Riverwind

Part I
SLOW FALL
Chapter One

The men of Que-Shu gathered, drawn by the steady toll of drums. A hundred men, straight-limbed and stoic, formed two lines and filed into the Lodge of Brothers. They left their herds in the care of sons who were too young to witness the coming solemn ceremony. Fields and forges stood idle for the duration of the rite. The women and children went about their business. It was not for them to be curious.

No one could ignore the drums, however. Least of all Goldmoon, first priestess of the tribe, daughter of Chief Ar-rowthorn. She stood just inside the door of the chief's house, far enough in the shadows so as not to be seen. Perspiration sheened her beautiful face, and she bit her lip nearly to bleeding. The ceremony about to begin was the Anointing of the Quester; the man to be tested was her beloved, River-wind.

Let him be safe, she prayed silently. You elder gods, keep Riverwind from harm!

Goldmoon did not voice her prayers aloud because she appealed not to the tribe's gods, but to deities worshiped in ages past, before the Cataclysm.

The Lodge of Brothers was nearly full. The windowless interior was stiflingly hot, lit as it was by stands of smoky torches. The men of Que-Shu filled the open space around a low central dais, their leather-shod feet scuffing loudly on the packed clay floor. On the dais, squatting with his face averted and his arms clasped around his knees, was River-wind. As the drums continued their rumble, he did not move. He might have been carved from oak for all the life he displayed. Yet within, Riverwind was aboil with thoughts and anxieties. He had demanded this rite, in preparation for his Courting Quest. Goldmoon and he had pledged themselves to each other, but it remained for the laws of the tribe to recognize their joining. A man did not ask for the hand of the chieftain's daughter without proving himself worthy.

The doors of the lodge were closed. Massive wooden beams were lowered, barring them. Warriors with bare blades positioned themselves in front of the doors. The drums ceased their omnipresent beat.

Arrowthorn, robed in his most richly beaded deerskins, gazed at the men assembled. “Brothers!” he declaimed, “we are here to anoint one who would be chieftain after I am gone. One who claims the hand of my daughter, your priestess. But he that would be a god in the next life must prove himself worthy in this one.” A deep murmur of agreement rose from the throats of the tribesmen.

“Riverwind, son of Wanderer, stand.”

Riverwind rose smoothly to his feet. Though not quite twenty, at six and a half feet he was by far the tallest man in a tribe of tall men. Dark hair hung loosely to his shoulders. Riverwind wore nothing but a red breechcloth, and the lines of his rangy form had been daubed with red paint. He looked beyond Arrowthorn's right shoulder and saw a Que-Shu elder, Loreman, seated on a bench. Hatred seemed to glow from the old medicine man's face. His consuming ambition to put his own family in the chieftain's lodge had been thwarted by the death of his eldest son. Now Loreman could only wait, watch, and listen.

Riverwind knew that Loreman blamed him for his son's death. Not even the sworn word of Goldmoon, who had witnessed the fight, had lessened Loreman's hatred of River-wind.

Arrowthorn was describing the way of the true warrior. Riverwind broke his gaze from Loreman in time to hear the chieftain say, “The path of a leader is often bitter. Are you prepared for the bitterness?”

Riverwind nodded. He was not yet allowed to speak.

Arrowthorn held out his hands. Far-runner, another tribal elder, gave him a thick clay cup, which Arrowthorn in turn offered to Riverwind. A viscous red liquid filled the cup to the brim. By the ruddy torchlight it looked very much like blood. Riverwind accepted the cup, raised it to his lips, and drank.

The brew was made from nepta berries, fruit so vile not even goblins would eat it. Riverwind's jaw locked, and his stomach threatened to rebel. Still, he swallowed the noxious juice and gave the empty vessel back to Arrowthorn. He kept his teeth firmly together and breathed quickly through his nose. Sickness gnawed at his empty belly, but Riverwind mastered it and kept the bitter brew down.

“A chieftain must be evenhanded and balanced in his judgment,” Arrowthorn said gravely. “If necessary, he must suffer for his choice. Are you prepared to suffer for the sake of justice?”

