Cinnamon was a veteran of forest trails and had an instinct for avoiding low branches, nickering a warning so that Kit might duck any that swung down across her path. Obviously, Kit thought, my quarry has no idea they are being tracked. They were as plain as a pack of gnomes, their passage littered with trampled foliage, discarded foodstuffs, and the dregs of their fires.

The mountain forest was different than the familiar landscape surrounding Solace. The smell here was unusually sweet, the air moist, the tapestry of colors dark and rich and mesmerizing. At first Kit had been intoxicated by the newness of everything, attentive to strange varieties of plants and flowers, curious about tracks and droppings, alert to the noises of insects and birds and the multitude of small, unseen creatures all around her. She took immense delight in the small things that she noticed: the blue frost on early morning leaves; a peculiar animal with a long snout and curled ears, staring at her from inside a bush, before it hopped away quickly on all fours; a pear-shaped fruit with prickly points whose juice was sour.

But after a while everything began to look the same in front of her as well as behind, one blurred blue-green vista. After a while Kit wished they would arrive at their mysterious destination. She began to wonder if she should risk coming out into the open and revealing herself.

Kitiara marked her route with notches cut in the trunks of trees, discreet ones below ordinary sight-lines. She was not afraid of getting lost. Gregor had taught her some essential survival skills, and she had made it her business to learn more in the years since he had left, gleaning knowledge from Gilon and even Bigardus, the well-intentioned healer. She knew enough so that she could find her way back to Solace on foot, without supplies, if necessary.

Kit knew how to forage for nuts and berries. She knew how to bank a fire to keep the wind out and the heat in. She knew how-for warmth and protection-to dig a shallow ditch at night and cover herself with leaves and branches. There was plenty of fresh water in the many streams that crisscrossed the mountainous terrain.

Her shoulder pack contained the only things she had chosen to bring along and the only things she might need: meat-sticks, a length of rope, a bone whistle, warm under-woolens, and a small, heavy carving knife taken from Gilon's workbench. That was the only weapon she had been able to put her hands on. The blanket Kit sat on when she rode came off at night to serve as her bedding.

At night she remembered the few times she had camped out with Gregor, staying up around the campfire. Her father's eyes would hypnotize her as he spun tales of his and others' exploits. His deep brown eyes glistened then, like water in the moonlight. It was at night, particularly, that Kit remembered things her father had said to her.

"The day can start out sunny and grand," Gregor liked to say, "and betray you in an instant. Start out in the morning cheery as a friend, and turn out to be your enemy. The night is more constant-dangerous and dark, 'tis true, but constant. You can depend on danger in a way that you can never depend on a friend.

"Some people are one way by day, another by night. But night is the true form, for darkness illuminates a man better than sunshine, whose glare can fool the eyes.

"For instance, I knew a knight once who traveled with a young squire. By day this knight, whose name was Same, was one of the stalwarts of Krynn. A boon drinking companion and a fierce swordsman. Yet by night this very fellow turned pussycat, and his squire, just a jot of a boy called Winburn…"

Kitiara rarely heard the end of Gregor's stories, which seemed to go on forever as she was falling asleep. Now, as she faced another lonely night on her first true adventure, she wondered what had become of her father. The solitude, the sounds and the darkness of this forest brought her not fear but strange comfort, as if somewhere Gregor Uth Matar was also awake in the night and thinking of her.

By the end of the third day she estimated they had traveled more than seventy-five miles, still weaving through the forest in the general direction of Silverhole. At first, Kitiara had remained several hours behind Ursa and his men, but by the fourth day she was growing impatient. Heedless of being discovered, she picked up her pace so that she was following them less than an hour behind.

Under cover of dark, Kit made the further mistake of creeping close to their campsite to eavesdrop in hopes of learning some new piece of information about their destination. She felt proud of herself as she picked her way slowly around rocks and trees toward their huddled shapes. Ursa and another of the men, both draped in blankets, had their backs to her. The short, weaselly man named Radisson faced her direction and was speaking vehemently; she recognized his voice from the fair. A fourth, tall and stooped with a sad face, stood at the smaller man's shoulder, listening intently. Once in a while the sad-faced one said something indiscernible, apparently in assent.

Their tone was low and conspiratorial, and Kit had to inch closer than was wise to catch any of the words. The weaselly one was laying out some strategy. She could only hear occasional, garbled words such as "considerable fortune" and "the odds will be favorable." These clues to their mission whetted Kit's appetite for more. She crawled forward on hands and knees until she could almost jump up and spit on the them.

All of a sudden, something big and heavy dropped on Kit's back, knocking her to the ground. For several seconds her breath was taken away. When her head cleared, she found herself hoisted off the ground, nose to nose with Ursa. The look on his glowering face was one of disgust mixed with astonishment.

"You again!" cried Ursa, holding her by the collar. Kit was too dazed to do anything but feebly kick her feet in an effort to get down. As Ursa gripped her firmly, someone else yanked her hands and tightly roped them together behind her back. Kitiara managed to twist around to see the fourth man.

This one was somewhat taller than Ursa, more sinewy, with skin the color of obsidian. His hair was black, down to his shoulders and so curly that his skull appeared to be covered by writhing snakes. In the moonlight, Kit was struck by the gleaming whiteness of his fearsome grin and a single gold hoop that dangled from his right ear. The color of his skin and the billowing striped pants he wore made her think he must be from the far east island of Karnuth. That race boasted intriguing powers, she recalled hearing, and its denizens were rarely seen in these parts because they were said to be afraid of long sea voyages.

"Ouch!" Kit exclaimed, more to see what reaction that might get than because she was in very much pain.

"Aw, you're hurting her," said the Karnuthian, not unsympathetically. Kit remembered his voice from overhearing the conspirators at the Red Moon Fair-deep, mellow, but with a hint of menace.

"I don't care," responded Ursa, tightening his grip. He was not smiling in the slightest.

"Who is it, El-Navar?" asked another voice. "What's the game?"

The other two mercenaries hurried over to gawk at Kit. The Karnuthian, the one whose name was El-Navar, had found the knife in her boot and now held it up to Ursa as if to say I-told-you-so, before nonchalantly guiding it into his belt. His grin was oddly beguiling for one with so fierce an aspect.

"Splendid performance, Radisson," said El-Navar to the weaselly-faced one. "You learned a few things in your days as a stroller."

"Who is she?" hissed Radisson. The look on his pale, creased face was plainly hostile.

"Didn't I tell you someone was following us?" gloated El-Navar. Every time he moved, his gold ear hoop trembled in the moonlight. The others nodded their approval.