much any more. About Caramon, Kit was confident in his abilities as a warrior. In short, she was free to leave.
Kitiara decided to say nothing to Gilon or Rosamun about her planned departure, nor, after thinking it over, to Caramon either.
The next morning, talking over the previous day's events, Kit told Raistlin where she was going. But she made him promise not to tell anyone, even after she had gone.
It was as if Raist knew before he was told. 'Will you come back?' he asked. The six-year-old's voice was steady, but Kit could see tears glistening in his eyes. She felt as if a hand were squeezing her heart.
'I imagine,' she said noncommittally, 'I'll have to come back and see how my little brothers are doing!' His eyes accused her. 'I have to do this, Raist. I can't spend my life in this cottage, this town. I won't. You understand.'
Two nights later, with light from Solinari and Lunitari flooding the cottage, Kit crept quietly down the ladder from her loft. The usual night sounds greeted her as she surveyed the common room. Gilon's gentle snoring and Rosamun's occasional moan or sigh came from their chamber.
She tiptoed over to where the twins slept. Caramon, imitative of his father, snorted as he dreamed. Raist, his face almost serene in repose, lay quietly. Fighting her feelings, Kit tucked the bedclothes up under each twin's chin.
Kitiara did not look back as she walked across the floor and opened the door into the shimmering, moonlit night.
Chapter 6
Kitiara caught up with the four men at their rendezvous point after midnight and easily followed them at a distance. They made camp an hour later, off the road. The next day Kit was ready for them when they headed out, pursuing them at a steady interval.
Their two-sectioned caravan had been progressing like that for three days now.
By day the sun burned brightly in the sky, casting a glow of warm color on the trees and rocks and earth. After sundown everything turned black and forbidding, and there was nothing to see except the shadows cast by the twin sentinels of the night, Lunitari and Solinari. The third moon, Nuitari, was invisible to all but the foulest evil creatures.
Ursa and his little band were obviously skirting the main highway, avoiding all towns and settlements while following a northeast course that was taking them toward the Eastwall Mountains. The open fields gave way to a dark fir forest as the land ascended. Gradually the foliage and pitch of the terrain had increased so that they could not cover more than twenty-five miles in a day.
In any case, Ursa and his men did not seem to be in much of a rush. They rode as steadily as they could during the late morning and afternoon, but camped early and never hurried to rise and get moving at first light.
One of the men rode a mule laden with pots and assorted supplies. The one called Radisson rode a common bay. The third, whose features were cloaked by a cowl, sat on a striking white stallion with a black muzzle. Ursa straddled his familiar gray.
Kit soon realized they were heading in the general direction of Silverhole, a shanty town of dwarven miners and itinerant workers. Yet they were maintaining an eastward drift that would place them below the town, in open, low mountain country. She could think of nothing in that area, only the occasional fief or landed estate. What could they be after near Silverhole? Although it was a mining center, there were no riches there, for the dwarves who specialized in such arduous jobs were said to be cutting stone and clearing the way for a mountain road. At the Red Moon Fair, Kit had overheard the mercenaries debate the kidnapping of a nobleman's son, but surely the miners counted no royalty among them.
Kitiara pondered what Ursa and his band were up to during the long hours she followed them. It was child's play to do so without being found out. Kitiara was a skilled rider, and she had ridden bareback practically since she could walk. Cinnamon, the chestnut mare that had once belonged to Gregor, had been his final gift to her when he absconded. Though she was the only horse the family had, there had been no thought of selling Cinnamon even through all the hard times. She had always-since Gregor left-been Kit's horse, and Kit rode her now.
Cinnamon was a veteran of forest trails and had an instinct for avoiding low branches, nickering a warning so that Kit might duck any that swung down across her path. Obviously, Kit thought, my quarry has no idea they are being tracked. They were as plain as a pack of gnomes, their passage littered with trampled foliage, discarded foodstuffs, and the dregs of their fires.
The mountain forest was different than the familiar landscape surrounding Solace. The smell here was unusually sweet, the air moist, the tapestry of colors dark and rich and mesmerizing. At first Kit had been intoxicated by the newness of everything, attentive to strange varieties of plants and flowers, curious about tracks and droppings, alert to the noises of insects and birds and the multitude of small, unseen creatures all around her. She took immense delight in the small things that she noticed: the blue frost on early morning leaves; a peculiar animal with a long snout and curled ears, staring at her from inside a bush, before it hopped away quickly on all fours; a pear-shaped fruit with prickly points whose juice was sour.
But after a while everything began to look the same in front of her as well as behind, one blurred blue-green vista. After a while Kit wished they would arrive at their mysterious destination. She began to wonder if she should risk coming out into the open and revealing herself.
Kitiara marked her route with notches cut in the trunks of trees, discreet ones below ordinary sight-lines. She was not afraid of getting lost. Gregor had taught her some essential survival skills, and she had made it her business to learn more in the years since he had left, gleaning knowledge from Gilon and even Bigardus, the well- intentioned healer. She knew enough so that she could find her way back to Solace on foot, without supplies, if necessary.
Kit knew how to forage for nuts and berries. She knew how to bank a fire to keep the wind out and the heat in. She knew how-for warmth and protection-to dig a shallow ditch at night and cover herself with leaves and branches. There was plenty of fresh water in the many streams that crisscrossed the mountainous terrain.
Her shoulder pack contained the only things she had chosen to bring along and the only things she might need: meat-sticks, a length of rope, a bone whistle, warm under-woolens, and a small, heavy carving knife taken from Gilon's workbench. That was the only weapon she had been able to put her hands on. The blanket Kit sat on when she rode came off at night to serve as her bedding.
At night she remembered the few times she had camped out with Gregor, staying up around the campfire. Her father's eyes would hypnotize her as he spun tales of his and others' exploits. His deep brown eyes glistened then, like water in the moonlight. It was at night, particularly, that Kit remembered things her father had said to her.
'The day can start out sunny and grand,' Gregor liked to say, 'and betray you in an instant. Start out in the morning cheery as a friend, and turn out to be your enemy. The night is more constant-dangerous and dark, 'tis true, but constant. You can depend on danger in a way that you can never depend on a friend.
'Some people are one way by day, another by night. But night is the true form, for darkness illuminates a man better than sunshine, whose glare can fool the eyes.
'For instance, I knew a knight once who traveled with a young squire. By day this knight, whose name was Same, was one of the stalwarts of Krynn. A boon drinking companion and a fierce swordsman. Yet by night this very fellow turned pussycat, and his squire, just a jot of a boy called Winburn…'
Kitiara rarely heard the end of Gregor's stories, which seemed to go on forever as she was falling asleep. Now, as she faced another lonely night on her first true adventure, she wondered what had become of her father. The solitude, the sounds and the darkness of this forest brought her not fear but strange comfort, as if somewhere Gregor Uth Matar was also awake in the night and thinking of her.
By the end of the third day she estimated they had traveled more than seventy-five miles, still weaving through the forest in the general direction of Silverhole. At first, Kitiara had remained several hours behind Ursa and his men, but by the fourth day she was growing impatient. Heedless of being discovered, she picked up her pace so
