Riverwind

Chapter Twenty-Six

Gone!

Riverwind groped in the dirt where Di An and the staff had been. This was no figment of his sickness-strained mind. The woman and rod were gone. He rocked back on his haunches and stared blankly at the spot. He had made the wrong choice. The Blue Crystal Staff was lost, his quest had failed. Pain welled up in his heart and exploded. His anguished scream reverberated across Fever Lake. Animal sounds ceased, and all was quiet.

Riverwind fell face down on the ground. Tears welled up in his eyes. He had chosen wrong. He had failed Mishakal. He had failed Goldmoon. Catchflea had died for nothing. He pressed his face into the dirt, feeling it scrape his cheeks. How could he go home? How could he face Goldmoon again without the staff? She was lost to him forever.

The plainsman lay quiet for a long time, a great despair consuming him.

Finally, he got slowly to his feet and looked toward the Forsaken Mountains. The shaft leading down to Hest was there; he would throw himself down it. Riverwind's bowed back straightened a bit with this decision. The magic in the shaft was gone; he would die in the fall. Then no one would know his shame.

Mors, master of the realm of Hest, sat unmoving in a hard stone chair, listening to the chosen representatives of the diggers and warriors argue over how to distribute the meager harvest of wheat. They had been disputing for a long time, and Mors was rapidly losing what little patience he had. The crop was the smallest in Hest's history, and word had come that the fruit trees were dying as well. Without magic, there was no way to preserve them. There would be hunger in Vartoom before long.

Mors resolved to quell the petty bickering by force if need be, but even as he prepared to shout for order, a strange thing happened. He saw a glimmer of light. It stunned him, for he had lived in total blackness since the day Karn had blinded him. The light was only a gleam, a firefly flash of blue, but still he saw it and it shocked him.

Mors stood. A digger representative called a question to him. The blind warrior did not hear him. Gradually the hall fell silent. Mors remained standing, motionless. The twinkle of light still glimmered before his sightless eyes.

“Muster fifty soldiers in the street,” he said evenly. “Lightly clad, with spears only.”

“My lord,” said an elder digger, “what is it?”

“Something is happening,” Mors replied. “I can see it.” For the first time in many years, he strode out of a room without staff or elf to guide him. The assembly stirred with curiosity. What was afoot?

Mors followed the light out to the street. Somehow he knew where it was-he could feel it as well as see it. Though his surroundings were as invisible to him as ever, by following the flickering light he avoided all obstacles. He simply knew where to put his feet. The light beckoned him on. The tramp of soldiers' feet told him that his escort had arrived.

“Who is in command?” Mors asked.

“I, my lord, Prem,” said the elf officer.

“Do you know the great temple of our ancestors?”

“The haunted temple?” asked Prem.

“The same. We will go there at once, but only I will enter. Is that clear?”

“Certainly, my lord. What is going on?”

“I don't know yet,” Mors replied firmly. “I fear-” He did not finish. How could he say it? How could he tell them his fear that the blue glimmer was caused by Li El. Dead Li El.

Mors led them across the ruined fields. The flickering glow grew stronger and steadier. The soldiers jangled along in close formation. Mors was consumed by curiosity and dread. A hundred days had passed since the deaths of Li El and Vvelz. No magic had occurred in Hest since then. Both brother and sister had been burned on funeral pyres. Nothing of them remained. And now this…

After two hours' quick march, the warriors scrambled up the broken rocky path to the temple. As they gained the plateau where the temple stood, they stopped dead in their tracks. Mors heard their footsteps cease. He sharply demanded a reason.

Prem said, “There's a light in the temple, my lord!”

“You see it, too!”

“We all do.”

“Form a line!” Mors barked. “I'm going inside. I don't want anything to get out, understand?” The warriors formed a half-circle facing the vast entrance to the abandoned temple. They watched in awe as Mors advanced up the worn steps into the field of azure light.

A feeling of gentle beneficence wrapped around Mors like a blanket. Part of him was aware this was a magical effect, perhaps not real, but it was such a profound feeling that he lost most of his apprehension. The blue glow intensified until his eyes began to burn. A groan escaped his lips, and he lifted his hands to his face. He saw the rough, thickened tips of his fingers. His groan of pain changed to a strangled cry of astonishment. He dropped his hands and staggered back against a massive, fluted column.