Riverwind inclined his head curtly. It was a good thing he wasn't supposed to talk; he wasn't sure he could speak with the sour berry juice constricting his throat. An elder lifted the heavy cape from Arrowthorn's shoulders. Another man placed two pairs of baskets on the floor, one set for the chieftain, the other for Riverwind. They were deep reed baskets, the kind women used to gather eggs. Snowy white eggs filled them now. Arrowthorn took up his baskets and held them out at arm's length. Riverwind lifted his. He was surprised by their weight. Each basket held only ten eggs. Why were they so heavy?

Loreman was smiling. Riverwind wondered briefly at that sly, knowing smile, then concentrated on his test. He had to hold his baskets up just as long as Arrowthorn held his. If he weakened, if he lowered his arms or wavered enough to break an egg, his test was over. There would be no second chance.

Arrowthorn was thirty years older than Riverwind, but his shoulders were straight and his arms taut with good muscle. Time grew long in the lodge. The Que-Shu men, ever solemn, became restless. There were coughs and uncertain shiftings on the hard wooden benches. Arrowthorn's arms were as straight as iron and as unwavering as the smooth waters of Crystalmir Lake.

Riverwind held steady, too, though his shoulders ached and his joints burned. The nepta berry juice was still trying to come up. Sweat trickled down his chest. The baskets were so heavy! He didn't think he could hold out much longer-he knew he could not-

Riverwind inhaled loudly and deeply. Since standing with his feet rooted and his knees stiff was causing him to tire and sway, he began to stamp his feet. A rhythm came to him, much like the cadence played by the lodge drummers. Soon he was dancing in place, eyes fixed on Arrowthorn, hearing the music his heart played for him.

Arrowthorn was startled when Riverwind began to dance. No one had ever moved during the Weighing before. His own arms hurt, the stretched muscles quivering and tingling as if a thousand ants crawled across his skin. He kept control by sheer force of will. Blood pounded in his head, a throbbing only made worse by Riverwind's stamping feet. Too much. It was too much.

The chieftain's left arm wobbled as a shudder went through his body. An egg rolled off the pile in the basket and splattered on the floor.

“It is done!” cried Far-runner, most senior of the elders. Both men lowered their arms with groans of relief. Arrowthorn slipped his cape over his aching shoulders.

“You have earned your voice,” he said, breathing heavily. “Speak, son of Wanderer.”

“You are a strong man, Arrowthorn,” Riverwind said, massaging his biceps.

Whispers behind the chief abruptly burst out into loud clamor. Loreman was remonstrating with Far-runner.

“The test is not valid,” Loreman said. “Riverwind moved.”

“He did not bend his arms, nor did he lose an egg,” Far-runner replied. “There is nothing in tribal law that says a man cannot move his feet.”

“Riverwind makes mock of the ceremony!”

Riverwind knelt down to examine his egg baskets. As he did, Far-runner said, “Ridiculous! He showed great perseverance and ingenuity.”

Loreman was about to protest further when Riverwind wordlessly poured the contents of his baskets on the dais. There were only five eggs in each, and beneath them, five smooth, river-washed stones painted white. To demonstrate their hardness, Riverwind lifted one of the stones and let it drop. It landed with a loud, accusing thud. The Que-Shu men muttered angrily among themselves at the trick played on Riverwind. Soon all eyes turned to Loreman. Even Arrowthorn gave his elder a suspicious glance, but forestalled any accusations by saying, “One irregularity cancels out another. The test stands. Riverwind has won the right to continue.” No one raised his voice after that.

The chieftain sat, flinging his cape back to free his arms. “There remains one final reckoning,” he said. “He who would be chieftain must be free of fear. Will you take the final anointing, Riverwind?”

“I will.”

Arrowthorn gestured to Stonebreaker, another elder. Stonebreaker had been famed in his youth for his strength. He'd gotten his manhood name because he could cleave stones in two with his sword. Now old and bent, Stonebreaker hobbled to the dais and placed a tall pot before Riverwind.

“This is the Oil of the Quester,” Arrowthorn said. The lodge fell deathly quiet. “Take it, and rub it on your skin. But be warned: there is great magic in the oil, and dire phantoms will come to you once you have put it on.”

“I am not afraid,” Riverwind declared, though he was.

He lifted the pot lid. The oil was dark brown and odorless. Riverwind smeared the ointment across his chest and neck. It was warm, and after his hand passed away, his skin grew wanner still as the oil soaked in. The drummers began a slow cadence. Working down his legs, Riverwind rubbed his oily hands over his knees and calves.

