From him she learned of an imperious father, a mother he idolized, and a waiting mantle of responsibility and authority for which he didn't always feel equipped.

On what was to be the last night before Patric and Strathcoe resumed their journey home, the three planned a moonlit picnic on the shores of Crystalmir Lake.

The night was perfectly cloudless, with both moons shining brightly in the sky and all the world latticed with beams and shadows. They set up their feast on a knoll overlooking the water-cold meats, wine, bread, and fresh fruit packed by Otik.

After dinner, Kit and Strathcoe had an entertainment planned. She went into her pack and pulled out a wrapped sword, the magnificent weapon from the long-ago ambush of Beck Gwathmey, which she had secreted these past two years. When she unwrapped it and held it before her, Patric's eyes gleamed with surprise and pleasure at its beauty.

"That is wonderful," he exclaimed. "What do you plan to do with it?"

"Well, first, I must best the servant," Kit teased. The big, long-tressed man was holding his sword in a pose of mock ferocity. As soon as she finished speaking, Kitiara and Strathcoe set to in a match of mock swordplay. At the end of which, with many grunts and groans, Strathcoe winked at Kit and fell to the ground, clutching his heart.

"Now the master must defend himself," Kitiara said, pointing her sword toward Patric so that it glinted in the moonlight.

"Not me," Patric protested with amusement. "As you see, I carry no weapons. That is Strathcoe's business, though the cur has fallen down on the job."

Strathcoe, sitting up and gurgling with his version of laughter, tossed Patric one of his weapons.

Kitiara observed that the young noble caught the sword handily enough. With a flourish, she saluted him. Patric hesitated, then responded in kind. Soon they were engaged in the thrust and parry of swordplay. Patric frowned in concentration, but handled the sword well. Yet Kitiara was more agile and decidedly more skilled. After a few minutes she stepped back and raised both hands, laughing. "I'm vanquished," she said, bowing her head in mock surrender. She felt Patric step closer and looked up to find his gaze locked on hers. Impulsively, she stood on tiptoes and kissed him full on the mouth. This time he did not pull away.

Strathcoe diplomatically retreated to the bottom of the knoll and soon fell asleep, but Patric and Kitiara sat with arms entwined, staring out over the lake and talking, long past midnight.

As dawn approached, Patric disentangled his arms and removed the pendant from his neck and held it out to her.

"It's yours."

Kit drew back, not sure what this meant. "No."

"I would be lying to you if I told you it was worthless," Patric said, "but the value is mostly sentimental."

"All the more reason why I can't take it," said Kitiara.

"All the more reason why you should," Patric said firmly. He draped the amulet around her neck.

Kitiara opened her mouth to say something else in protest, but Patric waved away her words. "We will make it a trade," he said softly. "Something of yours for something of mine."

"But I don't have anything," Kit began, then she stopped. Her eyes fell on Beck's sword. It was the only thing of true value that she owned.

"Take this," she decided impulsively, though it was truly the most prized of her possessions.

"It is too wonderful, and as you saw-your generous defeat notwithstanding-I have little use for a sword."

"I think it is a fair exchange," Kit said determinedly. "Strathcoe approves," she added, pointing toward the bottom of the hill where the servant lay, snoring contentedly and loudly.

Patric had to laugh. He took her hands in his own, gazing steadily at her. "Kitiara Uth Matar," he murmured dreamily. "I want you to come to Gwynned with Strathcoe and me."

Instantly, without having to think it over, she said yes.

"I'll run and pack my things," Kit told him, "and sneak away."

At that Patric frowned. "What about your father and mother?" he asked with genuine concern.

"I told you, he's my stepfather, not my father, and my mother is too ill to have any understanding of the outside world. Half the time she doesn't know if I'm alive or not."

He placed his hands on her shoulders. "I don't want you to run away without telling them," he said. "I want you to ask their permission to go away with me…"

Her eyes showed that she did not understand.

"And get married."

Kitiara's eyes bugged out in astonishment, astonishment and something else. She couldn't conceal a shiver of distaste. Traveling with Patric and Strathcoe would be fun, an adventure, but the last thing she wanted to do in her life was get married, even to someone she felt as drawn to as she did to Patric. Images of Rosamun, of Aureleen's mother, women who had no life outside their homes or independence from their men, flooded her mind.

"Kitiara," Patric said quickly, "I don't want you to say yes or no now, and I promise never to pressure you. The voyage to Northern Ergoth is a long one, at least four weeks, and you will have plenty of time to think about my offer. Take all that time, and more if you want it."

"But," said Kitiara, groping for words, "I don't know if I could ever get married. Especially not now. There is too much…"

Kit looked at the handsome young man sitting next to her and felt confused. No one had ever extended her the consideration and courtesy he had. No one had ever made her feel the way he did now, looking deeply and approvingly into her eyes.

"Don't worry about it now," Patric said hastily. "We have only just met, but we will get to know each other better. When you return to my country, you will be treated like royalty. Everything you ask for will be yours. You will have food and clothes and slaves to do your bidding. You may find that very appealing."

Indeed, Kitiara thought to herself, I might. "Why me?" she asked.

Strathcoe had roused himself and was making grumbling noises as he stretched and glanced up the hill. The sun had peeked over the horizon and turned everything pink and orange.

Patric sighed deeply. "Because," he said wistfully, "I think I love you."

Kitiara noticed that Strathcoe had stopped his noises and was watching them intently. Until she opened her mouth she didn't know what her answer would be. "All right," she said, not sure precisely what she meant.

Kitiara was a little annoyed that Gilon was the one who seemed most genuinely saddened that she was going away, perhaps forever, though she downplayed the "forever" part. Loudly enough for Patric and Strathcoe to overhear, she advised Gilon to keep her loft for her at least until he heard that she was happily settled in Northern Ergoth.

"I hope that you will be happy, Kit," said Gilon with feeling as she gathered a few belongings and prepared to leave. "But if not, I hope that you return to us, for we will miss you."

Caramon and Raistlin certainly gave no hint of that. This early in the morning, Caramon was still lying sleepily in his bed, tangled up with the blanket. "G'bye," he mumbled before rolling over.

Raistlin, of course, was up, already engrossed in some thick, tattered book. He sat on a stool in a far corner of the cottage's main room. He looked up when Kit gave him a parting peck on the cheek, glancing first at her, then at Patric and Strathcoe who were standing respectfully by the door, then back at Kitiara.

"You'll be back," he said, lowering his eyes again to his book.

Well, she thought to herself, he and Caramon are mere children. What did I expect, an eloquent farewell?