Highlords. High treason. itiara’s journey from Tarsis to Neraka was not a pleasant one. The skies were gray and overcast. A chill drizzling rain mixed with snow fell almost the entire trip. She was chilled and wet all the time. When they stopped at night to rest, she could not build a fire to warm herself, for the only wood she could find was soaked. The blue dragon was respectful to her and deferential, but he wasn’t Skie. She couldn’t talk to this dragon about her plans and schemes, couldn’t visit with him while he crunched beef bones from a stolen cow and she stewed a rabbit.
Kitiara was angry at Skie. He had no right to make such accusations, yet she found herself hoping the dragon would think better of his temper fit and come in search of her, ready to apologize. Skie did not appear, however.
They arrived at Neraka as darkness was falling. Kitiara sent the blue to the dragon stables, telling the beast to be ready to depart the moment the meeting was adjourned. Kitiara made her way through the crowded streets to the Broken Shield Inn. She was cold, hungry, and wanted a warm bed, a blazing fire, and hot, spiced wine. But when she arrived, she was told regrettably that there was no room. The inn was filled to capacity with Highlord Toede’s personal staff, retinue, soldiers, and bodyguards.
Kitiara could have slept in her own private quarters in the Temple of the Dark Queen, but those chambers were cold, gloomy, and comfortless, not to say unsettling. The gates were trapped with deadly magicks, and she would have to remember the password and hand over her weapons and answer a lot of fool questions. She got on well enough with the draconian guards, but she couldn’t abide the dark priests slinking about in their heavy black woolen robes that always smelt of incense, cheap dye, and damp sheep. The fire in her grate in the temple would be small and feeble, almost as if the Nightlord was wary of any source of light invading his sacred darkness. There would be no spiced wine, for strong drink was forbidden on Temple grounds, and Kitiara believed, as did Ariakas, that while she was there, unfriendly eyes were watching her, ears were listening.
Seeing the rage in Kit’s dark eyes when told there was no room, the innkeeper recalled suddenly that there might be one available. He hastily sent his servants to remove two of Toede’s henchmen who had drunk themselves into a stupor. It took six men to haul the dead drunk hobgoblins out of their beds; and they woke the next morning to discover, to their bleary astonishment, that they’d spent the night in the stables. Kitiara took over their room, aired it out well, drank several mugs of the warming wine, and fell into bed.
Since this was an emergency meeting of the Dragon Highlords, there was none of the ceremony generally attendant upon such an exalted gathering. Formal meetings of the Highlords were accompanied by parades of soldiers dressed in shining armor marching through the streets with standards flying. As it was, few people in Neraka knew the Highlords were in town. Two, Salah Khan and Lucien Takar, were accompanied by their personal staff and bodyguards. Two others, Kitiara and Feal-Thas, traveled alone.
The newly promoted Highlord Toede was the only one to bring his entourage. Toede had hoped to be able to triumphantly parade his troops, with himself mounted upon a black stallion, through the streets of Neraka. Various difficulties crushed the hob’s dreams. The stallion bolted at the smell of him; half his soldiers had deserted during the night, and the other half were too drunk to stand. Toede had to content himself with attending his first meeting resplendent in a suit of dragon armor, the scales of which weighed nearly as much as if they were still on the dragon, causing the poor hob considerable pain and discomfort, and hampering his mobility to such an extent that, in lieu of riding on the black stallion, he had to be hauled to the meeting in a hay wagon. The helm obscured his vision and his sword tangled his legs, tripping him, but Toede thought he looked sublime-every inch the Highlord-and he anticipated making a grand entrance.
The meeting was scheduled for early in the morning. Kit left orders to be awakened at dawn and went to bed early. Takhisis was almost immediately in her dreams again, prodding her to go to Dargaard Keep. Kit refused. The Dark Queen scolded and taunted, sneered at Kitiara, called her a coward. Kitiara pulled her pillow over her head and either the Dark Queen grew weary of badgering her, or Kitiara was so tired that she slipped beneath the dreams into exhausted slumber.