The pulse of the drums reverberated in his head. Someone in the room was chanting. Riverwind straightened. His head swam. He staggered back a few steps, nearly tumbling off the dais. Men were chanting, but not the men in the lodge. Riverwind whirled, but no Que-Shu man present was making a sound.

He recognized the chant. It was the lament uttered at funerals. Who was dead? Riverwind looked down at himself. Rivulets of red ran down his chest and legs. It looked like blood.

“I am wounded!” Riverwind cried. He tried to stanch the flow of blood. The drumbeat thundered at him, keeping time with his thudding heart.

He felt weak. His knees sagged, and Riverwind folded down into a kneeling crouch. Blood pooled around him. His life, his strength, was flowing unchecked from his veins. He couldn't stop it.

“Goldmoon… Goldmoon…” Calling her name did not help. He heard laughter. Raising his head, Riverwind saw Hollow- sky standing by the lodge door. Hands planted on hips, Hollow-sky grinned arrogantly at him.

“Hollow-sky, you're dead,” Riverwind protested.

“So are you!” the phantom retorted. “You're too weak, Unbeliever. How could a soft fool like you ever imagine he could lead the Que-Shu?” The dead man laughed again. “Or capture Goldmoon's heart?” Riverwind's own heart constricted in his chest. No one else seemed to notice the ghost. Loreman didn't cry out at the sight of his lost son.

“Lie down and die,” Hollow-sky urged. “Stop fighting. It's easy being dead.”

“No. You died. I did not.”

“You cannot resist death, Unbeliever.”

The drums-or was it his heart? — beat slower and slower. Riverwind's head bowed to the floor. He was weak and so very, very tired. All he had to do was lie down. His eyes fluttered closed. Sleep and rest were what he craved. So easy. Painless. The beautiful face of Goldmoon faded from his eyes.

“My son! Is this as a warrior should act?”

Riverwind's eyes opened. Beside the grinning Hollow-sky was another ghost, dimmer and smaller, but definitely there. It was Wanderer, Riverwind's long dead father.

“I can't stand,” Riverwind said weakly, lifting his head an inch.

“It's only paint,” Wanderer said. His figure grew more distinct. “Stand. Be a man.”

“He's no Que-Shu,” Hollow-sky said. “He's a worthless unbeliever, like his father.”

“Rise, my son! She who awaits you commands it!” Bright light surrounded Wanderer.

“Goldmoon?” said Riverwind. He glanced down and saw that the widening pool of blood was in fact only a few drops of paint. Paint covered his hands, too.

“Stand, Riverwind!”

“Father,” he said, shaking off the cold lethargy that had gripped him. Putting his hands on the floor, he pushed. He rose unsteadily to his feet. The image of Wanderer shone brightly in the dim lodge. The men around the brilliant figure paid no heed to the apparition.

“It's too late.” Hollow-sky sneered. “You've failed!”

“Begone,” said the spirit of Wanderer. “Go back to your unquiet grave.” With a parting sneer, the phantom son of Loreman faded from sight.

“Father, how is it I can see and speak to you in this way?” asked Riverwind.

“The oil you bathed in contains roots and herbs that have the power of heightening the senses. For centuries our people used these magic herbs to communicate with the dead. After a time, the people confused these spirits with the true gods. The worship of ancestors, the making of our dead leaders into gods, came from this confusion.”

Riverwind stepped to the edge of the dais. “Then the old gods truly Iive?”

“As they always have, my son.”

“Why do they not make themselves known?”

The glowing form of Wanderer flickered. “I do not know the mind of the Most High,” he said. His voice had dwindled to a whisper. “But their time is almost here again. You will have signs, my son…”

“What signs, Father? What signs?” But the interlude was over. Wanderer vanished.

The lodge was filled with smoke. The men of the tribe were gone. Doors, barred and guarded earlier, stood open. It was dusk. Riverwind felt a breeze blow through the dark house. It chilled his sweaty skin.

Suddenly, Arrowthorn and the elders were with him. Riverwind wiped his forehead and mouth with the back of one hand and stepped off the dais. He was exhausted.

“What has happened?” he asked his chieftain.

