Midnight prayers in the Dark Abbey. itiara spent some time searching the storeroom prison for something she could use as a weapon. This was a thankless task, considering she had been left in total darkness. The bozak had inspected the room before locking her in here, and she herself had looked around swiftly before he took the light, and she had not seen anything. Still, she had nothing else to do except think about her upcoming demise, and anything was better than that. She stumbled over crates and stubbed her toes on barrels, scraped her hand on a bent nail, and bumped her head walking into a wall, eventually coming up with a weapon-of sorts.
She kicked apart a packing crate and fashioned one of the broken slats for use as a club. To make it more lethal, she pried out some nails from the lid of a barrel, and, using another plank as a hammer, drove the nails into the end of her makeshift club, so that it was studded with points. Kit did not hope to be able to fight her way free. She hoped to put up such a vicious battle they would be forced to kill her.
This done, there was nothing else to do. She paced the storeroom until she was exhausted, then sat down on the chair. She lost all sense of time. The darkness swallowed the minutes, the hours. She was determined not to sleep, for she had no intention of wasting her few remaining hours of life in slumber, yet the silence and the boredom, the fear and the tension got the best of her. She closed her eyes. Her head sank down on her breast.
She woke suddenly from her fitful doze, thinking she’d heard sounds outside the door. She was right. Someone was putting a key in the lock.
It was time. Her executioner was here.
Kit’s heart clogged her throat. She could not catch her breath, and she thought for one moment she might die of sheer terror. Then, with a gasp, she could breathe again. She grabbed hold of the club and crept across the room, groping her way in the darkness until she found the door. She put her back against the wall. When the door opened, those looking in would not see her. They would be surprised and she would have her chance. She crouched, club in hand, and waited.
The door creaked open slowly, an inch at a time, as though someone were pushing it stealthily, fearing to make too much noise. This was odd. An executioner would have just thrust it open. Light spilled inside, not the harsh light of day or the flaring light of torches, but a thin beam of light that went stabbing and poking about the storeroom, falling on the empty chair, then glancing off barrels and boxes. The air was scented with the fragrance of exotic flowers.
No executioner smelled that good.
“Kitiara?” whispered a voice-a woman’s voice.
Kitiara lowered the plank. Keeping it hidden against her thigh, she stepped around the door. A woman swathed in a black velvet cape with a deep purple lining stood in the door. She pulled the hood back from her head. The light of her ring shone full on her face.
“Iolanthe?” Kit asked in profound astonishment, the name coming to her at the last moment.
“Thank the Queen!” Iolanthe breathed, seizing hold of Kitiara’s arm and hanging onto it as though relieved to touch something solid and real. Light beamed from a ring on her finger, stabbed wildly about the room. “I didn’t know if I would find you still alive!”
“For the time being,” said Kitiara, not certain what to make of this unexpected visitor. She shook loose the woman’s grip and looked out past Iolanthe, thinking she must have brought guards with her. There was no one there. She could not hear breathing or the jingle of armor or the shuffle of boots.
Suspicious, fearing some trap, though she could not possibly imagine what, Kitiara rounded on the witch.
“What are you doing here?” Kit demanded. “Did Ariakas send you? Is this some new torment?”
“Keep your voice down! I silenced the guards at the door, but others may come at any moment. As for why I am here, Ariakas did not send me.” Iolanthe paused, then said quietly, “Takhisis did.”
“Takhisis!” Kitiara repeated, her astonishment growing. “I don’t understand.”
“Our Queen heard your prayer and she bid me set you free. You must keep your vow to her, however,” Iolanthe added. “You must spend the night in Dargaard Keep.”
Kitiara was stunned. She had said that prayer out of desperation, never believing for a moment there were immortal ears to hear, or immortal hands to turn the key in the lock. The thought that Takhisis had not only heard but had answered and now expected her to keep her promise was almost as frightening as the cruel death she was facing.
Kit would have felt considerably better if she had known that while Takhisis may have been listening, it was Iolanthe’s ears that had heard her prayer. The witch had splashed perfume on her hands to mask the scent of burnt hair.
“Did you bring me a weapon?” Kit demanded.
“You won’t need one.”
“I will if they try to capture me. I won’t die with my guts hanging out,” she added harshly.
