Patric sipped his wine before speaking again. "He can't speak, poor wretch. My father had his tongue cut out for some bad behavior-I forget what. He was demoted to serving me. He is quite loyal, a good fighter, and a stalwart traveling companion. Although he can't speak, we communicate very well. I tell the jokes, and he laughs at them."

Kitiara looked at Strathcoe skeptically, but the big man had obviously heard and understood everything Patric said, because he bobbed his head up and down enthusiastically with a big smile spread across his face. It changed his aspect entirely, so that for a moment, before the smile disappeared, he appeared almost a jovial bear.

Patric smiled also, looking directly at Kitiara. "You know our names. What is yours?

"Kitiara Uth Matar, daughter of Gregor Matar." Kitiara spoke the name proudly, color rushing to her cheeks. Then she smiled, lopsidedly as ever.

"From far away I have heard of Otik's potatoes and of his ale, although ale is not to my taste," said Patric, looking intently into her eyes. "But I had not heard that the young women of Solace were so beautiful."

Kitiara caught her breath, and her color deepened. Never before had she been so aware of the smudges on her face and hands. Such talk from the men who filled Otik's place Kitiara had heard often, but the words had been spoken roughly, half-jestingly, and she had turned them aside in kind. She searched her brain for something to say, yet no words came.

Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Patric dropped his glance and changed the subject.

"We have been on the road for nine weeks. It's a ritual of travel I undertake every year. This year we have been gone longer than expected. We are now on our way to the coast, where a ship is waiting to take us home. Gwynned is on the western coast of the island of Northern Ergoth."

Kit knew where Northern Ergoth was, of course, but she was not so sure about Gwynned-at least a month's sea crossing, she was sure of that. "What do you look for on your travels? Adventure?" Kitiara asked eagerly.

"No, no," said the young noble hurriedly. "Sometimes adventure comes, unbidden, but I don't look for it. I look for…" For the first time, Kitiara saw him search for words. "For edification, for peace, for…" He hesitated again. "For escape."

Kitiara considered what this well-born young man needed to escape from, and what it must be like to travel at will, without worry of expense.

"Oh, you are an adventurer. I can see that," Patric continued, idly fingering the pale green pendant around his neck. "I don't think badly of it, but why do people seek adventure? Usually, for riches or power. Where I come from, my father is the ruler of a vast territory. I am his heir. In time I will have riches and power. I am in no hurry for them, and in the meantime I have no thirst for adventure."

He sat up straight and thrust his chin forward at this last statement, as if defying Kit to find fault with it. As if someone in his life did, she thought to herself.

Meeting no challenge in her eyes, Patric looked down, suddenly reflective.

Throughout his brief soliloquy, Kitiara's attention had been drawn to his green pendant, which was webbed in a delicate silver filigree and spun in constant motion on its chain. She couldn't put a name to the stone, but it was exquisite. Probably very valuable, she thought.

"You admire my chrysanth," Patric said, naming it for her.

"It's very beautiful," Kitiara admitted.

"The fact that you like it shows that you have superior taste. It belonged to my mother, and before her, to my mother's mother."

For a moment, Patric fingered the necklace again, pensively. When he dropped it, he looked up, invigorated. He grinned at Kit, and she grinned back.

"Our travels have been arduous this year, and I would like to rest before the last leg of my journey home. Solace seems a hospitable place. If we stayed, could I impose on you to show us some of the local sights?"

Strathcoe grunted, set aside his plate, his heavy-lidded eyes lowered to watchful slits.

"Strathcoe agrees that it's a good idea," said Patric.

Kitiara had to grin. "How can you tell what he is saying?" she teased.

"I told you, we communicate well," Patric said rakishly. "It's a talent I have with people who are strong of heart." Impulsively, he reached over and grabbed Kitiara's hand. "Will you be our guide?"

Kitiara blushed again. Her hand tingled in his warm, moist grip. Then she pulled it away and stood up from the table.

"If you want to take your chances on accommodations at this fleabag, suit yourself." Here she cast a sidelong glance at Otik, who started sputtering protests and shaking his finger in her direction.

Barely able to keep from laughing, Kit continued. "And I don't know what sights you expect to see in Solace," she said, shaking her head with mock seriousness and looking at Patric, whose eyes had not left Kit's face. "But I'll be your guide," she finished softly.

Across the table Strathcoe nodded and beamed.

Kitiara pushed back her chair and strode toward the door, conscious of Patric's eyes on her.

"What time?" he called out after her.

"Not too early," she replied over her shoulder.

All the way home Kitiara pondered the young noble in the sea-blue tunic. He was a man who obviously had led a soft, privileged life-the kind of man she normally would disdain. Who knew if he could even wield a sword?

Yet something about him had touched her. His intensity? His vulnerability? His obvious liking for her? She wasn't sure. Kitiara just knew that she was looking forward to meeting him in the morning.

Her ruminations took her all the way back to the cottage. She opened the door to more than the usual chaos.

The smell of burned food filled her nostrils. Rosamun was crying out in the adjoining room, but Kit could hear her aunt intercede in soothing tones. Her mother's unmarried sister, a nervous sparrow of a woman named Quivera, had been staying with them to care for Rosamun, who seemed to spend most of her time hallucinating these days. Kit was relieved of the burden of her mother somewhat, but Quivera paid little attention to the other needs of the household.

Caramon was standing by the stove, holding a tray of something blackened beyond recognition.

"Kitiara, I've burned the biscuits," Caramon complained. "What are we going to eat?"

Kit sighed and closed the door behind her.

There was not much to see in Solace, but the days spent with Patric and Strathcoe offered a pleasant respite to Kitiara. Once the local sights were exhausted, they would just meet in the morning and wander off aimlessly, always in good spirits.

She escorted the two visitors through the elevated walkways, around the town square, to the shores of Crystalmir Lake, even riding with them to Poolbottom, showing them the curious school inside a hill and bragging a bit about her brothers, Raistlin the precocious mage and Caramon the budding warrior.

Patric proved a good listener, his courtly manners warming to a more familiar attitude as the week wore on. At times he would reach out and touch her cheek or ruffle her curls, murmuring softly, "Kitiara Uth Matar."

Kit found herself craving this contact, growing very still under his hand, only to have Patric turn away, as if made uncomfortable by his gesture. Always after a few moments of awkwardness, the trio would resume their easy camaraderie, with the ever amenable Strathcoe providing ballast to the situation. He proved a genial giant who, Kit learned, smiled and laughed as much as he grunted and groaned. Strathcoe seemed to find everything amusing, especially the conversation of his master.

Patric and Kitiara were discreet in the questions they asked each other. Kit revealed only a measured portion of her past. In Solace, everyone knew that Rosamun would never get better, that Kitiara was the daughter of that poor madwoman and might herself be cursed with a streak of wildness. But Patric had no reason to know or care; and with him, she emphasized her father. She told him she was the daughter of Gregor Uth Matar, a consummate warrior and kin to a proud if distant family.