“Did you really expect otherwise?” asked Lord Soth. The words, accompanied with a shrug of the ancient armor, sounded nonchalant, almost rhetorical. But there was an edge to them that made Kitiara glance sharply at the death knight.
Seeing him staring at her, his orange eyes burning with a strange intensity, Kitiara flushed. Realization that she was revealing more emotion than she intended made her angry, her flush deepened. She turned from Soth abruptly.
Walking across the room, which was furnished with an odd mixture of armor, weaponry, perfumed silken sheets, and thick fur rugs, Kitiara clasped the folds of her filmy nightdress together across her breasts with a shaking hand. It was a gesture that accomplished little in the way of modesty, and Kitiara knew it, even as she wondered why she made it. Certainly she had never been concerned with modesty before, especially around a creature who had fallen into a heap of ash three hundred years ago. But she suddenly felt uncomfortable under the gaze of those blazing eyes, staring at her from a nonexistent face. She felt naked and exposed.
“No, of course not,” Kitiara replied coldly.
“He is, after all, a dark elf.” Soth went on in the same even, almost bored tones. “And he makes no secret of the fact that he fears your brother more than death itself. So is it any wonder that he chooses now to fight on Raistlin’s side rather than the side of a bunch of feeble old wizards who are quaking in their boots?”
“But he stood to gain so much!” Kitiara argued, trying her best to match her tone to Soth’s.
Shivering, she picked up a fur nightrobe that lay across the end of her bed and flung it around her shoulders. “They promised him the leadership of the Black Robes. He was certain to take Par-Salian’s s place after that as Head of the Conclave—undisputed master of magic on Krynn.”
And you would have known other rewards, as well, Dark Elf, Kitiara added silently, pouring herself a glass of red wine. Once that insane brother of mine is defeated, no one will be able to stop you. What of our plans? You ruling with the staff, I with the sword. We could have brought the Knights to their knees! Driven the elves from their homeland—your homeland! You would have gone back in triumph, my darling, and I would have been at your side!
The wine glass slipped from her hand. She tried to catch it—Her grasp was too hasty, her grip too strong. The fragile glass shattered in her hand, cutting into her flesh. Blood mingled with the wine that dripped onto the carpet.
Battle scars traced over Kitiara’s body like the hands of her lovers. She had borne her wounds without flinching, most without a murmur. But now her eyes flooded with tears. The pain seemed unbearable.
A wash bowl stood near. Kitiara plunged her hand into the cold water, biting her lip to keep from crying out. The water turned red instantly.
“Fetch one of the clerics!” she snarled at Lord Soth, who had remained standing, staring at her with his flickering eyes.
Walking to the door, the death knight called a servant who left immediately. Cursing beneath her breath, blinking back her tears, Kitiara grabbed a towel and wound it around her hand. By the time the cleric arrived, stumbling over his black robes in his haste, the towel was soaked through with blood, and Kitiara’s face was ashen beneath her tanned skin.
The medallion of the Five-Headed Dragon brushed against Kit’s hand as the cleric bent over it, muttering prayers to the Queen of Darkness. Soon the wounded flesh closed, the bleeding stopped.
“The cuts were not deep. There should be no lasting harm,” the cleric said soothingly.
“A good thing for you!” Kitiara snapped, still fighting the unreasonable faintness that assailed her. “That is my sword hand!”
“You will wield a blade with your accustomed ease and skill, I assure your lordship,” the cleric replied. “Will there be—”
“No! Get out!”
“My lord.” The cleric bowed—“Sir Knight”—and left the room.
Unwilling to meet the gaze of Soth’s flaming eyes, Kitiara kept her head turned away from the death knight, scowling at the vanishing, fluttering robes of the cleric.
“What fools! I detest keeping them around. Still, I suppose they come in handy now and then.”
Though it seemed perfectly healed, her hand still hurt. All in my mind, she told herself bitterly.
“Well, what do you propose I do about... about the dark elf?” Before Soth could answer, however, Kitiara was on her feet, yelling for the servant.
“Clean that mess up. And bring me another glass.” She struck the cowering man across the face.
“One of the golden goblets this time. You know I detest these fragile elf-made things! Get them out of my sight! Throw them away!”
“Throw them away!” The servant ventured a protest. “But they are valuable, Lord. They came from the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, a gift from—”
“I said get rid of them!” Grabbing them up, Kitiara flung them, one by one, against the wall of her room. The servant cringed, ducking as the glass flew over his head, smashing against the stone. When the last one left her fingers, she sat down into a chair in a corner and stared straight ahead, neither moving nor speaking.
The servant hastily swept up the broken glass, emptied the bloody water in the wash bowl, and departed. When he returned with the wine, Kitiara had still not moved. Neither had Lord Soth. The death knight remained standing in the center of the room, his eyes glowing in the gathering gloom of night.
“Shall I light the candles, Lord?” the servant asked softly, setting down the wine bottle and a golden goblet.
“Get out,” Kitiara said, through stiff lips.
The servant bowed and left, closing the door behind him.
Moving with unheard steps, the death knight walked across the room. Coming to stand next to the still unmoving, seemingly unseeing Kitiara, he laid his hand upon her shoulder. She flinched at the touch of the invisible fingers, their cold piercing her heart. But she did not withdraw.
“Well,” she said again, staring into the room whose only source of light now came from the flaming eyes of the death knight, “I asked you a question. What do we do to stop Dalamar and my brother in this madness? What do we do before the Dark Queen destroys us all?”
“You must attack Palanthas,” said Lord Soth.
“I believe it can be done!” Kitiara murmured, thoughtfully tapping the hilt of her dagger against her thigh.
“Truly ingenious, my lord,” said the commander of her forces with undisguised and unfeigned admiration in his voice.
The commander—a human near forty years of age—had scratched and clawed and murdered his way up through the ranks to attain his current position, General of the Dragonarmies. Stooped and ill-favored, disfigured by a scar that slashed across his face, the commander had never tasted the favors enjoyed in the past by so many of Kitiara’s other captains. But he was not without hope. Glancing over at her, he saw her face—unusually cold and stern these past few days brighten with pleasure at his praise. She even deigned to smile at him—that crooked smile she knew how to use so well. The commander’s heart beat faster.
“It is good to see you have not lost your touch,” said Lord Soth, his hollow voice echoing through the map room.
The commander shuddered. He should be used to the death knight by now. The Dark Queen knew, he’d fought enough battles with him and his troop of skeletal warriors. But the chill of the grave surrounded the knight as his black cloak shrouded his charred and blood-stained armor. How does she stand him? the commander wondered. They say he even haunts her bedchambers! The thought made the commander’s heartbeat rapidly return to normal. Perhaps, after all, the slave women weren’t so bad. At least when one was alone with them in the dark, one was alone in the dark!
“Of course, I have not lost my touch!” Kitiara returned with such fierce anger that the commander looked about uneasily, hurriedly manufacturing some excuse to leave. Fortunately, with the entire city of Sanction preparing for war, excuses were not hard to find.