Iolanthe hesitated, then she reached into her tight-fitting sleeve and drew out a long poignard, the type that wizards are permitted to carry in their own defense. She handed it to Kit, who grimaced at the lightweight, fragile-looking blade.
“I guess I should thank you,” said Kit ungraciously. She didn’t like to be beholden to anyone, much less this perfumed trollop. Nevertheless, a debt was a debt. “I owe you one…”
Thrusting the poignard in her belt, she started to walk out the door.
“Bless the woman!” Iolanthe exclaimed, aghast. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving,” said Kit shortly.
“Will you walk about the Queen’s temple dressed like that?” Iolanthe gestured at Kit, who had on what she usually wore beneath her armor-a blue gambeson embroidered in golden thread with the symbol of the Blue Dragonarmy.
Kit shrugged and kept walking.
“No strangers are allowed in the Temple after the close of evening worship,” Iolanthe warned her. “The dark priests patrol the halls. You might as well not bother leaving your prison at all, for they will be returning you to it shortly. And what will you do about the magical dragon traps at each gate?”
Each of the gates was guarded by the armies of a different Highlord, each dedicated to one of the colors of chromatic dragons. Thus there was a red gate, a blue gate, a green gate, and so on. Each gate had traps that mimicked the breath weapon of the dragon it honored. The corridor leading to the red gate was lined with the stone heads of red dragons that would breathe fire on any hapless interloper, incinerating him before he was halfway down the corridor. The Gate of the Blue Dragon crackled with lightning, that of the green dragon spewed poisonous gas.
“I know the phrase to disarm the traps,” Kit said over her shoulder. “Every Highlord does.”
“Ariakas ordered the phrases changed after you were arrested,” said Iolanthe.
Kitiara halted. Her hands clenched. She stood a moment, cursing beneath her breath, then turned to face the witch.
“Do you know the new password?”
Iolanthe smiled. “Who do you think worked the magic?”
Kitiara didn’t trust this witch. She didn’t understand what was going on. She found it difficult to believe Iolanthe’s story that Queen Takhisis had sent her, yet how could the witch have known about Kit’s prayer? Like it or not, Kit was going to have to put her life into this woman’s hands, and Kit did not like it!
“So what is your plan?” she asked.
Iolanthe shoved a bundle of cloth at Kit. “First, put this on.”
Kit shook out the folds of the black velvet robes worn by the dark priests. A sensible idea, she had to admit. She fumbled her way into the garb, trying to shove her head into the sleeve hole in her haste, and then putting the robes on backward. With Iolanthe’s help, Kit managed to sort it out. The black, smothering folds enveloped her.
“Now what?”
“We will attend the midnight rites in the Dark Abbey,” Iolanthe explained. “There we will mingle with the crowd and leave with them, for the dragon traps will be disabled to allow them to pass. We must hurry,” she added. “The service has already started. Fortunately, the Abbey is not far from here.”
They left the storeroom; the glow from Iolanthe’s magical ring lit the way through Ariakas’s chambers. The main door stood slightly ajar.
“What about the guards?” Kit asked in a whisper.
“Dead,” Iolanthe replied dispassionately.
Kit peered cautiously around the door. By the light of the witch’s ring, she saw two piles of stone dust-the remnants of two baaz draconians. Kitiara regarded the witch with new respect.
Iolanthe lifted the hem of her robes to keep them out of the dust and stepped gingerly over the remains, her mouth twisting in disgust. Kit walked right through the piles, kicking dust everywhere.
“We should get rid of that,” she said, pointing back at the disturbed dust heaps. “Anyone who sees it will know that’s a dead draco.”
“No time,” said Iolanthe. “We’ll have to take our chances. Fortunately, this hall is rarely lit. And few people ever have reason to come to this part of the Temple. This way.”
Kitiara recognized the staircase by which she had descended in the company of the guards. She and Iolanthe passed it and continued on, and soon she could hear voices chanting, praising the Dark Queen. Kitiara had never attended one of the services in the Dark Abbey. She had, in fact, gone out of her way to avoid them. She was not even sure where the Dark Abbey was located. She had the vague idea it was opposite the dungeons. The corridors were lit with a purplish-white light that had no apparent source, but seemed to shine eerily from the walls. The light had the effect of washing out all color, all distinguishing features, all differences, making every object ghastly white etched with darkness.
