The Cataclysm (8 page)

Ciri shrugged. “It is just as well. It makes things easier. I'm glad you know, in fact.”

“What do you want from me?” Matya asked.

“To strike a bargain with you, Matya. Isn't that what you like to do above all things?”

Matya's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

“You have something I want very much,” Ciri said softly.

“The doll,” Matya said, eyeing the woman.

“You see, Matya, despite the illusions I have used to mask the appearance of the village,
much of what I told you last night was the truth. An enchantment does prevent me from
leaving the village, and only the doll can break it.”

“How is it you came to be here in the first place?” Matya asked.

“I have always been here,” Ciri said in her crystalline voice. “I am old, Matya, far older
than you. You see me now as I was the day the Cataclysm struck the face of Krynn, more
than half a century ago.”

Matya stared at her in shock and disbelief, but Ciri did not pause.

“By my magic, I saw the coming of the Cataclysm. I prepared an enchantment to protect
myself from it.” A distant look touched her cold eyes, and her smile grew as sharp and
cruel as a knife. “Oh, the others begged at my door for me to protect them as well. The
same wretches who had mocked my magic before wanted me to save them, but I turned my back on them. I
wove my magic about myself, and I watched all of them perish in agony as the rain of fire
began.” Ciri's face was exultant, her fine hands clenched into fists.

Matya watched her with calculating eyes. “Something went wrong, didn't it?”

“Yes,” Ciri hissed angrily. “Yes, something went wrong!” She paused, recovered her
composure. “I could not have foreseen it. The power of the Cataclysm twisted my magic. The
enchantment protected me, as I commanded, but it also cursed me to remain here alone in
this ruined town, not aging, not changing, and never able to leave.”

Matya shuddered. Despite herself, she could not help but pity this evil woman.

“I want to be free of this place - I WILL be free of this place,” Ciri said, “and for that
I need the doll.”

Matya was no longer afraid. Magic was Ciri's element, but bargaining was Matya's own. “And
what would you give me in exchange for the doll?” she asked. “It is worth a lot to me.”

“I made that one, and once I am free I will have the power to make more,” Ciri replied. “I
will fashion you a dozen such dolls, Matya. No one in Ansalon will be wealthier than you.
All you have to do is give the doll to Trevarre. HE wants more than anything to rescue me,
to preserve his precious HONOR”. She said this last word with a sneer. “He will place the
doll upon the altar, and I will be free. And so will you. I swear it, by Nuitari.”

“And what will happen to Trevarre?” Matya asked, as if she didn't much care.

Ciri shrugged. “What does it matter? You and I will have what we want.”

“I'm curious, that's all,” Matya said, shrugging.

“You'll find out anyway, I suppose,” Ciri replied. “He will take my place in the
enchantment. He will be imprisoned within Tambor even as I am now. He will not suffer,
however. I will see to it that HIS soul is destroyed. The empty husk of his body will
dwell here until the end of all days.” Ciri arched her eyebrow. “Are you satisfied?”

Matya nodded, her expression unchanging. “I'll need to think this bargain over.”

“Very well,” Ciri said, annoyed, “but be swift about it. I grow tired of waiting. Oh, and if you are thinking of warning the knight, go ahead. He
won't believe you.” The enchantress turned and stalked away, vanishing among the ruins of
the village.

*****

Matya retrieved the leather pouch with the doll from its hiding place in her wagon and
tied it to her belt. She sat for a time on the wagon's bench, alone with her thoughts,
then finally made her way back to Ciri's cottage. Like all the others, this building was
in ruins. The roof was gone, and two of the walls had fallen into a jumble of broken stone.

Trevarre had risen and was in the process of adjusting the straps of his ornate armor. He
looked up in surprise.

“Matya. I did not hear you open the door.”

Matya bit her tongue to keep from telling him there WAS no door.

“Have you seen Ciri this morning?” he asked. He ran a hand through his lank brown hair.

“I saw her out in the village,” Matya said, afraid to say more.

“Is something wrong, Matya?” Trevarre asked her, frowning.

Matya's hand crept to the leather purse. She could have everything she had ever wanted, if
she just gave Trevarre the doll. He would take it. She knew he would. As unlikely as
Trevarre looked on the outside, the heart that beat in his chest was a knight's, true and
pure. He would break the enchantment, and Ciri would be free. She had sworn her oath by
Nuitari - a vow no sorcerer could break. Matya would be rich beyond her dreams. It would
be the greatest bargain Matya had ever struck.

