  my  etiquette  is  sorely underdeveloped.
  "Still," said Cupelix, "this presents you with  the opportunity
  to inform me. I would  be as  polite and  genteel as  a knight.
  Will you teach me?"
    Sturm stifled a yawn. "It isn't  manners or  gentility taught
  by the fireside that makes a knight. It's long study and train-
  ing, living by  the Oath  and the  Measure. Such  things cannot
  be  taught  in light  conversation. Besides,  I doubt  that you
  genuinely  want  to  learn  anything;  you're just  looking for
  diversion."
    "You're so untrusting," said Cupelix. "No,  don't deny  it! I
  can  hear it  in your  mind before  you speak.  How can  I con-
  vince you of my true good will, Sir Doubter?"
    "Answer  me  this:  Why   are  you,   a  fully   grown  brass
  dragon,  permanently confined  to this  tower, on  this strange
  and magic-ridden moon?"
    "I am Keeper of the New Lives," said Cupelix.
    "What does that mean?"
    The  dragon  darted  his  snaky  neck from  side to  side, as
  though  looking  for  nonexistent  eavesdroppers. "I  guard the
  repository  of  my   race."  When   Sturm  continued   to  look
  blank,  Cupelix  said  loudly,  "Eggs,  my dear,  ignorant mor-
  tal! The eggs of dragons lie in  caverns beneath  this obelisk.
  It  is  my  task  to  watch  over  them  and protect  them from
  insensate brutes like yourself." His great  mouth widened  in a
  grin. "No offense intended, of course."
    "None taken."
    Sturm  looked  at  the floor,  light red  and veined  with dark
  wine  streaks.  He  tried to  imagine the  nest of  dragon eggs
  below, but he could not grasp it.
    "How do they come  to be  here l  The eggs,  I mean,"  he said.
    "I  do not  know for  certain. I  was born  here, you  see, and
  grew  from  dragonlet to  maturity within  these walls.  Out of
  eggs, mine was chosen  to hatch  and live  as guardian,  as the
  Keeper of the New Lives."
    Sturm's  mind  boggled.  He  lowered  himself  to  the floor.
  "Who deposited the eggs and built the tower?" he asked.
    "I have a theory," said Cupelix, consciously mimicking the
  gnomes. "Three thousand years ago, when dragons were
  banished  from  Krynn, the  evil ones  were driven  by Paladine

 to the Great Nullity, the  negative plane,  where they  were to
 remain  until  doomsday.  The dragons  aligned with  the forces
 of good left the lands  of man  as well.  Paladine made  a pact
 with  Gilean,  a  neutral  god  who  was  sympathetic   to  our
 plight, and arranged for  a number  of good  dragon eggs  to be
 collected and deposited here,  to serve  as sentinels  for when
 the evil ones returned. He caused  the tower  to be  raised and
 hatched me."
   "How many types of dragon eggs lie below?"
   "Some  of  the  brass, bronze,  and copper  clans, in  the num-
 ber of 496. It is the collected spirit of these  unborn dragons
 that provides the magic that saturates Lunitari."
   "Four -" Sturm shifted on his haunches, as  if he  could feel
 the  movement  of  so  many  creatures  below the  thick marble
 slab. So many!
   "When will they hatch?" asked Sturm.
   "Tomorrow  or  never."  Sturm pressed  for a  better answer,
 and  Cupelix  said,  "A veil  of dormancy  laid down  by Gilean
 lies over the entire cache.  It will  take a  god, or  a mighty
 spell, to lift the veil and cause  the eggs  to hatch.  Now you
 know all about me," added Cupelix. "Do you trust me?"
   "Almost. Could I see the eggs?"
   Cupelix  scratched  his shiny  chest with  one of  his fore-
 claws  and  Sturm  winced  at the  screeching sound.  "I don't
 know about that -"
   "Don't you trust me?" asked Sturm.
   " true touch, mortal! You shall see them then, a sight no
 mortal  eye  has  ever  beheld.  Hmm."  The  dragon  lifted one
 tree-sized leg and flexed his birdlike toes. "I'll have to warn
 the  Micones.  They  live  in  the  caverns  and keep  the eggs
 clean, turning them every day so the yolks don't settle.
 They  would  certainly  slay  you  if  you ventured  down there
 without  my  permission."  Cupelix  settled  again  and fluffed
 out his  wings. "I  will inform  the Micones,  but you  must be
 sure not to  touch the  eggs. The  protective instinct  runs so
 deeply  in  them  that  not  even  my  intervention  would pre-
 vent  the  Micones  from  ripping  you  limb  from limb  if you
 touched an egg."
   "I'll keep that in mind," said  Sturm. He  stood to  go. "May
 I invite the others?"