Everyone who walked these corridors, even those who walked them daily, experienced the sense of unreality. Floors were not quite level, walls slanted oddly, corridors shifted position, chambers were not where they should be, doors were not where they had been the day before. Iolanthe, guided by the light of her ring, walked the strange halls with assurance. On her own, Kit would have been hopelessly lost.
She assumed the chanting emanated from the service. She had thought it would be easy to follow the voices, but sounds were distorted down here. Sometimes the chanting dinned in her ears and she was certain they must have arrived at the Abbey, only to find, with another turning, the chants fading away almost to silence. Then they would boom loudly again at the next turning. At one point in the service, a shrill scream reverberated through the corridors, causing the hair on the back of Kit’s neck to prickle. The horrible scream ended abruptly.
“What was that?” Kit asked.
“The evening’s sacrifice,” said Iolanthe. “The Abbey is up ahead.”
“Thank the Queen,” Kit muttered. She had never before been on the dungeon level, and she could not wait to leave. Kit liked her life uncomplicated, not cluttered up with gods-which reminded her uneasily of her bargain with her Queen. Kit put that out of her mind. She had more urgent matters to consider and, besides, Takhisis hadn’t saved her yet.
Rounding a curve, she and Iolanthe almost ran into one of the dark priests. Kitiara yanked her cowl down to hide her face, and she kept her head lowered. Her hand, folded in the capacious sleeve, grasped the poignard’s hilt.
The dark priest eyed them. Kit held her breath, but the man’s frowning gaze was fixed on Iolanthe. He pulled back his hood to glare at her. He was pale, gaunt, and cadaverous. A hideous red weal ran across his nose.
“You are here at a late hour, Black Robe,” he said to Iolanthe in disapproving tones.
Kit’s grip on the poignard tightened.
Iolanthe drew back the folds of her hood. The eerie light illuminated her face, shimmered in her violet eyes.
The dark priest looked startled, and fell back a step.
“I see you recognize me,” Iolanthe said. “My escort and I are here for the service and I am late, so I ask that you do not detain us.”
The dark priest had recovered from his shock. He glanced without interest at Kit, turned back to Iolanthe. “You are indeed late, Madame. The service is almost half over.”
“Therefore I am certain you will excuse us.”
Iolanthe swept past him, her black robes rustling around her, the scent of flowers lingering in the hallway. Kit followed humbly. She glanced over her shoulder, pushing aside her cowl to keep an eye on the dark priest. He stared after them and for a moment Kit thought he meant to come after them. Then, muttering something, he turned and stalked off.
“I’m not sure you’re such a safe companion,” said Kitiara. “You’re not very popular around here.”
“The dark priests do not trust me,” said Iolanthe calmly. “They do not trust any magic-user. They do not understand how we can be loyal to Takhisis and at the same time serve Nuitari.”
She smiled disdainfully. “And they are jealous of my power. The Nightlord is trying to convince Ariakas that wizards should be banned from the Temple. Some of his clerics want us thrown out of the city. Hardly feasible, considering the Emperor is himself a user of magic.
“Hush now,” she cautioned. “The Abbey is ahead. Do you know any of the prayers?”
Kitiara, of course, did not.
“Then make this sign if someone asks you why you do not join in.” Iolanthe moved her hand in a circle. “That means you have taken an oath of silence.”
The Abbey was crowded. Kitiara and Iolanthe found places inside the entryway. A strong smell of bodies sweating beneath black robes, burning candle wax, incense, and fresh blood wafted from the chamber. The body of a young woman lay across the altar, blood streaming from a gash in her throat. A priest with blood smeared over his hands was chanting prayers, exhorting the crowd to praise Takhisis.
Kitiara stood, fidgeting, in the crowd, the smell of blood in her nostrils, the sound of off-key yammering in her ears, and suddenly she felt she had to leave. She couldn’t bear to stand here and just wait for someone to discover that she was missing from her prison and raise the alarm.
“Let’s just get the hell out of here,” Kit whispered urgently.
“They would stop us at the gate and ask questions,” said Iolanthe in a smothered whisper, grasping hold of a fold of Kit’s sleeve. “If we go out with the crowd, no one will notice us.”
Kitiara sighed, frustrated, but she had to admit this was sound planning. She steeled herself for the ordeal.