Her hand reached into the pouch, brushing the smooth porcelain. “I wanted to tell you . .
.” She swallowed and started over. “I just wanted to tell you, Trevarre . . ”

“Go on,” he said in his resonant voice, his pale eyes regarding her seriously.

Matya saw kindness in his gaze, and, for one brief moment, she almost imagined she saw
something more - admiration, affection.

Matya sighed. She could not do it. How could she live with herself, knowing it was she who
had silenced Trevarre's noble voice forever? She could strike a bargain for anything - anything but
another's life. Belek had been right. There were some bargains that weren't worth making.

“There IS something wrong,” Matya blurted. “Something terribly wrong.” She told Trevarre
of her conversation with Ciri. “You see, we must leave - now!”

The knight shook his head. “She is evil!” Matya protested. “I cannot believe it, Matya.”
“What?” she said in shock. Although Ciri had warned her, Matya still was shocked. She had given up the greatest bargain of her life, and now
he claimed that he didn't believe her? “But what reason would I have to lie to you,
Trevarre? Has her loveliness made a slave of you already?” Her voice was bitter.

He held up a hand. “I did not say that I do not believe you, Matya. I said that I cannot.
I cannot believe evil of another without proof.” He sighed and paced about the ruined
cottage, which to his eyes still looked warm and hospitable. “How can I explain it to you,
Matya? It has to do with the Measure I swore to uphold. Ciri sent out a plea for help, and
I have answered it. Yes, she is lovely, but that is hardly the reason I cannot heed your
warnings, Matya. She has shown me nothing but courtesy. To leave without aiding her would
be a grave dishonor. And you know - ”

“Yes, I know,” Matya said harshly. “ 'Your honor is your life.' But what if she tried to
harm you?”

“That would be different. Then I would know she is evil. But she has not. Nothing has
changed. I will help her break the enchantment that keeps her here in this village if it
is at all in my power to do so.”

Trevarre fastened his sword belt about his waist and walked to the door of the ruined
cottage. Before he stepped outside, he laid a gentle hand upon Matya's arm. “I doubt that
it matters to you,” he said hesitantly in his clear voice, “but, to my eyes, you are every
bit as lovely.”

Before Matya could so much as open her mouth in surprise, Trevarre was gone.

Matya stood in silence for a long moment, then muttered angrily under her breath, “The
Solamnic Knights aren't fools. They're idiots!” She stamped out of the open doorway after
Trevarre.

Ciri was waiting for her.

“Do you have an answer for me, Matya?” Ciri asked in her lilting voice.

Trevarre stood before the enchantress, the wind blowing his cloak out behind him. He would
not raise a hand against her, Matya knew. What happened next was going to have to be up to
her.

“The answer is no, Ciri,” Matya said calmly. “I won't accept your bargain.”

Ciri's eyes flashed, and the wind caught her dark hair, flinging it wildly about her head.
Anger touched her lovely face. Trevarre, startled, fell back before her fury.

“That is a foolish decision, Matya,” Ciri said, all pretext of sweetness gone from her
voice. “I will find another who will break the enchantment for me. I'll have the doll
back! You both will die!”

The enchantress spread her arms wide, and the wind whipped about. Dry dust stung Matya's
face. Trevarre looked around, shock on his face. The illusion had vanished. The
evil-looking ruins were laid bare and undisguised.

Ciri spoke several strange, guttural words. Instantly the swirling wind was filled with
dead tree limbs and dry, brown leaves. As Matya watched, the broken branches and leaves
began to clump together, growing denser, taking shape.

“Trevarre, look out!” Matya cried out in terror.

The dead, brittle branches and dumps of rotting leaves had taken the shape of a man. The
tree creature was huge, towering over the knight. It reached out a bark-covered arm that
ended in splintery claws. Its gigantic maw displayed row upon row of jagged, thorny teeth.

Trevarre drew his sword, barely in time to block the creature's swing. Branches and
splinters flew in all directions, but the knight stumbled beneath the blow. His face
blanched with pain; his wounded leg buckled beneath him. He was too weak to fight such a
monster, Matya realized. One more blow and he would fall. Ciri watched the battle with a
look of cruel pleasure on her face. The tree monster roared again, drawing back its arm
for another bone-crushing blow.

Matya drew the doll from the leather pouch and stared at it. She hesitated for a moment,
but the sight of Trevarre - standing before the monster, his face grim and unafraid -

steeled her resolve. Regretfully, she bade her dreams of wealth farewell. . . and hurled
the doll at the altar.