At the appointed hour, someone came banging on her door. Kitiara swore at them and told them to go away. When she finally woke up, it was to bright sunlight and the panicked feeling she was late. Muddle-headed and sluggish, Kit hurriedly dressed herself in her gambeson and put her armor on over that.
She had given orders to have her armor polished and her boots cleaned and this had been done, though the job was not up to her standards. No time to remedy that, however. She was going to be late as it was. Her temples throbbed from lack of sleep and too much wine. She wished her head were clearer so that she could think better.
Accoutered in her blue dragon scale armor and cloaked in a long blue velvet cape that was sadly wrinkled from having been stuffed into her traveling bag, Kitiara placed the helm of the Dragon Highlord on her head and set forth. The meeting was being held in the Blue Quarter, in the headquarters building of the Blue Wing, the same building where Kit had first heard about Tanis, first heard Ariakas’s idiot scheme regarding the dragon orb, first met Ariakas’s witch whose name she could not recall.
Citizens and soldiers alike made way for Kitiara, and many cheered her. She cut a fine figure, walking tall and proud, her hand on her sword’s hilt. Kit enjoyed the walk. The cold air blew away the fumes of the wine, the cheers braced and emboldened her. Kitiara took her time, accepted the crowd’s adulation. The other Highlords could wait for her, she decided. She was not going to rush on account of the likes of Toede and that bastard Feal-Thas. She had a few things to say to Ariakas about him, as well.
The Highlords had gathered in the dining hall of the Blue Wing, the only building large enough to hold them and their bodyguards. Since no Highlord trusted the others, the bodyguards were considered indispensable.
Lucien of Takar, Highlord of the Black Army, who was half-human and half-ogre, brought with him two immense ogres, who towered over everyone in the room and gave off the stench of rotting meat. Salah Khan was Highlord of the Green Army. He was human; his people were desert-dwelling nomads with a love for battle. He was accompanied by six human males armed with long, curve-bladed knives thrust into their belts and scimitars on their hips.
Fewmaster Toede came surrounded by thirty hobgoblin guards, all armed to the teeth and all of them clustered protectively around Toede, who could barely be seen in their midst. Ariakas banned all but six of the hobs from entering. Weighed down by his armor, Toede clunked into the meeting room, guided by his guards, for he was having difficulty seeing through his ornate helm.
Toede greeted the other Highlords with much slavering and slobbering. Ariakas ignored him. Lucien regarded him with disgust and Salah Kahn with disdain. Though he could not see all that well, Toede felt the distinct chill in the atmosphere, and he retired precipitously behind his bodyguards. He spent the rest of the time poking his hobs in their backs, urging them to remain alert.
Feal-Thas strode into the room alone, accompanied by a great white wolf that padded silently at his side.
“No men-at-arms tripping on your heels, Feal-Thas?” asked Ariakas, who was himself accompanied by six bozak draconians. One of them, a bozak with a deformed wing, was one of the largest draconians any of them had ever seen.
“Why should I bring guards, my lord?” Feal-Thas asked with a look of feigned surprise. “We are all friends here, are we not?”
“Some more than others,” growled Lucien.
Salah Kahn grunted his agreement, and Ariakas chuckled. Neither of the other Highlords liked or trusted the dark elf. They would have turned on him in an instant, their knives out for blood, except for Ariakas. The emperor himself had no great love for the elf, nor did Queen Takhisis. They tolerated him because, for the moment, he was useful to them. Let him cease being useful and their support would end.
“Besides,” Feal-Thas added, wrapping his fur robes around him, “I see so little in this room to fear.”
Salah Kahn, whose temper was legendary, bounded to his feet, drawing his sword. Lucien, fists clenched, was rising from his chair, and Toede was eying the nearest exit. The bent-wing bozak drew a sword as large as some humans were tall and took his place in front of the emperor.
Feal-Thas sat unperturbed, his long, thin-fingered hands folded on the table. The white wolf growled menacingly and put its head down, tail twitching.
“Sheathe your sword, Salah Kahn,” ordered Ariakas good-humoredly, a fond parent separating quarreling children. “Sit down, Lucien. We are here on important business. Feal-Thas, bring that beast of yours to heel.”
When order had been more or less restored, he added with a grimace. “We’re all a bit irritable. If you’re like me, you got little sleep last night.”