The Abbey was a circular room, with a high, domed ceiling beneath which stood a large statue of Queen Takhisis in her dragon form. The statue was a wonder. The body was carved out of black marble, with each of the five heads done in different colored marble. The ten eyes were gems that shone with magical light that illuminated the room. By some miraculous means, the heads of the statue seemed to move; the eyes looked this way and that, with the dread light of their watchful gaze constantly sweeping the crowd.
Kit stared at the statue of Queen Takhisis as the heads bobbed and weaved, and glanced at Iolanthe, standing beside her, barely visible in the ever-shifting colored lights. Kit could not see the witch’s face for the cowl she had again drawn over her head. Kit was jittery, gripping the poignard in a sweaty palm, wishing the time to pass, wishing herself far away. Iolanthe was calm, not moving, not the least bit nervous, yet if Ariakas found out she had helped Kit escape, Iolanthe’s life would not be worth living. Whatever punishment Kit would face, Iolanthe would find it trebled.
“Why are you doing this?” Kit whispered under the cover of the chanting. “Why are you helping me? And don’t give me that crap about being the answer to my prayers.”
Iolanthe glanced at Kit sidelong from under her hood. Her violet eyes glittered in the light of the Queen’s multicolored and multi-faceted eyes. Iolanthe shifted her gaze back to the statue, and Kit thought that she was going to refuse to answer.
At length, however, Iolanthe whispered, “I do not want you for my enemy, Blue Lady.” The violet eyes, wide and intense, fixed on Kit. “If you do what you say you mean to do and you succeed, you will have one of the most powerful beings on Krynn on your side. Lord Soth will make you a force to be reckoned with. Don’t you understand, Kitiara? Her Dark Majesty is starting to have doubts about Ariakas. She is looking for someone else to wear the Crown of Power. If you prove to be the one-and I think you will-I want you to think well of me.”
And if I fail to return alive from Dargaard Keep, Ariakas retains the Crown and the witch has lost nothing in the attempt, Kitiara reflected. She is what I thought: cunning, self-serving, scheming, and conniving.
Kit was starting to like her.
The chanting had reached a fever pitch, and Kit was hoping fervently this meant that the service was about to end, when the statue’s blue head shifted in Kit’s direction. The light of the Queen’s sapphire blue eyes illuminated the crowd around her. The lighted eyes paused for a moment on the worshipper standing to Kit’s left and slightly in front of her-a bozak draconian with a bent wing. At that moment, the chanting abruptly ended, leaving ear-pounding silence behind. The Queen’s heads ceased to move. The miracle had ended. The statue was once more marble, if it had ever been anything else; Kit had thought she’d heard the squeak and rumble of a machine. The Abbey glowed with white light. The service had ended.
The crowd blinked and rubbed their eyes. Those who knew from experience that the service was nearing its close had already started to edge their way out, hoping to beat the rush. People were heading for the exit. The bozak with the bent wing turned, walking straight toward her. Kit had her hood pulled over her head, but it did not cover her face and it had slipped somewhat during the service. She turned swiftly, but not before Targ had caught a glimpse of her. Kit was certain she saw a flicker of recognition in the reptilian eyes of Ariakas’s pet bozak.
She could be mistaken, but she didn’t dare take a chance. Kit slowed her pace, let the crowd flow around her. She gripped the knife and waited for the bozak to come near.
The crowd gave a surge that sent Targ stumbling into her. Perhaps Takhisis was on her side. Hoping desperately that the fragile-looking blade wouldn’t break, Kit drove the poignard in between Tag’s ribs, aiming for the lungs, hoping to nick the heart, not kill him outright.
The bozak gave a grunt indicative more of surprise than pain. Kit jerked the blade free and hid it in her sleeve. The bozak, an astonished look in his eyes, was just starting to crumple. Kitiara grabbed hold of Iolanthe’s forearm and dragged her out of the doorway.
“Which way to the nearest gate?” Kit shoved aside several pilgrims, nearly knocking them down.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Iolanthe asked, alarmed by the look on Kit’s face.
“Which way?” Kit demanded savagely.
“The right,” said Iolanthe, and Kit tugged her along in that direction.
They had not gone far when a blast shook the walls, sending dust and debris flying. As the noise of the explosion died away, shouts, screams, and moans began to echo down the corridors. Some pilgrims halted in shock, others cried out in panic. No one had any idea what had happened.
