"Shhh!" Raistlin gave him a stern glance, and then paid his brother no further attention. Caramon looked up just in time to witness the climax of the traveling magician's performance, probably the apex of the man's knowledge and skill. As far as Caramon could tell, the tall, thin mage was juggling several balls of light in the air. Big deal, he thought. In all, Caramon was about as fascinated by magic feats as Raistlin was by his twin's wrestling matches.
Caramon was glancing over his shoulder, looking for Kitiara, when a huge hurrah went up from the crowd. He looked back, but he was too late. The finale was over, and the mage was packing up his stuff. Another man—almost a ringer for the magician. Caramon thought with a frown— had begun passing a basket for donations.
"What did he do?" Caramon asked Raistlin. "What did he do?" But Raistlin said nothing, and the expression on his face was almost beatific.
"There you two are!" said a hearty voice, and one hand clasped each of them on the shoulders. "You should be home. And where's Kitiara?"
It was Gilon, Amber yipping at his heels. He gave both his sons a squeeze and hoisted Raistlin easily to his sturdy shoulders. "C'mon!" he shouted to Caramon. "Where's Kit?" he asked again, looking around hesitantly.
"Uh," said Caramon, looking behind him. "Back there. Or back somewhere. We got separated because Raist—"
Gilon scolded Caramon affectionately. "You've got chores to do, and you shouldn't leave your mother at home alone. You know that." He looked round again. "Well," he shrugged, "Kit will catch up."
Gilon set a vigorous pace. Caramon had to run to keep up. Raistlin, bouncing on his father's shoulders, twisted his head to get a last glimpse of the magician in the faded yellow robe. But he and his look-alike had already vanished.
Peeking out from behind a tent, Kitiara and Aureleen observed their going. Aureleen pondered the situation, biting the nail of her thumb.
"I should really go," began Kitiara.
Aureleen held up one of her decorated pouches and shook it so that Kitiara could hear the coins jingling inside. "I've got enough for both of us," she said invitingly. "They're selling sausage sticks and custard pies and . . ."
Kitiara frowned, feeling the tug of her family responsibilities.
"And over there," Aureleen pointed out slyly, "they're setting up the sports and contests. Girls can enter too!"
Kit didn't need much convincing. "Well, just for a few hours!" she said.
* * * * *
More than one teenage boy was dismayed that spring day in Solace when a girl who was several years younger than many of them took first place in the vine climb, barefoot sprint, and wiggleboat races—juvenile category.
Aureleen, her cheeks flushed, once again tried to explain to Kitiara that she ought to get in the habit of letting a man beat her occasionally, if she ever wanted to attract someone when she grew up and get happily married. But Kit was in a good mood. Aureleen could not faze her.
Bronk Wister was hanging around with his little brother, Dune, just watching the games. They jeered whenever Kit's name was announced. Aureleen—because, after all, she was Kit's booster—got in the spirit by cheering her friend on from the sidelines. Afterward, they shared a prize-bag of chits from Kit's victories that could be swapped for food and trinkets. They stuffed themselves with sugary sweets until their stomachs ached. Then they played a couple of the games of chance run by unsavory characters inside tents, but they had no luck. Aureleen thought the games were probably rigged. They browsed the traders' booths where Aureleen bargained for a shiny copper bracelet and Kit bought a pouch of magnets whose geometric shapes pleased her. After several hours, low on energy, they sprawled on the grass in one corner of the fairgrounds, idly watching the crowd. A sign on a small striped tent she had not noticed before caught Kit's eye: "Futures Foretold, The Renowned Madame Dragatsnu." A stout, important-looking man left the tent with a satisfied expression.
Kit was intrigued, but when she counted up the tickets in her hand, she realized that they only had enough for one fortune-telling.
"Go ahead," said Aureleen, gesturing wearily. She had guessed Kit's mind. "My future is right here for the moment."
When Kit ducked under the tent flap, she came face to face with Madame Dragatsnu, a small, swarthy woman, ancient, with salt-and-pepper hair and whiskers sprouting from her nose and chin. Sitting on a woven rug, wearing a simple brown dress, the fortuneteller appeared rather unimpressive. Glancing around, Kit saw none of the mysterious paraphernalia she associated with the job of fortune-telling—no crystal sphere, cup of bones, jars of leaf crumbs, or the like.
"Sit down, child," said Madame Dragatsnu, some irritation in her thick voice. Kit could not place her peculiar accent.
Kit settled herself with crossed knees in front of the fortune-teller. Madame Dragatsnu's glistening eyes seemed to reach across the space between them and rake her over.
"It's not for me," the girl said softly, looking down, suddenly abashed. "The fortune, I mean."
"Your boyfriend then?"
Kit looked up defiantly. "No." She put down the chits she had been clutching and pushed them over to the old woman, who nodded.
"You have something that belongs to this person?"
Kit reached into her tunic and brought out a carefully folded piece of parchment—the Solamnic crest from her father. She had brought it along today in hopes of seeing people from that region who, if she showed the crest to them, might be able to give her information about Gregor or his family.
"It's—"
"Your father," said Madame Dragatsnu, cutting