Mors could see. Before him was the floor of the temple, littered with broken columns and other debris. He saw all of it with startling clarity. He really could see.

The light still called him forward. He walked among the lordly columns until he came upon the source of the brilliant blue light.

Floating a foot off the rutted floor was the upright figure of an elf woman, eyes closed, arms tight against her sides. She was clad in the black shift of a Hestite digger, but the copper cloth was torn and the black paint chipped and scratched. A few inches in front of the woman, hovering vertically, was a magnificent staff of sapphire. The blue light emanated from it.

Mors went down on one knee. “Who-who are you?” he whispered.

Listen, said a fluting voice inside his head. Hear me.

Tears formed in his newly cleared eyes. Mors asked again, “Who are you?”

I am the one your ancestors knew as Quenesti Pah.

Mors inhaled sharply. “The goddess?”

This woman of your race I return to you. She has striven mightily in the cause of good. To save her from madness and death, I have brought her back home.

“Who is she, divinity?” Mors asked.

Her name is Di An.

“My little eyes! An Di-” He started to rise, but the goddess spoke one final time to him, and the strength of her voice drove him back to his knees.

Let this place become sacred again. Keep my laws, and the bounty of health and healing shall be yours. This woman shall be my priestess, and through her I will make myself known to all your people.

Mors bowed his head. “It shall be done,” he vowed.

“Thank you, divinity, for restoring my sight.” But the goddess was gone.

The blue aura vanished next, leaving Di An standing on the floor. Finally, the sapphire staff disappeared, too. Di An wavered like a sleepwalker. Mors moved quickly to her side and braced her up.

Her eyes opened slowly. “Mors? Is that you?” she asked weakly.

“It is. You have changed, little digger.”

“I've grown up. Are you… angry that I went away?”

“I was, but no longer.”

Di An thought that it was strange to feel Mors's arm around her waist. Strange, but good. She asked, “Did you hear the words of the goddess, too? Did you see her sacred staff?” When Mors nodded, she added, “I dwelled in the realm of the gods. For how long, I don't know. Riverwind and I were trying to escape from the dragon, and there were men like lizards-”

“Dragon!” Mors exclaimed. “Men like lizards? Are you sure your head is clear?”

Di An fixed him with a startling stare. Her formerly dark eyes were now a brilliant blue, the same color as the staff of Quenesti Pah. “My head is quite clear, Mors.” She thought of poor Catchflea, dead at the hands of the draconians. She saw Riverwind burning with fever-was he safe? “And my heart is quite heavy.”

Mors and Di An went out to the waiting warriors. He could hardly believe this cool, ethereal woman was the barren child who had led him around during his darkest days.

“I shall always try to lead you well,” Di An said in a confidential tone. Mors blinked. She'd read his thoughts. “After all, I would not be here now if I hadn't followed you-even as I led you.”

Mors presented Di An to the warriors, and they saluted her by raising their spears high. That done, Mors was at a loss. He asked Di An what she wanted to do.

She looked out over the smoky, poisoned cavern. She thought of all the barren children laboring in the fields and mines. Though she could now remember the surface world without fear, she knew she belonged in Hest, with her own people. As her bright gaze took in the hazy vista, Di An said, “I want to heal this place. And, perhaps, heal myself.”

Somehow Riverwind managed to make it to the base of the mountains. One foot after the other, he plodded through a day and a night and a day. His decision to throw himself down the shaft drove him. Though other methods of death threatened him-hunger and thirst among them-he was obsessed with the notion that he must die in the shaft. Somehow that would be right.

Riverwind felt baked hard from the fever heat inside him, so the discovery of a spring of sweet water in a cleft of the rocks was as great a gift as he ever thought to receive.

His thirst slaked, the hunger that tightened his belly into a knot returned. Riverwind had no bow and hardly expected to take any game with his bare hands. He found some pine nuts growing in clusters around some of the taller boulders. He ate hundreds of the tiny, thready seeds. That helped a little, but he couldn't live on them. As night fell again, he lay atop a gently rounded boulder, the peaks of the mountains looming over him. He would never make it up the mountainside in his weakened condition. He would fail in his resolve to die in the shaft. I can't even carry that quest through, he thought bitterly.

The stars came out. He saw the broken scales of Hiddu-kel, the bison head of Kiri-Jolith, the black hood of Mor-gion. Beside Morgion, just peeking over the tops of the mountains, was the constellation Mishakal. Like the steel amulet he'd given Goldmoon, the stars of Mishakal formed two joined circles. “The Endless Chase,” his father had called it. If you traced the loop with your finger, you never reached the end.