 "Why not? I'm sure the little men will be fascinated."
 "Thank you, dragon."
 Sturm   nodded   and   made   for  the   quiet  ship.   Once  the
 human  was  inside,  Cupelix  spread  his  wings  and  telepathi-
 cally  ordered  the illuminating  ants to  cease their  glow. The
 light  went  out  of  their bodies,  and one  by one  the Micones
 ..' dropped off and scuttled back into their holes in the floor.
 Kitiara  re-entered  the  darkened  obelisk.  "Where   is  every-
 body?" she called out.
 "In  the  flying  machine,"  said  Cupelix,  unseen above  her in
 the shadows. She flinched at the sound of his voice.
 "You  should  give  a  person  warning  that  you're  there," she
 chided. "Is there anything left to eat?"
 A  table,  set  with  candles,  appeared  before   her.  Delicate
 cutlets  of  veal, bread,  and melted  sweet butter  awaited her.
 A  tall, clear  glass goblet  brimmed with  rich red  wine. Kiti-
 ara  pulled  out  the  velvet-cushioned,  high-backed  chair  and
 sat down.
 "What's the occasion?' she asked.
 "No occasion," replied the dragon from on high. "A ges-
 ture of friendship."
 "Are  we  friends?"  said Kitiara,  forking up  a slice  of veal.
 "Oh, yes, and I hope we shall be better friends still."
 "A  woman  could  do  worse,"  she  said,  sipping  the  wine. It
 wasn't  grape  wine  at  all, but  some sort  of berry,  tart and
 cleansing  on  the  tongue.  "Good,"  she  said,  not  quite sure
 how else to characterize the wine.
 "I'm  glad you  like it.  It's pleasing  to me  to do  things for
 you,  Kitiara. May  I call  you Kitiara?  You appreciate  my lit-
 tle gifts. Unlike that Brightblade fellow. He's so stiff and
 proper, it's a wonder  he doesn't  chip himself  when he
 shaves." Kitiara laughed at the dragon's very apt image.
 "You have a very charming laugh," said Cupelix.
 "Careful,"  she  said.  "If I  were less  mindful, I'd  think you
 were trying to cozen me."
 "I merely delight in your company." There was a heavy
 rustle as the dragon flew  from one  side of  the obelisk  to the
 other.  The  candle  flames  on  Kitiara's  table wavered  in the
 disturbed air.
 "Soon   Master   Brightblade    and   his    gnomish   companions

 will  make  a  descent  into  the  caverns  below   the  tower,"
 Cupelix  said,  and  further  explained   about  the   cache  of
 dragon  eggs.  'While  they are  down there,  I should  like you
 to  visit  me  in  my private  sanctum." The  bulk of  the brass
 dragon  dropped  from  the   darkness,  landing   with  infinite
 grace and lightness in front of Kitiara's table.
   "What  for?"  she  said,  not quite  suppressing the  catch in
 her throat.
   Up close - at a range  of no  more than  six feet  - Cupelix's
 eyes  were  green  orbs  three  hands  wide. The  vertical black
 pupils  were  cracks  into  the  deepest  abyss.  His  eyes nar-
 rowed as the dragon scrutinized the woman.
   "I  would  hear  of  your  life  and  philosophy, and  you may
 pry into my secrets as well," he said. "Only don't tell the oth-
 ers. It would make them jealous."
   "Not  a word,"  Kitiara said.  She winked  at the  dragon, and
 Cupelix  flicked  his  tongue  out.  It touched  her hand  and a
 warm tingle spread up her arm.
   "Until  then."  Cupelix  spread his  wings until  they whisked
 the far walls. He sprang off the  floor with  one thrust  of his
 powerful hind legs and vanished into the darkness above.
   Kitiara's   heartbeat  slowly   resumed  its   normal  rhythm.
 The  tin