“You have passed your Anointing,” Arrowthorn said.

“How long have I been here?”

“All day. The elders and I have been discussing your problem.”

Riverwind wanted only a cool drink of water. His throat was puckered with the stale remnants of the berry juice. But he asked, “What problem?”

“You mastered your fear of death, but while you were conversing with the gods, our ancestors, you spoke many blasphemies.”

Riverwind sat up and squared his shoulders. “What blasphemy?”

“You denied our gods, the forefathers who made us. I have long known that you share your father's heresy; sons cannot help but bear their fathers' notions, no matter how false. But I never thought to hear Wanderer's heresy spouted during a solemn rite,” Arrowthorn said.

“The punishment for blasphemy is death,” Loreman added. His hands were clenched into fists. He had heard Riverwind talk to his dead son. “The law says the guilty must be stoned at the Grieving Wall.”

“You go too far,” Far-runner said. “Riverwind was not of his own mind when he said what he did. His father's spirit influenced him, Loreman.” Stonebreaker and the others echoed Far-runner's sentiments.

“What is to be done?” Riverwind asked.

All through the elders' wrangle, Arrowthorn had been silent, deep in thought. He had little liking for Riverwind as husband to his beloved daughter, but he had to admire the young man's performance this day. He couldn't dismiss Riverwind's right to quest for Goldmoon's hand, but perhaps he might teach him a salutary lesson.

“You shall have your Courting Quest,” Arrowthorn said. “And, in the process, I hope to cure you of your heresy.”

The disputing elders ringed their chieftain and Riverwind. Far-runner regarded Arrowthorn curiously. “How?” he asked.

“With no more than a single day's provision in his bag, Riverwind shall go forth to find proof that the old gods do exist.”

Loreman smiled. “A wise decision,” he said.

“How can he do it?” asked Stonebreaker. “You've set him an impossible task. The old gods are dead.”

“He can always return and admit defeat,” Loreman sneered.

“No honorable warrior-”

“Enough! As chieftain, I have spoken. We've seen that Riverwind has no shortage of courage and strength, but do you want an unbeliever as chieftain? Our gods will bring evil down upon us if we betray them. No, he must learn how great his errors are.” Arrowthorn thrust a finger at Riverwind. “I charge you, upon your sacred oath, that you will take this quest or admit the falsity of your beliefs before all the Que-Shu people. What do you say?”

Riverwind folded his long arms across his chest. There was only one answer. “I will take the quest,” he said.

Goldmoon was ecstatic when she learned Riverwind had passed his anointing. When she learned of the quest her father had given her beloved, her joy turned to consternation.

“Proof of the gods? What proof can there be? I felt the power of the old gods in the Hall of Sleeping Spirits, yet I cannot prove enough to satisfy the doubters!”

Riverwind stuffed strips of dried deermeat and lumps of pemmican into his shoulderpouch. “I could not refuse. If I had, we would be lost to each other.”

She grasped his arm. His eyes met hers, and he saw her tears. They embraced.

“Don't weep, beautiful one. The quest isn't impossible. I'll come back, you'll see. Then no one can deny us-not your father, nor the elders, nor even the conniving Loreman.”

Goldmoon choked back her tears. “Where will you go? What will you do?”

Riverwind drew back enough to study her face. Her brilliant blue eyes were gilded with tears. He brushed a drop of moisture from her cheek with his thumb. “I'll go where the sun and wind take me. The gods are not bound by mortal barriers. I will seek them in the quiet places-the mountains, deserts, the deep forests. I'll find them, then come back to you.”

A smile lightened Goldmoon's face. Here, in Riverwind's arms, her doubts dwindled.

They kissed long enough for Arrowthorn to rap impatiently on the front pole of Riverwind's tent. Riverwind caressed Goldmoon's cheek and smoothed her radiant hair. “Time to go,” he said.

Riverwind's tent was outside the wall of the village, by the road that led west to the land of the Que-Kiri. Arrowthorn and the elders waited for the young warrior. They made sure he carried only a scant day's rations. Riverwind was allowed to take his bow and his long-handled saber. In his old but well-oiled leather breastplate and his fringed deerskins, he was ready.