Too late Ciri saw Matya's intent. The enchantress shrieked in rage and reached out to
catch the doll. Her fingers closed on thin air.

The figurine struck the altar and shattered into a thousand pale shards - dirty, broken
bones. The wind died as suddenly as it had started. The tree monster shuddered and
collapsed into a pile of inanimate wood and leaves. Trevarre stumbled backward, leaning on
his sword to keep from falling. His face was ashen, his breathing hard.

“What have you done?” Ciri shrieked, her sapphire-blue eyes wide with astonishment and
horror.

“I've given you what you wanted,” Matya cried. “You're free now, Ciri. Just let Trevarre
go. That's all I ask.”

Ciri shook her head, but her lips moved wordlessly now. She took a few steps toward Matya,
each one slower than the last. Her movements had become strangely halting, as if she were
walking through water, not air. The enchantress reached out a hand, but whether the
gesture was one of fury or supplication, Matya did not know. Suddenly, Ciri shuddered and
stood motionless. For a moment, the figure of the enchantress stood there among the ruins,
as pale and perfect as a porcelain doll. Her eyes glimmered like clear, soulless gems.

Then, even as Matya watched, a fine crack traced its way across the smooth surface of
Ciri's lovely face. More cracks spread from it, snaking their way across Ciri's cheeks,
her throat, her arms. As if she had been fashioned of porcelain herself, Ciri crumbled
into a mound of countless fragments, a heap of yellowed bones - all that was left of the
enchantress.

*****

The doves were singing their evening song when the gaudily painted wagon bounced past the
fallen remains of the gigantic statues and turned eastward down the road, heading toward
the town of Garnet. Matya and Trevarre had traveled in silence most of the way from the
ruined village of Tambor. The knight, still recovering from his wounds, had slept the
better part of the day. Matya was content to occupy herself with her thoughts. “You gave up your dreams to help me, didn't
you Matya?” Trevarre asked. Matya turned her head to see that the knight was awake, stroking his mousy brown moustache thoughtfully. “And what reward do you have to
show for it?”

“Why, I have this,” Matya said, gesturing to the jeweled clasp she had pinned to her
collar. “Besides, I can always find new dreams. And I am certainly not ready to give up
bargaining. I'll make my fortune yet, you'll see.”

Trevarre laughed, a sound like music. “I have no doubt of that”

They were silent for a time, but then Matya spoke softly. “You would do the same again,
wouldn't you, if you heard a call for help?”

Trevarre shrugged. “The Measure is not something I can follow only when it suits me. It is
my life, Matya, for good or ill. It is what I am.”

Matya nodded, as if this confirmed something for her. “The tales are right then. The
Knights of Solamnia ARE little better than fools.” She smiled mischievously. “But there's
one more bargain that must be struck.”

“Which is?” Trevarre asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What are you going to give me in return for taking you to Garnet?” Matya asked slyly.

“I'll give you five gold pieces,” Trevarre said flatly. “I'll not take less than fifty!”
Matya replied, indignant. “Fifty? Why, that's highway robbery,” Trevarre growled. “All right,” Matya said briskly. “I'm in a kindly mood so I'll make it twenty, but not one copper less.” Trevarre stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “Very well. I will accept your offer, Matya, but on one condition.”

“Which is?” Matya asked, skeptical.

A smile touched Trevarre's lips. “You must allow me this.” He took Matya's hand, brought
it to his lips, and kissed it.

The bargain had been struck.

Gylar Radilan, of Lader's Knoll, set his mother's hand back onto her chest, over the
rumpled blanket. It was done then. Gylar wasn't sure whether to be relieved or to crumple
into the corner and cry. Finally, though, it was done. Stepping back, he fell into the
chair he'd put by her bed, the chair he'd sat upon all night while holding her hand.

His head bowed for a moment as he thought about the past few days. The Silent Death had
swept through the entire village, killing everyone. It had been impossible to detect its
coming. There were no early symptoms. One minute, people were laughing and playing - like
Lutha, the girl he had known - and the next, they were in bed, complaining weakly of the
icy cold they felt, but burning to the touch. Their skin darkened to a ghastly purple as
they coughed up thicker and thicker phlegm, and in a few hours their bodies locked up as
with rigor mortis.