“I slept fine, Your Lordship,” said Toede loudly. No one answered him, and, thinking they could not understand his words, he managed, with the help of two of his guards, to extricate himself from his helm.
“I worship and respect Her Dark Majesty,” Salah Kahn was saying, treading cautiously. “No one more. But it is impossible for me to leave the war in the east to travel to Dargaard Keep. I wish Her Majesty could be made to understand this. If you were to have a word with her, Emperor-”
“What’s this about Dargaard Keep?” Toede asked, mopping his brow.
“She plagues me as she does you, Salah Khan,” Ariakas returned. “She is obsessed with this notion of bringing Soth into the war. She talks of nothing else, except that and finding the Green Gemstone man.”
“Lord Soth?” Toede asked. “Who is Lord Soth?”
“Personally I do not want this death knight anywhere near me. Consider his arrogance. He sets us a test?” Feal-Thas shrugged. “He should be honored to serve any one of us. Almost any one of us,” he amended.
“Oh, that Lord Soth,” said Toede with a knowing wink. “He approached me, offered to work for me. I turned him down, of course. ‘Soth’ I said. I call him ‘Soth’, you see, and he calls me-”
“Where the devil is Kitiara?” Ariakas demanded, slamming his hands on the table. He turned to a servant. “Go fetch her!”
The servant departed, only to come back to say that the Blue Lady was at that moment entering the building.
Ariakas exchanged a few words with the bent-wing bozak. He and several baaz draconians took up positions on either side of the door. Lucien and Salah Kahn glanced at each other, wondering what was up. Though neither knew, they both sensed trouble and kept their hands near their weapons. Toede was having some difficulty seeing over the heads and shoulders of his bodyguards, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that something dire was about to happen, and the only exit was now being blocked by six large bozaks. The hob gave an inward groan.
Feal-Thas, who had written the letter betraying Kitiara, was able to guess what was about to happen. He waited with anticipation. He had never forgiven her for killing his guardian.
Booted footsteps rang in the hallway, then Kitiara’s raised voice, calling jocular greeting to the guards. Ariakas’s dark, baleful gaze was fixed on the entrance. The bozaks flanking the door tensed.
Kitiara strolled inside, her sword clattering at her hip, her blue cape flowing after her. She carried her helm beneath her arm.
“My lord, Ariakas-” she began, about to raise her hand in salute.
The bent-wing bozak seized hold of her, pinning her by the arms. A second bozak grabbed her sword and yanked it from its sheath.
“Kitiara uth Matar,” said Ariakas in sonorous tones, rising ponderously to his feet, “you are under arrest on a charge of high treason. If you are found guilty, the penalty for your crime is death.”
Kitiara stood frozen, staring, open-mouthed and confounded, so astonished she made no attempt to resist. Her first thought was this was some sort of jest; Ariakas was noted for his perverted sense of humor. She saw in his eyes, however, that he was serious-deadly serious.
Kitiara looked swiftly around the room. She saw the other Highlords-three of them as astonished as herself-and she realized they had not been brought here for a meeting. This was a trial. These men were her judges, each one of whom coveted her position as Highlord of the Blue Dragon Army. Even as she realized this, she saw each man’s shock give way to pleasure, saw each cast dark glances at his compatriots, plotting and scheming how best to attain her position. In their minds, she was already dead.
Kitiara’s impulse then was to fight, but that came a little too late. Her sword was gone. She was in the firm and painful grasp of an enormous bozak, who was armed with both a sword and powerful magicks. The thought crossed Kit’s mind that it would be better to fight a hopeless battle to the death now than face whatever torment Ariakas had in mind for her. She restrained herself, however. The Solamnics have “My honor is my life” as their credo. Kit’s was “Never say die.”
She recovered her composure. She had not always obeyed Ariakas’s orders. She had gone off on raiding parties when she should have been laying boring siege to some castle. She had appropriated for the use of her troops certain tax revenues meant to go to the emperor. None of these offences could be termed crimes of high treason, however, though of course the emperor could call stealing a meat pie from his table high treason if he chose. Kit had no idea what all this was about. Then she saw the faint smile upon the lips of Feal-Thas, and Kit immediately recognized her enemy.