Goldmoon had dried her tears, but inside, her heart was breaking. In the three centuries since the Cataclysm had rent the land, the old gods had slept. They were so absent from the lives of the people of Krynn that most had forgotten them or had consigned them to the realm of dreams. How could one man, even her stalwart Riverwind, hope to succeed where generations had come to naught?

Riverwind made polite good-byes to the elders and cast a secret, loving look to Goldmoon. Then, he shouldered his pouch and strode off, his long legs covering the ground quickly.

“Riverwind!” Goldmoon called. He turned and waved, but never broke his stride. Arrowthorn glared at his daughter for her breach of behavior. Goldmoon missed the look. Her eyes were only for Riverwind as he followed the dirt road south and east until the curving village wall blocked him from sight. She put a hand to her throat and felt the amulet hidden under her tunic, the necklace Riverwind had given her during their journey to the Hall of Sleeping Spirits. It was wrought in steel, rare among the plainsmen, and was shaped like two teardrops touching tip to tip. The amulet had protected them from Hollow-sky's evil plan. She prayed now it would guide Riverwind to a speedy and successful end to his quest.

Arrowthorn's angry glare softened. He was moved by the sorrow in his only child's face, the face so like her mother's. But he was chieftain. The tribe's concerns must come before even his own child's happiness.

“Come, daughter,” he said gruffly and stuck out an elbow. Gracefully, Goldmoon entwined her arm in her father's, and they preceded the elders back into the village.

Riverwind had no real plan. It was nearly midday, and the heat of late summer was upon the land. Once out of sight of Goldmoon and the Que-Shu elders, he slowed his pace and pondered what to do.

A rattling sound distracted him. Riverwind looked back at the village wall. Leaning against it was a dilapidated hut, little more than a lean-to, made of bark and mottled pieces of hide. Squatting on the ground in front of the lean-to was a shabby figure, an old man in rags of many colors. His hair was long, tangled, and wild. In a tribe of clean-shaven men, he had a long gray and yellow beard into which beads and tiny brass bells were woven.

“Catchflea,” Riverwind hailed the strange figure.

The old man did not look up. His true name was Catch-star, because as a youth he'd hunted far and wide in the hills for bits of the stars that fell from heaven. When the time came for him to display more mature ambitions, Catchstar remained devoted to his odd pursuit. He did not take part in the affairs of the Que-Shu. Ostracized for his eccentricity, treated with open contempt, Catchstar grew more and more distracted. His unmanly habits and slovenly appearance earned him expulsion from the village-just as heretical religious beliefs had earned Riverwind's family the same fate. Small children christened the old man “Catchflea” as a cruel joke. In time, he would answer to no other name. Their similar standings had made the strange old man and the young warrior natural allies, and Riverwind often defended Catchflea from harassment.

“Going on a journey, yes?” asked Catchflea, absently shaking a dry gourd. Something rattled within. “A long, long journey?”

“Very long,” admitted Riverwind. He wondered who would be the old man's champion once he was gone. “I may not come back for months, perhaps years.” The thought gave him little pleasure.

“I'll miss you. No one else brings me rabbits.” When Riverwind had a good hunt, he always shared his bounty with the old star chaser. In some ways, he was like Wanderer, Riverwind's father. Both men were dreamers in a tribe that did not esteem deep reflection.

“If you are going away, Catchflea has a gift, yes.”

“What is it, my friend?”

Catchflea scratched his sharp nose. Beads and small bells tinkled in his matted beard. “Something to help you, yes.” He moved the spotted yellow gourd in a wide circle. The top was cut out, and Riverwind could see small brown objects bouncing around inside. Catchflea crooned in a surprisingly tuneful voice:

“All that comes and all that goes

Moves in an endless circle.

Count the days and count the stars

Starting then and ending now.”

Riverwind could make little sense of that. When he had finished singing this twice, Catchflea dumped the contents of the gourd out on the hard, dry earth. “Ha!” he exclaimed.

Three acorns lay in the dirt. They'd fallen in a rough triangle, with one point aimed directly at Riverwind.

“Here is your journey in a nutshell. Three nutshells!” The old man wheezed a brief laugh, accompanied by the faint tinkle of his beard bells. “This says you will go far away and be gone a long time,” he said, pointing to the nut nearest Riverwind. “This means you will go amidst great darkness.” He tapped a second acorn with one cracked and dirty nail.