Poor Lutha. Gylar swallowed and sniffed back tears. She'd been the first one, the one who
had brought about the downfall of the village. Gylar could remember going with her into
the new marsh, the marsh that hadn't been there before the world shook. People had told
their children repeatedly not to go in. They said it had all sorts of evils in it, but
that had never stopped Lutha. She'd never listened to her parents much, and once she got
something into her head, there was no balking her. She'd had to know about their tree, his
and her tree.

Now she was dead. Now everyone was dead. Everyone, of course, except Gylar. For some
reason, he hadn't been affected, or at least not yet. His parents had seemed to be immune
as well, until the day they collapsed in their beds, shivering.

Gylar rose and crossed the room. He looked out the window to the new day that was shining
its light across the hazy horizon and sifting down over the trees skirting the new marsh.
He clenched his teeth as a tear finally fell from his eye. If it hadn't been for the
marsh, none of this would have happened! Lutha never would have brought the evil back with
her, and everyone would be okay. But, no, the gods had thrown the fiery mountain. They'd
cracked the earth, and the warm water had come up from below, and with it whatever had
killed the town.

Gylar banged his small hand on the windowsill. Why did they do it? The villagers all had
been good people.

Paladine had been their patron; Gylar's mother had been meticulously devoted to her god,
teaching Gylar to be the same. She had loved Paladine, more than anyone in the village.
Even after the Cataclysm, when everyone else turned from the gods in scorn and hatred,
Gylar's mother continued her evening prayers with increasing earnestness. What did she, of
all people, do to deserve such punishment? What did any of them do to deserve it? Was
everyone on Krynn going to die, then? Was that it?

Gylar was young, but he wasn't stupid. He'd heard his parents talking about all the other
awful things now happening to people who'd survived the tremors and floods. Didn't the
gods care about mortals anymore?

Caught up in a slam of emotions, Gylar turned and ran from the house. He ran to the edge
of the new bog and yelled up at the sky in his rage.

“Why? If you hate us so much, why'd you even make us in the first place?”

Gylar collapsed to his knees with a sob. Why? It was the only thing he could really think
of to ask. It all hinged on that. Why the Cataclysm? How could humans have been evil
enough to deserve this? How could anyone?

For a long moment he just slumped there, as though some unseen chain were dragging at his
neck, joining the one already pulling at his heart. Gylar sniffled a little and ran his
forearm quickly across his nose.

Stumbling to his feet, he looked at the sky again. Clouds were rolling in to obscure the
sun, threatening a storm. Gylar sighed. Although he had nowhere else to go, he didn't want
to stay in this place of death. His eyes swept over Mount Phineous. The towering mountain
still looked over-poweringly out of place, like a sentinel sent by the gods to watch over
the low, hilly country. The top fourth of it was swept by clouds. Another result of the
Cataclysm, the mountain seemed a counterpart of the new swamp. Brutal and imposing,
powerful, the towering rock was the opposite of the silent, sneaky swamp of death.

His fatigue overcame his sadness and revulsion, at least for the moment. Slowly, he made
his way back to the house, back to the dead house. Stopping in the doorway, Gylar turned
around to look at the land that was growing cold with winter. It was likely going to snow
today.

He turned and slammed the door shut behind him. It didn't matter. Nothing much mattered anymore. His limbs dragged at him heavily. Sleep, he
thought, that's all. Sleep, then, when I wake up - if I wake up - I'll figure out what to
do.

So, for the first time in three days, Gylar slept. *****

Eyes focused on his prey, Marakion stilled his breathing, though a haze of white drifted
slowly from his mouth. The scruffy man before him leaned heavily against the tree, huffing
frosty air as he tried to recover from the run. Although exhausted, the man never once
turned his fearful eyes from Marakion.

“A merry chase, my friend,” Marakion said in a voice that was anything but merry. “Tell me
what I wish to know. This will end.”

The man stared in disbelief. Marakion was barely winded. The man gulped another breath and
answered frantically, “I told you! I never heard of no 'Knight-killer Marauders!'”

Marakion hovered over the thief, his eyes black and impenetrable, his lip twitching,
barely holding his rage in check. The bare blade of his sword glimmered dully.
“Knightsbane Marauders,” he rumbled in a low voice. The scruffy man quivered under the
smoldering anger. “You are a brigand, just like them. You must know of them. Tell me where
they are.”

“I told you!” The thief cringed against the tree. “I don't know!”

In brutal silence, Marakion let loose his pent up rage. One instant his sword, Glint, was
at his side, and the next, the flat of it smashed into the man's neck. The thief was so
surprised by the attack that he barely had time to blink. The strike sent him reeling. Two
more clubbing strokes dropped him to the frosty earth, unconscious.