“Nuitari save us, what did you do?” Iolanthe gasped.
“The bozak in front of me was one of Ariakas’s guards. He recognized me. I stabbed him. I didn’t have any choice,” said Kitiara, hurrying down the corridor. Seeing Iolanthe look bewildered, Kit added, “When bozaks die, their bones explode.”
Guards and dark pilgrims pushed past them, some running to the site of the blast, others running from it.
“Nuitari save us,” Iolanthe repeated. She pulled her cowl low over her face and, catching up the skirts of her robes, began to run. Kitiara joined her. She had no idea where they were and hoped that Iolanthe did. They rounded a corner and came face to face with draconian Temple guards pounding down the corridor. The guards were upon them before they could escape.
“What happened?” one demanded, blocking their path. “We heard an explosion.”
Iolanthe burst into tears. “In the Abbey. A White Robe… disguised… cast a spell… dead draconians… a blast… it’s horrible!” She used a little-girl voice, far different from her own throaty contralto.
“The White Robe got away,” Kit added. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch him. He’s dressed as a dark priest. You can’t miss him. He has a long red scar across his nose.”
The draconian commander wasted no more time in asking questions. He led his troops off in pursuit. “Good thinking,” Iolanthe said, hurrying on. “You too,” said Kit.
They climbed the winding stairs leading up out of the dungeon level. Their way was constantly impeded by troops shoving past them, racing to the scene of the disaster. Kit and Iolanthe reached the top of the stairs, ran down another corridor, and there stood the Gate of the White Dragon.
With the Temple under attack, all gates had been shut and sealed, the traps activated. The draconian guards, weapons drawn, were tense and on edge.
“Oops,” said Kitiara. She hadn’t foreseen this.
“Stay calm,” Iolanthe said quietly “Let me do the talking.”
She lowered her cowl and tearfully repeated her tale about the dastardly White Robe. The draconians knew Ariakas’s witch; Iolanthe had been there only that afternoon, working her magic on the white dragon trap that would hit anyone who set it off with a blast of frost, paralyzing them with cold. Iolanthe knew the password, of course, but the guards didn’t even bother to ask her. They were interested in her companion, however.
“Who is this?” Reptile eyes stared suspiciously at Kit.
“My guide,” Iolanthe stated. She sighed a helpless sigh and the violet eyes gave the commander a languishing look. “The corridors are so confusing. They all look alike. I get hopelessly lost.”
“What’s your name?” the draconian demanded, speaking to Kit. She remembered Iolanthe’s advice and made the sign of the circle with her hand.
“She’s taken a vow of silence,” Iolanthe explained.
The draconian eyed Kit, who stood with her head humbly bowed, clutching the bloody poignard in her hand, keeping it hidden in the capacious sleeves. The commander waved them on through the gate.
They were almost out of the Temple when they heard clawed feet running after them. Kit halted, tensed, ready to strike.
“Madame Iolanthe,” the draconian called, “the commander sent me to ask if you would like an escort home. The streets might not be safe.”
Iolanthe gave a deep sigh. “No, thank you,” she said. “I would not take you away from your post.”
The two women walked through the gate, kept walking through the Temple environs, and into the street.
Kitiara was free. She breathed in the fresh air and gazed at the black sky sparkling with stars that she had never thought she would see again. She was almost giddy with joy and relief and barely heard what Iolanthe was saying.
“Listen to me!” Iolanthe pinched her arm to command her attention. “I must hasten to Ariakas. It would look strange if I didn’t go straight to him with this news and I don’t have much time! Where are you headed?”
“To my blue dragon,” said Kit.
Iolanthe shook her head. “I thought as much. Don’t waste your time. Ariakas ordered all the blue dragons in Neraka to return to Solamnia. He knows the blues are loyal to you and feared what would happen if your dragons found out you were going to be executed.”
Kitiara swore softly.
Iolanthe pointed down a side street. “At the end of this street is a stable where Salah Kahn houses his horses. The horses of Khur are the fastest and the best in the world,” she added with pride. “They are also the smartest. To protect them from being stolen, my people teach them a secret word. You must speak this word, or the horse will not permit you to mount. The horse will buck and lash out at you with its hooves and might kill you. Do you understand?”
Kit understood. Iolanthe told her the word. Kit repeated it and nodded.