She stood tall and straight, fearless and dignified in the grasp of her captors, and faced Ariakas.
“What is the meaning of this, my lord?” Kitiara demanded with an air of injured innocence. “What act of high treason have I committed? I have served you faithfully. Tell me, my lord. I do not understand.”
“You are charged with plotting the murder of Dragon Highlord Verminaard and hiring assassins to carry it out,” said Ariakas.
Kitiara’s jaw dropped. The irony was chilling. She was being charged with the one crime of which she was innocent. She glanced at Feal-Thas, saw the faint smile broaden, and she snapped her jaw shut with a click of her teeth.
Her voice trembling with rage, Kitiara stated, “I utterly refute and deny that charge, my lord!”
“Lord Toede,” said Ariakas, “did Highlord Kitiara ask you in a most suspicious manner for information regarding the felons who assassinated Verminaard?”
Toede managed to worm his way through the forest of his bodyguards and said with a gasp and many mop-pings of his brow, “She did, my lord.” “I did not!” Kitiara retorted.
“Did she talk to a man called Eben Shatterstone, also seeking information about these people?”
“She did, my lord,” Toede said, proud of being the center of attention. “The wretch told me so himself.”
Kitiara would have liked to choke the hobgoblin until his beady little eyes popped out of his yellow head. But the bent-wing bozak had a grip of steel on her and she could not break free. She contented herself with shooting Toede a look so threatening and malevolent that Toede shriveled up and shrank back, terrified, among his bodyguards.
“She should be in manacles, my lord!” the hob quavered. “Put her in leg irons!”
Kitiara turned to Ariakas. “If you have no other evidence besides the word of this quivering mound of goo-”
“The emperor has my evidence,” said Feal-Thas. Gathering his robes about him, he rose gracefully to his feet, his motion slow and unhurried. “As many of you know,” he said, speaking to the group at large, “I am a winternorn. I will not go into detail explaining this magical skill to the uninitiated. Suffice it to say, a winternorn has the power to delve deep into the heart of another.
“I looked into your heart, Highlord Kitiara, when you were gracious enough to visit me in my icebound solitude, and I saw the truth. You sent these assassins to kill Lord Verminaard, hoping to succeed him as Highlord of the Red Dragonarmy.”
“Lies! Liar!” Kitiara lunged at Feal-Thas in such fury that the bozak holding her was nearly dragged off his clawed feet. “I should have killed you at Icereach!”
Feal-Thas glanced at Ariakas as much as to say, “Do you require any more proof, my lord?” and sat down, undisturbed by Kit’s ravings.
Realizing she had only made matters worse, Kitiara managed to regain some semblance of calm. “Do you believe him, my lord, a shit-eating elf, or will you believe me? I had nothing to do with the death of Verminaard! He died through his own folly!”
Ariakas removed his sword and tossed it on the table.
“Highlords, you have heard the evidence. What is your verdict? Is Kitiara uth Matar guilty of the murder of Highlord Verminaard or do you find her innocent?”
“Guilty,” said Lucien, with an orgish grin.
“Guilty,” said Salah Kahn, his dark eyes glinting.
“Guilty, guilty!” cried Toede, then added nervously, “Therefore she should most definitely be in leg irons!”
“I am sorry, Kitiara,” said Feal-Thas gravely. “I enjoyed our meeting at Icereach, but my duty is to my emperor. I must find you guilty.”
Ariakas shifted the sword around. The point faced Kitiara. “Kitiara uth Matar, you have been found guilty of the death of a Dragon Highlord. The punishment for that crime is death. At dawn tomorrow, you will be taken to the Arena of Death where you will be hanged, drawn and quartered. The remains of your body will be placed upon pikes at the Temple gates to serve as a warning to others.”
Kitiara stood still. She no longer struggled. Her ravings ceased.
“You are making a terrible mistake, my lord,” she said calmly. “I have been loyal to you when all these others have been false. But no longer, my lord. No more. It is you who have betrayed me.”
Ariakas made a gesture to the bent-wing bozak as if tossing out garbage. “Take her away.”