“Then you live,” Marakion said, breathing a bit harder. Leaning down, he searched the body
thoroughly for the insignia that gave his life burning purpose.

There was none to be found.

Furiously disappointed, he left the useless thug where he lay and headed for the road.

The town that had been his destination before the small band of ruffians had attacked him
lay ahead. He had searched all of the towns and outlying areas east of here, only to come up empty-handed,
forever empty-handed. But this desolate area showed promise. Marakion was sure the
marauders were here. They had to be. During the last few days, he'd come across numerous
wretches like the one he'd just felled. None of them belonged to the Knightsbane, but
their presence might be a sign that he was getting close to their hideout.

It wasn't long before sparse trees gave way to a huge, rolling meadow. On its edge stood a
squat, dirty little town. Marakion didn't even look twice at the ramshackle buildings, the
muddy, unkempt road, the muck-choked stream. The sight of people living in such squalor
was not unusual to him, not unusual at all. In fact, this place was better than some he'd
seen.

The few people he saw as he followed the road to town gave him quick, furtive glances from
beneath ragged, threadbare cowls. Marakion ignored them, made his way to the first tavern
he could spot.

He didn't even read the name as he entered. It didn't matter to him where he was, and the
names only depressed him - new names, cynically indicative of the time, such as “The
Cataclysm's Hope,” or old names, which the owners hadn't bothered to change. Those were
even worse, sporting a cheerful concept of a world gone forever, their signs dangling
crookedly from broken chains or loose nails.

Marakion opened the door; it sagged on its hinges once freed of the doorjamb. He pushed it
shut, blocking out the inner voice that continued to remind him how worthless life was if
everything was like this.

Marakion turned and surveyed the room, walked forward to the bar that lined the far wall.

The innkeeper had smiled as Marakion had entered, but now blanched nervously at sight of
the hunter's stony face, the dark, deliberate gaze.

“Uh, what can I do for you, stranger?” “What do you have to eat this day, innkeep?”
“Fairly thick stew tonight. Mutton, if you've the wealth.“ ”Bread?“ ”Sure, stranger, fairly fresh, if you've the wealth.” Marakion did not
return the man's feeble attempts to be friendly. “A chunk of fresh bread and the stew.” He tossed a few coins on the bar. “I'll be at that table over there.” The innkeeper scooped the coins
off the counter in one movement. “I'm Griffort. You need anything, I'm the man to talk to. I don't suppose you'll
be staying for the night. Got a couple of rooms open - ”

“One room,” Marakion interrupted, “for the night.” He left a stark pause in the air and
waited.

“Uh, um, another of those coins'll do it,” the unnerved innkeeper stuttered.

Marakion paid the man and made his way to the table he'd indicated. As he sat down, he
touched his money pouch. Not much left. A filthy inn, rotten food, a room likely crawling
with rats, and costing him as much as a night in Palanthas - that was the type of world he
was living in now.

The type of world he lived in now . . . Marakion put his fingers to his face and massaged
his eyes gently. He couldn't make the memories go away. Even if he blocked the images, the
essence of them still came to him. He couldn't seem to shut that out. It infected his
every thought, his every action.

He relaxed, and his muscles began to unknot from the day's exercise. He could feel the
pull of exhaustion on him. His fingers continued to massage closed eyelids, and the inn
slowly drifted from his attention.

WHERE IS SHE, MARAKION? A familiar voice asked the question again inside his head.

“I don't know. Nearby somewhere. I don't know,” he muttered.

THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH, MARAKION. WHERE IS SHE? WHERE?

“I'm looking, trying to find her!”

NOT GOOD ENOUGH, MARAKION. THERE CAN BE NO EXCUSES. THEY'LL KILL HER, YOU KNOW. EVERY DAY
YOU FAIL TO FIND THEM IS ANOTHER DAY THEY COULD KILL HER, OR USE HER.

“I know. I'll find them. If I have to rip apart this entire continent. I will.”

YOU'D BETTER.

The accusing voice drifted away, to be replaced by the vision that haunted his nights when
he slept and his waking hours whenever he lost the concentration that kept it at bay.

*****

FIRE. FIRE AND SMOKE. THE FLAMES LICKED THE TOP OF THE TOWER WINDOWS. THE SMOKE SPIRALED
UP FROM EVERY PART OF THE CASTLE, BLACKENING THE SKY. DESPAIR WRENCHED AT MARAKION'S
HEART. HE HAD RETURNED HOME IN TIME TO SEE IT FALL TO THE HANDS OF A PILLAGING GROUP OF
BRIGANDS.