“One more thing,” said Iolanthe, detaining Kit as she was about to leave.
“What’s that?”
Iolanthe looked at her searchingly. “Will you keep your vow? Will you ride now for Dargaard Keep?”
Kitiara hesitated. She thought about life on the run. Ariakas would offer a reward for her the moment he discovered she was missing. It would be a large reward. Every bounty hunter in Ansalon would be searching for her. She’d never be able to show her face in any city or town again. She’d be constantly looking over back, afraid to go to sleep.
“I will keep my vow,” Kit said.
Iolanthe smiled. “I think you mean it. You will need this when you enter Dargaard Keep.”
The witch took hold of Kitiara’s hand and slid a large silver bracelet decorated with three jewels carved of onyx onto her wrist.
Kit grinned. “You want me to look my best for the death knight? Does it have earrings to match?”
“What do you know of Lord Soth?” Iolanthe asked.
“Not much,” Kit admitted. “He’s a death knight-”
“He can kill you with a single word,” Iolanthe said. “He has an army of undead warriors who are bound to defend him, and if you fight your way past them, which is doubtful, you will encounter banshees. Their song is so horrific that if you hear but one wailing note, your heart will cease to beat and you will drop down dead. You will not survive five minutes in Dargaard Keep, much less an entire night.”
Kit was subdued.
“So I take it this bracelet is magical.” Kit eyed the piece of jewelry doubtfully. “Will it protect me in some way?”
“It will save you from dying of sheer terror. In addition, the onyx gems will absorb magical attacks made against you, though they will only take so much punishment. After that, they will crumble and the bracelet will be useless. Still, it should at least get you inside the front door. Its power is limited. Don’t put it on until you intend to use it.”
Kitiara clasped her hand over the bracelet.
“Good luck,” Iolanthe added. She placed her hand over a ring she wore and began to mutter to herself.
“Wait, Iolanthe,” said Kit, and the witch halted her incantation.
“Well, what now?”
Kit wasn’t used to being grateful. The words stuck in her throat and came out gruff and awkward. “Thank you.”
Iolanthe smiled. “Do not forget what you owe me,” she said and disappeared, her black robes melting into the dark night.
Kitiara hurried down the alleyway. Behind her, she could hear more shouts as the tale spread among the outraged followers of Takhisis that a murderous White Robe had used his magic to infiltrate their Temple.
She found the stables and chose a black horse, liking the look of his powerful musculature, noble stance, the proud arch of his neck and the glint in his eye. She spoke the word Iolanthe had taught her. The horse permitted her to saddle him and within a few moments she was galloping out of the city.
Kitiara took the road north, toward Dargaard Keep.
Back in the Temple, the account of the White Robe caught the imagination of the worshipers and by the time the Nightlord arrived on the scene and was able to interrogate witnesses, several dark priests swore they had been standing right next to the daring wizard. The dark priest with the bald head and the scar across his nose was apprehended by a squad of draconians. Angered over the death of Targ, they gutted the man on the spot, only to discover after he was dead that he was not and never had been a user of magic. By dawn, the entire city of Neraka was being turned upside down as the draconians went house to house searching for the now-infamous White Robe wizard.
Such was the furor and outrage over the killings in the temple that everyone lost interest in the execution of Kitiara uth Matar. Guards were sent to bring her to the Arena of Death, only to find that she had managed to escape during the night’s chaos. Ariakas was given this information by a quaking aide, who expected nothing less than death himself. Iolanthe was weeping and having hysterics in a corner. The Nightlord was raving about his ruined Abbey and demanding to know what the emperor was going to do to fix it. While he was talking, Salah Kahn came storming in, shouting in fury that his favorite horse had been stolen.
Ariakas received all this news with a calm equanimity that astonished everyone. He said nothing. He did not kill the messenger. He listened to the Nightlord’s ravings and Salah Kahn’s rants and Iolanthe’s hysterics in silence, then ordered the Nightlord, the Highlord, the witch, and everyone else to leave.
Once he was alone, Ariakas paced the floor and considered the amazing coincidence that had brought a White Robe wizard to blow up the Dark Abbey on the very same night Kitiara happened to be locked up in the store room in the Temple awaiting execution.
The Emperor shook his head and said to himself in admiration, “What a woman. What a woman!”