'No, thank you,' the mage answered, moving into the shadows once again.
'He eats practically nothing,' Caramon said in a worried tone. 'I think he lives on air.'
'Some plants live on air,' Tasslehoff stated, returning with Sturm's ale. 'I've seen them. They hover up off the ground. Their roots suck food and water out of the atmosphere.'
'Really?' Caramon's eyes were wide.
'I don't know who's the greater idiot,' said Flint in disgust.
'Well, we're all here. What news?'
'All?' Sturm looked at Tanis questioningly. 'Kitiara?'
'Not coming,' Tanis replied steadily. 'We were hoping perhaps you could tell us something.'
'Not I.' The knight frowned. 'We traveled north together and parted soon after crossing the Sea Narrows into Old Solamnia. She was going to look up relatives of her father, she said. That was the last I saw of her.'
'Well, I suppose that's that.' Tanis sighed. 'What of your relatives, Sturm? Did you find your father?'
Sturm began to talk, but Tanis only half-listened to Sturm's tale of his travels in his ancestral land of Solamnia. Tanis's thoughts were on Kitiara. Of all his friends, she had been the one he most longed to see. After five years of trying to get her dark eyes and crooked smile out of his mind, he discovered that his longing for her grew daily. Wild, impetuous, hot-tempered — the swordswoman was everything Tanis was not. She was also human, and love between human and elf always ended in tragedy. Yet Tanis could no more get Kitiara out of his heart than he could get his human half out of his blood. Wrenching his mind free of memories, he began listening to Sturm.
'I heard rumors. Some say my father is dead. Some say he's alive.' His face darkened. 'But no one knows where he is.'
'Your inheritance?' Caramon asked.
Sturm smiled, a melancholy smile that softened the lines in his proud face. 'I wear it,' he replied simply. 'My armor and my weapon.'
Tanis looked down to see that the knight wore a splendid, if old-fashioned, two-handed sword.
Caramon stood up to peer over the table. 'That's a beauty,' he said. 'They don't make them like that these days. My sword broke in a fight with an ogre. Theros Ironfeld put a new blade on it today, but it cost me dearly. So you're a knight now?'
Sturm's smile vanished. Ignoring the question, he caressed the hilt of his sword lovingly. 'According to the legend, this sword will break only if I do,' he said. 'It was all that was left of my father's-'
Suddenly Tas, who hadn't been listening, interrupted. 'Who are those people?' the kender asked in a shrill whisper.
Tanis looked up as the two barbarians walked past their table, heading for empty chairs that sat in the shadows of a corner near the firepit. The man was the tallest man Tanis had ever seen. Caramon-at six feet- would come only to this man's shoulder. But Caramon's chest was probably twice as big around, his arms three times as big. Although the man was bundled with the furs barbarian tribesmen live in, it was obvious that he was thin for his great height. His face, though dark-skinned, had the pale cast of one who has been ill or suffered greatly.
His companion-the woman Sturm had bowed to-was so muffled in a fur-trimmed-cape and hood that it was difficult to tell much about her. Neither she nor her tall escort glanced at Sturm as they passed. The woman carried a plain staff trimmed with feathers in barbaric fashion. The man carried a well-worn knapsack. They sat down in the chairs, huddled in their cloaks, and talked together in low voices.
'I found them wandering around on the road outside of town,' Sturm said. 'The woman appeared near exhaustion, the man just as bad. I brought them here, told them they could get food and rest for the night. They are proud people and would have refused my help, I think, but they were lost and tired and-'-Sturm lowered his voice-'there are things on the road these days that it is better not to face in the dark.'
'We met some of them, asking about a staff,' Tanis said grimly. He described their encounter with Fewmaster Toede.
Although Sturm smiled at the description of the battle, he shook his head. 'A Seeker guard questioned me about a staff outside,' he said. 'Blue crystal, wasn't it?'
Caramon nodded and put his hand on his brother's thin arm. 'One of the slimy guards stopped us,' the warrior said. 'They were going to impound Raist's staff, if you'll believe that-for further investigation they said. I rattled my sword at them and they thought better of the notion.'
Raistlin moved his arm from his brother's touch, a scornful smile on his lips.
'What would have happened if they had taken your staff?' Tanis asked Raistlin.
The mage looked at him from the shadows of his hood, his golden eyes gleaming. 'They would have died horribly,' the mage whispered, 'and not by my brother's sword!'
The half-elf felt chilled. The mage's softly spoken words were more frightening than his brothers bravado. 'I wonder what is so important about a blue crystal staff that goblins would kill to get it?' Tanis mused.
'There are rumors of worse to come,' Sturm said quietly. His friends moved closer to hear him. 'Armies are gathering in the north. Armies of strange creatures-not human. There is talk of war.'
'But what? Who?' Tanis asked. 'I've heard the same.'
'And so have I,' Caramon added. 'In fact, I heard-'
As the conversation continued, Tasslehoff yawned and turned away. Easily bored, the kender looked around the Inn for some new amusement. His eyes went to the old man still spinning tales for the child by the fire. The old man had a larger audience now-the two barbarians were listening, Tas noted. Then his jaw dropped.
The woman had thrown her hood back and the firelight shone on her face and hair. The kender stared in admiration. The woman's face was like the face of a marble statue-classic, pure, cold. But it was her hair that captured the kender's attention. Tas had never before seen such hair, especially on the Plainsmen, who were usually dark-haired and dark-skinned. No jeweler spinning molten strands of silver and gold could have created the effect of this woman's silver-gold hair shining in the firelight.
One other person listened to the old man. This was a man dressed in the rich brown and golden robes of a Seeker. He sat at a small round table, drinking mulled wine. Several mugs stood empty before him and, even as the kender watched, he called sourly for another.
'That's Hederick,' Tika whispered as she passed the companions' table. 'The High Theocrat.'
The man called out again, glaring at Tika. She bustled quickly over to help him. He snarled at her, mentioning poor service. She seemed to start to answer sharply, then bit her lip and kept silent. The old man came to an end of his tale. The boy sighed. 'Are all your stories of the ancient gods true. Old One?' he aske curiously.
Tasslehoff saw Hederick frown. The kender hoped he wouldn't bother the old man. Tas touched Tanis's arm to catch his attention, nodding his head toward the Seeker with a look that meant there might be trouble.
The friends turned. All were immediately overwhelmed by the beauty of the Plainswoman. They stared in silence.
The old man's voice carried clearly over the drone of the other conversation in the common room. 'Indeed, my stories are true, child.' The old man looked directly at the woman and her tall escort. 'Ask these two. They carry such stories in their hearts.'
'Do you?' The boy turned to the woman eagerly. 'Can you tell me a story?'
The woman shrank back into the shadows, her face filled with alarm as she noticed Tanis and his friends staring at her. The man drew near her protectively, his hand reaching for his weapon. He glowered at the group, especially the heavily armed warrior, Caramon.
'Nervous bastard,' Caramon commented, his hand straying to his own sword.
'I can understand why,' Sturm said. 'Guarding such a treasure. He is her bodyguard, by the way. I gathered from their conversation that she's some kind of royal person in their tribe. Though I imagine from the looks they exchanged that their relationship goes a bit deeper than that.'
The woman raised her hand in a gesture of protest. 'I'm sorry.' The friends had to strain to hear her low voice. 'I am not a teller of tales. I have not the art.' She spoke the Common tongue, her accent thick.
The child's eager face filled with disappointment. The old man patted him on the back, then looked directly into the woman's eyes. 'You may not be a teller of tales,' he said pleasantly, 'but you are a singer of songs, aren't