“Where to, my lord?” the bozak asked. “Does she go to the Pen or to the dungeons in the Temple?”
Ariakas considered. The Pen was the local prison house and it was always overcrowded, verging on chaos half the time. Escapes were not common, but they did occur, and if anyone could manage to escape confinement, it would be Kitiara. She would be put into a cell with other prisoners-male prisoners. He could picture her seducing the jailer, her guards, her fellow inmates, rousing them all to revolt.
The dungeons in the Temple were more secure and less crowded. Most political prisoners were jailed there, yet Ariakas hesitated to send Kitiara to the Temple. The dark priests and the Nightlord had no love for Kitiara, who had stated openly she considered them lazy toadies who did nothing except eat and sleep while the military undertook the hard and thankless work of winning the war. Still, the Nightlord was jealous of Ariakas and Kit might find a way to win him to her side.
No matter where she was incarcerated, so long as she lived, Kitiara was a danger. Ariakas began to wish he’d scheduled her execution immediately, not waited for the public spectacle. Too late to change his mind. The other Highlords would scent weakness. He could think of only one place where she would be safe and completely inaccessible to anyone.
“Lock her up in the storeroom in my private chambers in the Temple,” Ariakas said. “Post guards at the door. No one is to enter my chambers. No one is to speak to her. Any who fail me in this will suffer a fate identical to hers.”
The bent-wing bozak saluted and started to lead Kitiara out the door. She had one last bold and desperate plan in mind. She had only to decide where and when to strike.
As if reading her mind, Ariakas remarked casually, “Oh, and by the way, Targ, be careful. She has a knife concealed in her dragon scale armor.”
“The knife!” the draconian demanded, holding out his clawed hand.
Kitiara glared at him defiantly and made no move to comply.
“You can either show Targ where it is, Kitiara,” said Ariakas dryly, “or he will strip you naked here and now.”
Kitiara showed Targ where to find the knife. The bozak removed the weapon and then took off all her armor, leaving her in her gambeson. He searched her again from head to toe, just in case, and then placed her in the custody of two baaz draconians.
Kit endured these indignities with her head held high, her fists clenched. She’d be damned if she would give her enemies the satisfaction of seeing her sweat.
“Take her out,” ordered Ariakas.
As the baaz were about to haul her away, Kitiara turned to Feal-Thas.
“You have the gift to look into hearts,” she said. “Look into mine, now.”
Feal-Thas was startled. He was about to refuse, but he saw Ariakas watching him and the thought came to him that this was some sort of test. Perhaps she meant to prove him a liar. Shrugging, he did as she requested. He cast the spell of the winternorn and gazed into her heart. He saw three Solamnic knights and a powerful cleric of Paladine leaving Tarsis, traveling the road to Icereach, intent upon stealing his dragon orb.
Feal-Thas shivered in rage, as though he’d been nipped by his own chill winds. He stood up from the table.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I must leave at once.” The elf cast a pale, cold glance at Kitiara. “Events require my immediate return to Icereach.”
The other Highlords stared at him. Kitiara’s lip curled. Turning on her heel, she allowed her captors to lead her away.
The emperor looked out his window where he had once stood with Kit, watching traitors hang. Kit walked down the street in the midst of her guards, her head high, shoulders thrown back. She was laughing.
“What a woman,” Ariakas muttered. “What a woman!”
On their way to the Temple, Kitiara attempted to bribe her baaz guards. The bent-wing bozak heard her talking to them and he ordered the two to leave, replacing them with two more.
Next Kit tried to bribe the bozak. Targ didn’t even deign to reply to her generous offer. Kitiara sighed inwardly. She had guessed the attempt would fail, for the draconian guards were known to be extremely loyal to Ariakas. Still, it had been worth the attempt. The bozak would report back to Ariakas that she’d tried to bribe them, but what did that matter? What would he do to punish her? He couldn’t kill her twice.
Ariakas’s servant had run ahead of them to alert the Temple authorities. When informed that he was to house a Highlord on charges of treason, the Nightlord was confounded, did not know how to react. He was angered at first; he felt he should have been informed of Kitiara’s treachery and consulted in the decision to execute her. He most certainly should have been told in advance that Ariakas planned to imprison her inside the Temple.
