Dragonlance 08 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies (38 page)

“Hush now,” she cautioned. “The Abbey is ahead. Do you know any of the prayers?”

Kitiara, of course, did not.

“Then make this sign if someone asks you why you do not join in.” Iolanthe moved her hand in a circle. “That means you have taken an oath of silence.”

The Abbey was crowded. Kitiara and Iolanthe found places inside the entryway. A strong smell of bodies sweating beneath black robes, burning candle wax, incense, and fresh blood wafted from the chamber. The body of a young woman lay across the altar, blood streaming from a gash in her throat. A priest with blood smeared over his hands was chanting prayers, exhorting the crowd to praise Takhisis.

Kitiara stood, fidgeting, in the crowd, the smell of blood in her nostrils, the sound of off-key yammering in her ears, and suddenly she felt she had to leave. She couldn’t bear to stand here and just wait for someone to discover that she was missing from her prison and raise the alarm.

“Let’s just get the hell out of here,” Kit whispered urgently.

“They would stop us at the gate and ask questions,” said Iolanthe in a smothered whisper, grasping hold of a fold of Kit’s sleeve. “If we go out with the crowd, no one will notice us.”

Kitiara sighed, frustrated, but she had to admit this was sound planning. She steeled herself for the ordeal.

The Abbey was a circular room, with a high, domed ceiling beneath which stood a large statue of Queen Takhisis in her dragon form. The statue was a wonder. The body was carved out of black marble, with each of the five heads done in different colored marble. The ten eyes were gems that shone with magical light that illuminated the room. By some miraculous means, the heads of the statue seemed to move; the eyes looked this way and that, with the dread light of their watchful gaze constantly sweeping the crowd.

Kit stared at the statue of Queen Takhisis as the heads bobbed and weaved, and glanced at Iolanthe, standing beside her, barely visible in the ever-shifting colored lights. Kit could not see the witch’s face for the cowl she had again drawn over her head. Kit was jittery, gripping the poignard in a sweaty palm, wishing the time to pass, wishing herself far away. Iolanthe was calm, not moving, not the least bit nervous, yet if Ariakas found out she had helped Kit escape, Iolanthe’s life would not be worth living. Whatever punishment Kit would face, Iolanthe would find it trebled.

“Why are you doing this?” Kit whispered under the cover of the chanting. “Why are you helping me? And don’t give me that crap about being the answer to my prayers.”

Iolanthe glanced at Kit sidelong from under her hood. Her violet eyes glittered in the light of the Queen’s multicolored and multi-faceted eyes. Iolanthe shifted her gaze back to the statue, and Kit thought that she was going to refuse to answer.

At length, however, Iolanthe whispered, “I do not want you for my enemy, Blue Lady.” The violet eyes, wide and intense, fixed on Kit. “If you do what you say you mean to do and you succeed, you will have one of the most powerful beings on Krynn on your side. Lord Soth will make you a force to be reckoned with. Don’t you understand, Kitiara? Her Dark Majesty is starting to have doubts about Ariakas. She is looking for someone else to wear the Crown of Power. If you prove to be the one—and I think you will—I want you to think well of me.”

And if I fail to return alive from Dargaard Keep, Ariakas retains the Crown and the witch has lost nothing in the attempt, Kitiara reflected. She is what I thought: cunning, self-serving, scheming, and conniving.

Kit was starting to like her.

The chanting had reached a fever pitch, and Kit was hoping fervently this meant that the service was about to end, when the statue’s blue head shifted in Kit’s direction. The light of the Queen’s sapphire blue eyes illuminated the crowd around her. The lighted eyes paused for a moment on the worshipper standing to Kit’s left and slightly in front of her—a bozak draconian with a bent wing. At that moment, the chanting abruptly ended, leaving ear-pounding silence behind. The Queen’s heads ceased to move. The miracle had ended. The statue was once more marble, if it had ever been anything else; Kit had thought she’d heard the squeak and rumble of a machine. The Abbey glowed with white light. The service had ended.