HIS HORSE SLIPPED ON THE COBBLESTONES THAT LED INTO THE CASTLE. HE YANKED BRUTALLY ON THE
REINS, PULLING THE GALLOPING ANIMAL TO A STOP. THE HORSE ALMOST STUMBLED TO ITS KNEES.
MARAKION LEAPT FROM ITS BACK AND RACED INTO THE CASTLE GARDENS. THEY WERE TRAMPLED,
DESTROYED, BURNED.

“MARISSA!” HE SHOUTED ABOVE THE CRACKLING FLAMES AND TEARING, RENDING SOUNDS OF
DESTRUCTION THAT CAME FROM WITHIN THE CASTLE PROPER. “TAGOR! BESS!” HE WAS ACROSS THE
GARDEN IN A HEARTBEAT AND RAN THROUGH THE ENTRYWAY. THE GREAT DOUBLE DOORS LAY BROKEN AND
SCATTERED ON THE FLOOR. THE HUGE FOYER WAS DESTROYED, A SHAMBLES, A MOCKERY OF ITS
ORIGINAL GRANDEUR. ONE SCRUFFY-BEARDED RUFFIAN STOOD GUARD AT THE ENTRANCE.

THE MARAUDER CHARGED. HE HAD DETERMINATION AND PURPOSE IN HIS EYES; MARAKION HAD MURDER.
RAGE FUELED MARAKION'S SWORD ARM, FEAR FOR HIS FAMILY INFUSING HIS BODY WITH UNCANNY
SPEED. HE SMASHED THE INVADER'S SWORD ASIDE AND DELIVERED A VICIOUS RETURN STROKE AT THE
HEAD.

THE MARAUDER DUCKED UNDER THE POWERFUL ATTACK AND SLIPPED A CUT AT MARAKION'S MIDRIFF.
MARAKION PARRIED, STEPPED INSIDE THE INVADER'S GUARD, AND RAN HIM THROUGH.

THE INVADER FELL AND GASPED AS HIS LIFE SEEPED AWAY. MARAKION PUT HIS FOOT ON THE MAN'S
CHEST AND KICKED VIOLENTLY, FREEING HIS BLADE. THE DYING MAN'S SCREAMS ENDED BY THE TIME MARAKION REACHED THE TOP OF THE LEFT- HAND STAIRS.

“MARISSA!”

MARAKION RACED TO HIS YOUNGER SISTER'S ROOM, THE FIRST ROOM ON THE SECOND LEVEL. SHE WAS
NOT THERE, BUT, AS WITH THE FOYER, HER ROOM WAS CAST INTO DISARRAY - BOOKS THROWN ON THE
FLOOR, THE BED A SMOLDERING PILE OF BURNED SHEETS, STRAW, AND WOOD. NEXT TO THE BURNING
MASS LAY A PIECE OF CLOTH. HE RECOGNIZED IT, GRABBED IT: A SCRAP OF HER DRESS, THE
LAVENDER DRESS SHE ALWAYS WORE FOR HIS HOMECOMING. A SPATTERING OF BLOOD TAINTED THE
REMNANT.

“MARISSA!” HE YELLED IN IMPOTENT RAGE. HIS SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD SISTER, HIS BEST FRIEND, SO
BRIGHT, SO ALIVE . . . MARAKION UTTERED A STRANGLED CRY, CLUTCHED THE CLOTH IN HIS FIST. .
. .

*****

“Sir?” Sir . . . ? “Sir, are you asleep?” Marakion started awake as the hand touched him.
He was disoriented, thought he was still there, still back at his burned and devastated home.
His hand reacted to the touch with the quickness of a snake. Snatching the thin wrist, he
held it tightly. There was a gasp of pain. Marakion stared hard, trying to focus his eyes.

Marissa?

The eyes of the woman were wide, and she was frozen where she stood.

Marakion's harsh stare did not relent, but his grip lost some of its steel. No, not
Marissa, a barmaid, just a barmaid.

“What?” he asked shortly, releasing the woman's wrist. Her hair was a dirty red, and as
unkempt as the plain, rumpled brown dress she wore.

She appraised him coolly with shrewish eyes. “Griffort wants to know if you want pepper in
your stew.”

“Fine,” Marakion said, “that's fine.”

“I'll tell him,” she said curtly, and left.