Free The Cataclysm by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

with a hand on his arm.
    “I know it's hard, but try not to be a fool, Knight. I'll take you into the village. I'll
     need to stay here anyway. It's growing late. I'll set out again in the morning.”
    Matya guided the wagon to the banks of the stream. A small stone bridge arched over the
     clear, flowing water. A young woman stood on the far side of the stream. She was clad in a
     gown of flowing white, and her hair was as dark as jet. She was beautiful, as beautiful as
     the porcelain doll.
    “My knight, you have come to me!” the woman cried out. Her voice was the doll's sweet
     voice. Matya thought this odd, disconcerting, but it didn't bother Trevarre. His pale eyes
     shining, he slipped from the wagon and limped across the stone bridge, ignoring the pain
     of his injury. He knelt before the young woman and kissed her fine-boned hand.
    Matya scowled. He never kissed my hand, she thought sourly.
    “I am Ciri,” said the sweet voice. “Welcome, Sir Knight. My deliverance is at hand.”
    *****
    Ciri led Trevarre and Matya around the edge of the village. “Quickly,” she said softly.
     “The fewer the folk who see us, the better.”
    Matya wondered why, but it wasn't HER place to ask. Trevarre tried to walk faster, but it
     was clear his wounded leg was causing him great pain. Ciri laid a fine hand on his elbow,
     and the grimace eased from the knight's face. He walked more easily with her hand on his
     arm. Matya noticed that Trevarre seemed to have taken more than a passing interest in
     Ciri's lovely face. “I'll warrant he's more interested in her looks than his honor,” she
     muttered, suddenly annoyed for no particular reason.
    As they walked, Matya looked at the village in the ruddy light of the setting sun. Nothing
     appeared out of order, but something was not right. You're tired, Matya, that's all, she
     told herself. Tomorrow you'll ride into Garnet and leave this knight and his foolishness
     behind. That thought should have made her feel better, but it didn't.
    Ciri led them to a small, thatch-roofed cottage standing slightly apart from the others.
     She looked about to make certain no one was watching, then opened the door, gesturing for
     Trevarre and Matya to enter.
    The cottage was warm and neatly kept. A fire burned on the fieldstone hearth, and the
     wooden floor had been scrubbed clean. Ciri bade them sit down. She filled a wooden cup
     with crimson wine for each of them. Matya raised the cup of wine, then set it down without
     drinking it. It had a funny smell to it. Trevarre, however, drank deeply, thanking the
     woman for her hospitality - all politeness, as his Measure called for, Matya supposed with
     a frown.
    “And now, my lady, you must tell me why you have called to me,” Trevarre said. Ciri smiled
     at him, a sweet, sorrowful smile. “And I hope your reason is a good one,” Matya noted,
     crossing her arms. “It was no mean feat getting this knight here, I'll tell you” Ciri turned her gaze toward Matya for a moment,
     and suddenly her smile was neither sweet nor sorrowful. 'Tor that, I do thank you, my good
     woman," Ciri said. Matya could not mistake the coldness in Ciri's otherwise lovely voice.
     It was clear that Matya's presence had not been expected; neither was it wanted.
    Ciri's gaze turned soft again as she regarded the knight. Matya scowled, but she said
     nothing. If the young woman feared competition for the knight's attention, then she was as
     much a fool as Trevarre. There was little room in a bargain driver's life for love. Such
     fancies dulled the sharp edge Matya depended on for her livelihood. Besides, there was
     nothing about the knight she liked, even if his pale eyes were strangely attractive and
     his voice DID remind her of a trumpet's call.
    The gloom of twilight descended outside the cottage's window. Ciri began her tale. “I fear
     the fate that lies before me is dark, my knight. A terrible wizard - my uncle - means