to Shoikan Grove.
Kitiara did not speak until they had passed the outer perime-
ter of trees and once more stood upon the solid paving stones of
the city of Palanthas. The sun was rising, the sky brightening
from its deep night blue to a pale gray. Here and there, those
Palanthians whose business called for them to rise early were
waking. Far down the street, past the abandoned buildings that
surrounded the Tower, Kitiara could hear marching feet, the
changing of the watch upon the wall. She was among the living
once again.
She drew a deep breath, then, “He must be stopped,” she said
to Lord Soth.
The death knight made no comment, one way or the other.
“It will not be easy, I know,” Kitiara said, drawing the dra-
gonhelm over her head and walking rapidly toward Skie, who
had reared his head in triumph at her approach. Patting her
dragon lovingly upon his neck, Kitiara turned to face the death
knight.
“But we do not have to confront Raistlin directly. His scheme
hinges upon Lady Crysania. Remove her, and we stop him. He
need never know I had anything to do with it, in fact. Many
have died, trying to enter the Forest of Wayreth. Isn’t that so?”
Lord Soth nodded, his flaming eyes flaring slightly.
“You handle it. Make it appear to be… fate,” Kitiara said.
“My little brother believes in that, apparently.” She mounted
her dragon. “When he was small, I taught him that to refuse to
do my bidding meant a whipping. It seems he must learn that
lesson again!”
At her command, Skie’s powerful hind legs dug into the
pavement, cracking and breaking the stones. He leaped into the
air, spread his wings, and soared into the morning sky. The
people of Palanthas felt a shadow lift from their hearts, but that
was all they knew. Few saw the dragon or its rider leave.
Lord Soth remained standing upon the fringes of Shoikan
Grove.
“I, too, believe in fate, Kitiara,” the death knight murmured.
“The fate a man makes himself.”
Glancing up at the windows of the Tower of High Sorcery,
Soth saw the light extinguished from the room where they had
been. For a brief instant, the Tower was shrouded in the perpet-
ual darkness that seemed to linger around it, a darkness the
sun’s light could not penetrate. Then one light gleamed forth,
from a room at the top of the tower.
The mage’s laboratory, the dark and secret room where
Raistlin worked his magic.
“Who will learn this lesson, I wonder?” Soth murmured.
Shrugging, he disappeared, melting into the waning shadows
as daylight approached.
CHAPTER 6
Let’s stop at this
place,” Caramon said, heading for a ramshackle building that
stood huddled back away from the trail, lurking in the forest
like a sulking beast. “Maybe she’s been in here.”
“I really doubt it,” said Tas, dubiously eyeing the sign that
hung by one chain over the door. “The ‘Cracked Mug’ doesn’t
seem quite the place -”
“Nonsense,” growled Caramon, as he had growled more
times on this journey already than Tas could count, “she has to
eat. Even great, muckety-muck clerics have to eat. Or maybe
someone in here will have seen some sign of her on the trail.
We’re not having any luck.”
“No,” muttered Tasslehoff beneath his breath, “but we might
have more luck if we searched the road, not taverns.”
They had been on the road three days, and Tas’s worst mis-
givings about this adventure had proved true.
Ordinarily, kender are enthusiastic travelers. All kender are
stricken with wanderlust somewhere near their twentieth year.
At this time, they gleefully strike out for parts unknown, intent
on finding nothing except adventure and whatever beautiful,
horrible, or curious items might by chance fall into their bulg-
ing pouches. Completely immune to the self-preserving emo-
tion of fear, afflicted by unquenchable curiosity, the kender
population on Krynn was not a large one, for which most of
Krynn was devoutly grateful.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot, now nearing his thirtieth year (at least
as far as he could remember), was, in most regards, a typical
kender. He had journeyed the length and breadth of the conti-