She frowned in irritation.
"Oh, don't let it bother you," said the stranger soothingly. "What's your name, half-pint?" With a show of reluctance she took the apple. "Kitiara Uth Matar," she said proudly. Was it her imagination, or did some recognition flicker across the stranger's face? Some emotion had registered, some inscrutable reaction.
"Any relation to Gregor Uth Matar?" he asked, keeping a smile on his face.
"Do you know him?" She leaned forward excitedly.
"No, no," he said hastily, shifting his tone. "Heard of him, of course. Heard of him." He seemed to look at Kit differently, more intently, appraising her face. "I'd like to meet a man of such stature—if he happened to be in these parts."
All at once, Kitiara was blinking back tears. "My father doesn't live in Solace anymore," she said stoically after a few moments. "He left home not long after we returned from a battle with some barbarians. That was over a year ago."
Kitiara would never forget that unhappy morning. For once, her father had not been there, smiling at her, when she woke up. There had been no true warning of his departure; he hadn't been getting along with Rosamun, but that was nothing new. And the note he left hardly offered an adequate explanation:
Good-bye for now. Take care of Cinnamon. She's yours. Know that your father loves you. Think of me. Gregor.
He had left behind his favorite horse and ridden off on a freshly bartered one. Kitiara had crumpled the paper and cried intermittently for days, even weeks. Now she wished she still had the note, if only as a memento.
Nobody in Solace could say for sure which way Gregor had gone, on which road in which direction.
"Have you heard news of him?" she asked the stranger eagerly.
"Hmmm. I seem to remember hearing something about some escapades in the North," he replied vaguely, preoccupied now with standing up and slipping his sword into its scabbard.
"His family hails from the North," Kit said, keenly interested.
"Or maybe it was in the wilds of Khur to the east. I'm not certain."
"Oh." Kit's voice fell.
"A man like that would never stay in one place for long," he continued.
"What do you mean?" Kit asked a little defensively, " 'a man like that'?" Looking up, he saw the apprehension that animated Kitiara's face. "I have to be on my way, little one. If I run into your father, can I give him a message?" he inquired, not unkindly.
Kitiara weighed what she could tell this stranger who in some ways reminded her of Gregor, though he was neither as tall nor as handsome. "Just tell him that I've been practicing," she said finally. "And that I'm ready." They were standing just out of sight of Kit's home, in a clearing below the elevated walkways between the vallenwoods where Kit often came to practice her swordplay. The stranger was preparing to take his leave when Kit thought to ask his name.
"Ursa Il Kinth, but you can call me Ursa if our paths cross again."
"Wait!" Kit cried out almost in desperation as he turned to go. 'Take me with you, Ursa. All I need is a real sword or dagger, and I could help protect you during your travels. I wouldn't be any trouble. I have relatives in the North, and they can help me find my father. Oh, please, please, take me with you!"
"You, protect me?" Ursa snorted. "I should hope it would be a few years before I need the protection of a child!"
Again he erupted into laughter, this time more derisively. "If it would be any child it would be you, little Miss Kitiara," Ursa said over his shoulder as he took a few steps away from her. He gave a sharp whistle between his teeth, and a muscular gray steed burst from the woods. In a minute he had mounted her and was riding off, still chuckling. A fiercely determined Kitiara had started to run after him when she heard sharp cries from the direction of her home.
"Kitiara! Kitiara! Come home! I need help!"
Kit stopped and looked resentfully in the direction of the summons.
"My labor has begun! Hurry!"
Sighing, with one last look at Ursa's back, Kitiara clambered up the nearest vallenwood. Halfway up the tree, she climbed onto the walkway that would take her home, where her mother was ready to give birth.
Chapter 2
The Birth of the Twins
Running in from the sun-dappled walkways, Kit momentarily lost her bearings as she plunged into the cottage. It was midday, but almost no light penetrated through the shutters. Rosamun had managed to close them somehow, in the interest of modesty, when she went into labor.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Kit heard more than saw her mother, who was breathing heavily. Rosamun was squatting on the floor to one side of the common room, next to the big bed. She looked up frantically when she heard Kit enter.
"Oh, Kitiara! I . . . I didn't want to keep Gilon from his day's work this morning, but—" Here Rosamun stopped. She fixed her eyes on a point somewhere over Kit's head, twisted the bedclothes in her hands, and started a low moan that built to an unholy screech. Kit was already backing up toward the door when the sound ebbed and Rosamun slumped against the side of the bed.
"Please, please, get Minna," Rosamun gasped.
Terrified, Kit bolted out the door and raced along the elevated walkways between the giant vallenwoods toward a local midwife's house, heedless of the people she jostled. Her encounter with the roguish stranger and thirst for adventure momentarily forgotten, Kit felt suddenly not a moment older than her eight years. Oh, if only Gilon hadn't gone off to