The crowd blinked and rubbed their eyes. Those who knew from experience that the service was nearing its close had already started to edge their way out, hoping to beat the rush. People were heading for the exit. The bozak with the bent wing turned, walking straight toward her. Kit had her hood pulled over her head, but it did not cover her face and it had slipped somewhat during the service. She turned swiftly, but not before Targ had caught a glimpse of her. Kit was certain she saw a flicker of recognition in the reptilian eyes of Ariakas’s pet bozak.

She could be mistaken, but she didn’t dare take a chance. Kit slowed her pace, let the crowd flow around her. She gripped the knife and waited for the bozak to come near.

The crowd gave a surge that sent Targ stumbling into her. Perhaps Takhisis
was
on her side. Hoping desperately that the fragile-looking blade wouldn’t break, Kit drove the poignard in between Tag’s ribs, aiming for the lungs, hoping to nick the heart, not kill him outright.

The bozak gave a grunt indicative more of surprise than pain. Kit jerked the blade free and hid it in her sleeve. The bozak, an astonished look in his eyes, was just starting to crumple. Kitiara grabbed hold of Iolanthe’s forearm and dragged her out of the doorway.

“Which way to the nearest gate?” Kit shoved aside several pilgrims, nearly knocking them down.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Iolanthe asked, alarmed by the look on Kit’s face.

“Which way?” Kit demanded savagely.

“The right,” said Iolanthe, and Kit tugged her along in that direction.

They had not gone far when a blast shook the walls, sending dust and debris flying. As the noise of the explosion died away, shouts, screams, and moans began to echo down the corridors. Some pilgrims halted in shock, others cried out in panic. No one had any idea what had happened.

“Nuitari save us, what did you do?” Iolanthe gasped.

“The bozak in front of me was one of Ariakas’s guards. He recognized me. I stabbed him. I didn’t have any choice,” said Kitiara, hurrying down the corridor. Seeing Iolanthe look bewildered, Kit added, “When bozaks die, their bones explode.”

Guards and dark pilgrims pushed past them, some running to the site of the blast, others running from it.

“Nuitari save us,” Iolanthe repeated. She pulled her cowl low over her face and, catching up the skirts of her robes, began to run. Kitiara joined her. She had no idea where they were and hoped that Iolanthe did. They rounded a corner and came face to face with draconian Temple guards pounding down the corridor. The guards were upon them before they could escape.

“What happened?” one demanded, blocking their path. “We heard an explosion.”

Iolanthe burst into tears. “In the Abbey. A White Robe … disguised … cast a spell … dead draconians … a blast … it’s horrible!” She used a little-girl voice, far different from her own throaty contralto.

“The White Robe got away,” Kit added. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch him. He’s dressed as a dark priest. You can’t miss him. He has a long red scar across his nose.”

The draconian commander wasted no more time in asking questions. He led his troops off in pursuit. “Good thinking,” Iolanthe said, hurrying on. “You too,” said Kit.

They climbed the winding stairs leading up out of the dungeon level. Their way was constantly impeded by troops shoving past them, racing to the scene of the disaster. Kit and Iolanthe reached the top of the stairs, ran down another corridor, and there stood the Gate of the White Dragon.

With the Temple under attack, all gates had been shut and sealed, the traps activated. The draconian guards, weapons drawn, were tense and on edge.

“Oops,” said Kitiara. She hadn’t foreseen this.

“Stay calm,” Iolanthe said quietly “Let me do the talking.”

She lowered her cowl and tearfully repeated her tale about the dastardly White Robe. The draconians knew Ariakas’s witch; Iolanthe had been there only that afternoon, working her magic on the white dragon trap that would hit anyone who set it off with a blast of frost, paralyzing them with cold. Iolanthe knew the password, of course, but the guards didn’t even bother to ask her. They were interested in her companion, however.

“Who is this?” Reptile eyes stared suspiciously at Kit.

“My guide,” Iolanthe stated. She sighed a helpless sigh and the violet eyes gave the commander a languishing look. “The corridors are so confusing. They all look alike. I get hopelessly lost.”

“What’s your name?” the draconian demanded, speaking to Kit. She remembered Iolanthe’s advice and made the sign of the circle with her hand.

“She’s taken a vow of silence,” Iolanthe explained.

The draconian eyed Kit, who stood with her head humbly bowed, clutching the bloody poignard in her hand, keeping it hidden in the capacious sleeves. The commander waved them on through the gate.