“Evil?” asked Riverwind, sitting down in front of the old man.

“'Darkness,' I said, yes?” The last acorn Catchflea smiled at. “And out of the darkness shall come the seed of the new, which is like the old.”

“What does that mean?”

“The new is the old? Natural, yes. That is all I can tell you.” Catchflea scooped up the acorns and slipped them back in the gourd. Round and round went his wrinkled hand, shaking the gourd.

Riverwind had heard whispers that the old man conversed with spirits who told him the future, and he had a formidable record predicting whether Que-Shu mothers would have boy babies or girls. Riverwind couldn't dismiss Catchflea's remarks as idle talk.

He said, “Which way should I go?”

“Ha!” This time the nuts fell in a row. “East,” said Catchflea. Riverwind scratched his head. The nuts weren't obviously pointing east.

“How do you know what they say?” he asked.

“How do you know how to breathe? How do you know when it's time to rise or time to sleep?”

Riverwind nodded. “I just know. I don't need to ponder it. The knowledge comes to me, and I know.”

“That is it exactly, yes,” said Catchflea.

Riverwind stood slowly, leaving the old man to gather his acorns again. East. Into the Forsaken Mountains. At least at this time of year the high passes would be free of snow-

The nuts clattered in the gourd. Catchflea dumped them out, crying for the third time, “Ha!”

Riverwind came out of his reverie. “What do you see, old man?”

Catchflea squinted up at the tall huntsman. “I am to go with you.” The distracted lilt was gone from his voice.

Riverwind stiffened. “Perhaps you are reading them wrong,” he suggested.

Catchflea shook his head. “There is only one meaning, yes. 'Follow and descend.' That is what it says.”

“Descend?”

The jingle of bells accompanied Catchflea's bewildered headshaking. “I must do it. Auguries are not given to be ignored.”

“You can't come with me,” Riverwind said gently. “I'm going far. I have only enough food for myself for one day. You're much too old to make such a trek.”

“I must, yes?” He heaved himself to his feet. Catchflea's knees and elbows cracked like kindling underfoot. “I won't be a burden to you, Riverwind. You need only tend to yourself, yes? I can fend for myself.”

Riverwind grasped the old fellow by his shoulder. “You're not going.”

Catchflea's dark eyes bored into Riverwind's. “It isn't only my destiny you tamper with. It is your own. The gods have ordained that we leave Que-Shu together. To flout their will is to invite disaster.”

Riverwind dropped his hands. “What gods do you serve, my friend?” Catchflea did not answer, but stooped to trace a figure in the dirt. It looked like two teardrops touching tip to tip. Riverwind knew the sign of the goddess Mishakal. That same symbol, wrought in rare steel, he had given Goldmoon to wear secretly around her neck. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the old man.

“How do you know this sign?” he said suspiciously.

“Once it was known to all, yes. Now I see it only in the sky, traced in the jewels of the stars.”

Riverwind wrestled with his dilemma. Catchflea was no ranger, not fit for forest or mountains. Still, his soothsaying was too accurate for Riverwind to discount. Perhaps he could take the old fellow along a short way, then leave him in some comfortable spot.

“I won't be a burden,” Catchflea insisted.

“How long will it take you to prepare?” Riverwind said, resigned.

The soothsayer bent over with a grunt and picked up his gourd and acorns. “I am ready,” he said. “I have nothing else.”

The lean-to contained only the mound of moss the old man slept on, some rags, and a rotting waterskin. Catchflea slipped his acorns into a fold of his much-patched shirt and tied the gourd to a loose strip of cloth. “No one in Que-Shu will mourn my leaving, yes?”

It was sadly true. Riverwind looked away to the mountains. Across the sunny plain, the eastern horizon beckoned, with the Forsaken Mountains only a blue-tinged smudge. Though not steep or especially cold this time of year, the mountains were dry and almost devoid of game. He'd have to hunt daily to ensure a steady supply of food. And now he was hunting for two, as he doubted Catchflea would be of much use in the wild.

The odds were certainly piled high against him. No horse, little food, and a vague old man to shepherd along-Arrow-thorn's quest would test him severely. Still, he had his wits, his skills, and an unbending determination on his side. The old gods lived. For them, and for Goldmoon, Riverwind would defy any odds.