No, he would never return. Never leave...
Dalamar’s musings were cut short by the sound of a silver bell. It rang only once, with a sweet, low sound. But to those living (and dead) within the Tower, it had the effect of a shattering gong splitting the air. Someone was attempting to enter! Someone had won through the perilous Shoikan Grove and was at the gates of the Tower itself!
His mind having already conjured up memories of Par-Salian, Dalamar had sudden unwelcome visions of the powerful, white-robed wizard standing on his doorstep. He could also hear in his mind what he had told the Council only nights earlier—“If any of you came and tried to enter the Tower while he was gone, I would kill you.”
On the words of a spell, Dalamar disappeared from the library to reappear, within the drawing of a breath, at the Tower entrance.
But it was not a conclave of flashing-eyed wizards he faced. It was a figure dressed in blue dragonscale armor, wearing the hideous, horned mask of a Dragon Highlord. In its gloved hand, the figure held a black jewel—a nightjewel, Dalamar saw—and behind the figure he could sense, though he could not see, the presence of a being of awesome power—a death knight.
The Dragon Highlord was using the jewel to hold at bay several of the Tower’s Guardians; their pale visages could be seen in the dark light of the nightjewel, thirsting for her living blood. Though Dalamar could not see the Highlord’s face beneath the helm, he could feel the heat of her anger.
“Lord Kitiara,” Dalamar said gravely, bowing. “Forgive this rude welcome. If you had but let us know you were coming—”
Yanking off the helm, Kitiara glared at Dalamar with cold, brown eyes that reminded the apprentice forcibly of her kinship to the Shalafi.
“—you would have had an even more interesting reception planned for me, no doubt!” she snarled with an angry toss of her dark, curly hair. “I come and go where I please, especially to pay a visit to my brother!” Her voice literally shook with rage. “I made my way through those god-cursed trees of yours out there,, then I’m attacked at his front door!” Her hand drew her sword. She took a step forward. “By the gods, I should teach you a lesson, elven slime—”
“I repeat my apologies,” Dalamar said calmly, but there was a glint in his slanted eyes that made Kit hesitate in her reckless act.
Like most warriors, Kitiara tended to regard magic-users as weaklings who spent time reading books that could be put to better use wielding cold steel. Oh, they could produce some flashy results, no doubt, but when put to the test, she would much rather rely on her sword and her skill than weird words and bat dung.
Thus she pictured Raistlin, her half-brother, in her mind, and this was how she pictured his apprentice—with the added mark against Dalamar that he was only an elf—a race noted for its weakness.
But Kitiara was, in another respect, different from most warriors—the main reason she had outlived all who opposed her. She was skilled at assessing her opponents. One look at Dalamar’s cool eyes and composed stature—in the face of her anger—and Kitiara wondered if she might not have encountered a foe worthy of her.
She didn’t understand him, not yet—not by any means. But she saw and recognized the danger in this man and, even as she made a note to be wary of it and to use it, if possible, she found herself attracted to it. The fact that it went with such handsome features (he didn’t look at all elvish, now that she thought of it) and such a strong, muscular body (whose frame admirably filled out the black robes), made it suddenly occur to her that she might accomplish more by being friendly than intimidating. Certainly, she thought, her eyes lingering on the elf’s chest, where the black robes had parted slightly and she could see bronze skin beneath, it might be much more entertaining.
Thrusting her sword back in its sheath, Kitiara continued her step forward, only now the light that had flashed on the blade flashed in her eyes.
“Forgive me, Dalamar—that’s your name, isn’t it?” Her scowl melted into the crooked, charming smile that had won so many. “That damned Grove unnerves me. You are right. I should have notified my brother I was coming, but I acted on impulse.” She stood close to Dalamar now, very close. Looking up into his face, hidden as it was by the shadows of his hood, she added, “I… often act on impulse.”
With a gesture, Dalamar dismissed the Guardians. Then the young elf regarded the woman before him with a smile of charm that rivaled her own.
Seeing his smile, Kitiara held out her gloved hand. “Forgiven?”
Dalamar’s smile deepened, but he only said, “Remove your glove, lord.”
Kitiara started and, for an instant, the brown eyes dilated dangerously. But Dalamar continued to smile at her. Shrugging, Kitiara jerked one by one at the fingers of the leather glove, baring her hand.
“There,” she said, her voice tinged with scorn, “you see that I hold no concealed weapon.”
“Oh, I already knew that,” Dalamar replied, now taking the hand in his own. His eyes still on hers, the dark elf drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. “Would you have had me deny myself this pleasure?”
His lips were warm, his hands strong, and Kitiara felt the blood surge through her body at his touch. But she saw in his eyes that he knew her game and she saw, too, that it was one he played himself. Her respect rose, as did her guard. Truly a foe worthy of her attention—her undivided attention.
Slipping her hand from his grasp, Kitiara put it behind her back with a playful female gesture that contrasted oddly with her armor and her manlike, warrior stance. It was a gesture designed to attract and confuse, and she saw from the elf’s slightly flushed features that it had succeeded.
“Perhaps I have concealed weapons beneath my armor you should search for sometime,” she said with a mocking grin.
“On the contrary,” Dalamar returned, folding his hands in his black robes, “your weapons seem to me to be in plain sight. Were I to search you, lord, I would seek out that which the armor guards and which, though many men have penetrated, none has yet touched.” The elven eyes laughed.
Kitiara caught her breath. Tantalized by his words, remembering still the feel of those warm lips upon her skin, she took another step forward, tilting her face to the man’s.
Coolly, without seeming aware of his action, Dalamar made a graceful move to one side, slightly turning away from Kitiara. Expecting to be caught up in the man’s arms, Kit was, instead, thrown off balance. Awkwardly, she stumbled.
Recovering her balance with feline skill, she whirled to face him, her face flushed with embarrassment and fury. Kitiara had killed men for less than mocking her like this. But she was disconcerted to see that he was, apparently, totally unaware of what he had done. Or was he? His face was carefully devoid of all expression. He was talking about her brother. No, he had done that on purpose. He would pay...
Kit knew her opponent now, conceded his skill. Characteristically, she did not waste time berating herself for her mistake. She had left herself open, she had taken a wound. Now, she was prepared.
“—I deeply regret that the Shalafi is not here,” Dalamar was saying. “I am certain that your brother will be sorry to learn he has missed you.”
“Not here?” Kit demanded, her attention caught instantly. “Why, where is he? Where would he go?”
“I am certain he told you,” Dalamar said with feigned surprise. “He has gone back to the past to seek the wisdom of Fistandantilus and from thence to discover the Portal through which he will—”
“You mean—he went anyway! Without the cleric?” Suddenly Kit remembered that no one was supposed to have known that she had sent Lord Soth to kill Crysania in order to stop her brother’s insane notion of challenging the Dark Queen. Biting her lip, she glanced behind her at the death knight.