They were almost out of the Temple when they heard clawed feet running after them. Kit halted, tensed, ready to strike.

“Madame Iolanthe,” the draconian called, “the commander sent me to ask if you would like an escort home. The streets might not be safe.”

Iolanthe gave a deep sigh. “No, thank you,” she said. “I would not take you away from your post.”

The two women walked through the gate, kept walking through the Temple environs, and into the street.

Kitiara was free. She breathed in the fresh air and gazed at the black sky sparkling with stars that she had never thought she would see again. She was almost giddy with joy and relief and barely heard what Iolanthe was saying.

“Listen to me!” Iolanthe pinched her arm to command her attention. “I must hasten to Ariakas. It would look strange if I didn’t go straight to him with this news and I don’t have much time! Where are you headed?”

“To my blue dragon,” said Kit.

Iolanthe shook her head. “I thought as much. Don’t waste your time. Ariakas ordered all the blue dragons in Neraka to return to Solamnia. He knows the blues are loyal to you and feared what would happen if your dragons found out you were going to be executed.”

Kitiara swore softly.

Iolanthe pointed down a side street. “At the end of this street is a stable where Salah Kahn houses his horses. The horses of Khur are the fastest and the best in the world,” she added with pride. “They are also the smartest. To protect them from being stolen, my people teach them a secret word. You must speak this word, or the horse will not permit you to mount. The horse will buck and lash out at you with its hooves and might kill you. Do you understand?”

Kit understood. Iolanthe told her the word. Kit repeated it and nodded.

“One more thing,” said Iolanthe, detaining Kit as she was about to leave.

“What’s that?”

Iolanthe looked at her searchingly. “Will you keep your vow? Will you ride now for Dargaard Keep?”

Kitiara hesitated. She thought about life on the run. Ariakas would offer a reward for her the moment he discovered she was missing. It would be a large reward. Every bounty hunter in Ansalon would be searching for her. She’d never be able to show her face in any city or town again. She’d be constantly looking over back, afraid to go to sleep.

“I will keep my vow,” Kit said.

Iolanthe smiled. “I think you mean it. You will need this when you enter Dargaard Keep.”

The witch took hold of Kitiara’s hand and slid a large silver bracelet decorated with three jewels carved of onyx onto her wrist.

Kit grinned. “You want me to look my best for the death knight? Does it have earrings to match?”

“What do you know of Lord Soth?” Iolanthe asked.

“Not much,” Kit admitted. “He’s a death knight—”

“He can kill you with a single word,” Iolanthe said. “He has an army of undead warriors who are bound to defend him, and if you fight your way past them, which is doubtful, you will encounter banshees. Their song is so horrific that if you hear but one wailing note, your heart will cease to beat and you will drop down dead. You will not survive five minutes in Dargaard Keep, much less an entire night.”

Kit was subdued.

“So I take it this bracelet is magical.” Kit eyed the piece of jewelry doubtfully. “Will it protect me in some way?”

“It will save you from dying of sheer terror. In addition, the onyx gems will absorb magical attacks made against you, though they will only take so much punishment. After that, they will crumble and the bracelet will be useless. Still, it should at least get you inside the front door. Its power is limited. Don’t put it on until you intend to use it.”

Kitiara clasped her hand over the bracelet.

“Good luck,” Iolanthe added. She placed her hand over a ring she wore and began to mutter to herself.

“Wait, Iolanthe,” said Kit, and the witch halted her incantation.

“Well, what now?”

Kit wasn’t used to being grateful. The words stuck in her throat and came out gruff and awkward. “Thank you.”

Iolanthe smiled. “Do not forget what you owe me,” she said and disappeared, her black robes melting into the dark night.

Kitiara hurried down the alleyway. Behind her, she could hear more shouts as the tale spread among the outraged followers of Takhisis that a murderous White Robe had used his magic to infiltrate their Temple.

She found the stables and chose a black horse, liking the look of his powerful musculature, noble stance, the proud arch of his neck and the glint in his eye. She spoke the word Iolanthe had taught her. The horse permitted her to saddle him and within a few moments she was galloping out of the city.

Kitiara took the road north, toward Dargaard Keep.