That being said, the Nightlord was not sorry to see the arrogant Blue Lady humbled and humiliated, nor would he fail to enjoy watching her execution.
The Nightlord sent a terse reply back to Ariakas, but that was the extent of his protest. He dispatched several acolytes to the Arena of Death to insure that his private box was supplied with food in case Kitiara’s demise was prolonged. People had been known to survive an amazingly long time in screaming agony after having been disemboweled.
The Temple of Neraka was located in the center of the city, which had grown up around it. The Temple existed simultaneously on two planes-the material and the spiritual-and was a strange and eerie place. One felt as if one were walking in a building that existed in a dream, rather than reality. Organic in nature, having sprouted from the seed of the foundation stone, the Temple’s walls were twisted and misshapen, its hallways twisting and tortured. As in a dream, corridors that appeared to be short and straight were actually long and winding. Those who attempted to walk through the Temple alone, without the guidance of the dark priests, would either end up lost or insane.
Kitiara, like the other Highlords, had her own furnished quarters in the Temple. Each Highlord had his own entrance, guarded by his own soldiers. The Highlords used these only on ceremonial occasions, all of them preferring the warm and homely comforts of an inn or even their own barracks to the unnerving atmosphere of the Temple.
Ariakas’s imperial suite was the most luxurious in the Temple, second only to that of the Nightlord. Ariakas rarely spent much time there. He did not trust the Nightlord, nor did the Nightlord trust him. The bozak, Targ, knew his way around the temple, but he was glad to have one of the dark priests serve as escort. They marched Kitiara through the distorted halls. But even those who worked in the Temple often found the hallways confusing. Their escort was forced to halt at one point to wait for another dark pilgrim to provide direction.
As Kitiara trudged along in between the two baaz, who wouldn’t even look at her, much less speak to her, she tried to devise some plan of escape. Ariakas was smart. The Temple made an excellent prison. Even if she managed to free herself from her confinement, she might wander these halls forever and never find the way out. The dark priests would not help her. They would be just as happy to see her dead.
This was the end. She was finished. She cursed that idiot Verminaard for getting himself assassinated, cursed Tanis for killing him, cursed Feal-Thas for spying on her, cursed Toede for having been born, and cursed Ariakas for not letting her pursue the war in Solamnia. Fighting the knights would have kept her out of trouble.
The bent-wing bozak, Targ, led her to the imperial suite which was located far below ground level, hidden from public view. The chambers belonging to the Highlords were all at the top of the temple structure, above the Hall of Audience. Kit had often wondered why Ariakas had chosen subterranean rooms for his apartment. When she saw them, she understood. This was not a dwelling place. It was a bunker. Here, underground, accessible only by a steeply winding staircase, were quarters for his troops and an attached storehouse stocked with supplies. A small force could hold out here for a long time, perhaps indefinitely.
The priest lit a torch and went on ahead down the staircase to disable the traps. The air was fetid and damp. Murder holes lined the walls. Any force descending those stairs would have to move in single file, and the narrow stairs were deliberately rough and uneven. Even the draconians with their clawed feet had to watch their footing or risk a fall. At the bottom, a massive iron door, operated by a complex mechanism, stood open. The bozaks led Kit through this door and into the apartments that were spacious, luxurious, dark, and oppressive.
No wonder Ariakas refused to live here, Kitiara thought with a shiver. This was where, if all went badly, he would make his final stand, fight his last battle, and, if defeat were imminent, this was where he would die.
At least he would die fighting, Kitiara reflected bitterly.
Ariakas had said she was to be locked in the storeroom. Targ escorted her to the room, which turned out to be a large pantry, dark and windowless, off the kitchen. The dark pilgrim brought her a blanket to spread on the cold stone floor and a slop bucket for her needs, and asked if she wanted anything to eat. Kit declined with scorn. The truth was, her stomach was clenched in knots. She feared she would throw up if she ate a morsel.
The dark priest asked about manacles. Despite Toede’s insistence on shackling Kit, the bozak had not thought to bring any along, and there were none to be found in the apartment. At length it was decided between Targ and the priest that for the moment manacles would be unnecessary. Kit obviously was not going anywhere until morning, when she would be led to her execution. The priest promised he would have manacles for her then. Targ shoved her inside the storeroom and started to shut the door.
“Targ, tell Ariakas I am innocent!” Kitiara pleaded with the draconian. “Tell him I can prove it! If he will only come to see me-”
Targ slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.
Alone in pitch darkness, Kitiara heard the clawed feet of the bozak scraping over the stone floor. Then there was silence.
She could hear the beating of her own heart, each beat falling into the silence like grains of sand, counting out the seconds to her death. Kitiara listened to her heartbeat until the thudding grew so loud the walls of her prison seemed to expand and contract with this sound.
Kit was, for the first time in her life, almost sick with fear.
She had witnessed people being hanged, drawn, and quartered. The ordeal was terrible. She’d known veteran soldiers forced to turn away their heads, unable to stomach the gruesome sight. First, she would be hanged, but not until she died, only until she lost consciousness. Then she would be roused and staked down on the ground. The executioner would cut her organs from her still-living body. Screaming and writhing in unbearable agony, she would be forced to watch as her entrails were thrown into a fire and burned. She would be left to slowly bleed to death until, near the end, they would hack the limbs from her body and cut off her head. The various parts of her would be thrust onto pikes and left to rot at the Temple gates.
Kitiara imagined what the knife would feel like as it sliced into her gut. She imagined the cheers of the crowd as the blood spurted, cheers that, though loud, would not drown out her screams. The chill sweat rolled down her face and neck. Her stomach heaved; her hands began to shake. She could not swallow; she could not breathe. She gasped for air and jumped to her feet with some wild idea of flinging herself headlong into the wall, to end it by dashing out her brains against the stone.
Reason prevailed. Fearing she was on the verge of madness, she forced herself to think this through. She was down, but not out. It was only mid morning. She had the rest of the day and all the night to come up with a plan of escape.
What then? What if she did escape?
Kitiara sank down upon the chair. She would be alive, that was true, and that counted for something, but she would spend the rest of her life on the run. She, who had been a Dragon Highlord, a leader of armies, a conqueror of nations, would now skulk about the woods, forced to sleep in caves, reduced to thieving. The ignominy and shame of such a wretched existence would be harder for her to endure than the few terrible hours of agony she would suffer at her execution.
Kitiara let her head sink into her hands. A single tear burned her cheek; she angrily dashed it away. She had never known such despair, never been in such a hopeless position. She might try to make a bargain with Ariakas, but she had nothing to give.
A bargain.
Kitiara raised her head. She stared into the darkness. She could strike a bargain, but not with Ariakas-some-one higher. She didn’t know if it would work. Half of her thought it might, the other half scoffed. Still, it was worth a try.
Kitiara had never in her life asked a boon of anyone. She had never said a prayer, was not even certain how one went about praying. Priests and clerics went down on their knees, humiliated and abased themselves before the god. Kitiara did not think any god would be pleased with that, particularly a strong goddess, a warrior goddess, a goddess who had dared to wage war on earth and in heaven.
Kitiara stood up. She clenched her fists and shouted out, “Queen Takhisis. You want Lord Soth. I can bring him to you. I am the only one of your Highlords, my Queen, with the skill and the courage to confront the death knight in his keep and convince him of the worthiness of our cause. Help me escape this prison tonight, Dark Majesty, and I will do the rest.”
Kitiara fell silent. She waited expectantly, though she was not sure for what. Some sort of sign, perhaps, that the goddess had heard her bargain, accepted her deal. She’d seen the priests receive such signs, or so they claimed. Flames flaring upon the altar, blood seeping from solid stone. She had always assumed these were nothing more than tricks. Her little brother, Raistlin, had taught her how such fakery could be accomplished.
Kitiara did not believe in miracles, yet she had asked for one.
Perhaps that was the reason no sign came. The darkness remained dark. She heard no voice, heard nothing except her beating heart. Kit sat back down. She felt foolish, but also calm-the calm of despair.
She had only now to wait for death.