“What does it mean?” the boy Riverwind had asked.

“It means, no matter where you wander, the goddess is always with you,” his father had replied.

Always with you-like the face of Goldmoon, which was never long out of his thoughts. Riverwind closed his eyes and conjured up her image. The silver-golden hair, the flashing eyes, the soft, red lips… The sight caused tears to trickle from under his closed eyelids. She was so beautiful. His quest having failed, she would marry another. Ar-rowthorn would insist. He had never approved of Riverwind anyway.

The idea of Goldmoon as another man's wife sent a surge of anger through Riverwind. Despair had not completely consumed him. He would never permit Arrowthorn to marry her to another! He would steal her away first-

His eyes snapped open. How stupid! How selfish! He'd forgotten his other vital task, to warn everyone of the dra-conians and their plans for conquest. That alone should be reason enough to return to Que-Shu. And his courting quest was not a failure. While he lived, the quest would go on. And if it took ten years or a hundred, Goldmoon would wait for him. He knew how strong her spirit and her will were. She would never be forced into marriage.

Riverwind got up from the boulder and started climbing. Every mountain begins the same way, he thought grimly. From the bottom, going up. And that's the way, ill or hearty, he had to take them.

It was a nightmare climb. The plainsman's legs shivered in the cooling mountain air, and more than a few times they failed, buckling and throwing him to the ground. When that happened, Riverwind clawed his way along with his fingers. Never mind that blood flowed from his torn nails. Never mind the blurring of his sight by the still-raging fever. He had to continue his journey.

He reached a small plateau and rolled over on his back to catch his breath. It streamed out, a thin white vapor in the night air. Only a moment to rest, just a short moment.

The Blue Crystal Staff materialized in the air above him. He moaned, thinking it was a feverish delusion, but when Riverwind put out a hand to grasp the floating staff, his fingers closed around smooth, hard sapphire. The staff had returned. It was cold and bright in his hand. The magic aura subsided, and Riverwind felt the rough, dark wood.

“Thank you, Mishakal,” he said. “Thank you!” The mountain rang with his cry.

He wondered what had happened to Di An, where she was. The goddess must have helped her. She must have. He said a silent prayer for the elf woman.

Riverwind resumed his climb. He leaned heavily on the five-foot-long rod, and it supported him on the long ascent.

In the days that followed, Riverwind's fortunes waxed and waned. In the high, narrow valleys of the Forsaken Mountains, he found wild berries and roots to eat, but no game he could catch bare-handed. The swamp fever would fade for an hour, or a day, only to strike him again, reducing the plainsman to a huddled, shivering wreck. During these periods, Riverwind wandered aimlessly off his chosen path, sometimes three or four leagues in the wrong direction. His mind grew dull with the heat and pain. He cut his hands and feet, stumbling over sharp stones. He wandered for three days, delirious, only to be brought to his senses by a sudden downpour of ice-cold rain. It was then that he discovered how lost he was. The peaks around him were unfamiliar, and the forest unlike any he'd entered before.

While Riverwind stood in the cold rain, marshaling his thoughts, he heard a young man's voice say, “What do you want, vagabond?”

He turned and saw he had stumbled into the open near a camp. Two stout wagons were set axle to axle, a canvas tent spread out before them. A fire burned fitfully under the sodden tarp. Standing between Riverwind and the camp was a young man in a dripping cape and rain-soaked hat. He held a slim-bladed sword. The point faced Riverwind.

“I said, what do you want?” repeated the young man. From beneath his hat, yellow-hair gleamed.

“I'm lost,” Riverwind said.

“Well, wandering thieves aren't welcome here!”

“There's no need for threats,” Riverwind said. His teeth chattered as the cold of the rain seemed to penetrate to his bones. “I'm not a brigand.”

“How do I know that?” asked the blond fellow. “You're a big fellow and you carry a stout stick.”

“Look, could I warm myself by your fire? I am chilled through and through.”

“No! Be off!” He stamped his foot for emphasis, but only succeeded in splashing mud on his own boots.

Riverwind considered trying to disarm the youngster, but before he could act on the notion, his temporary sense of balance fled, and the next thing he knew, he was lying in the mud on his back. The blond boy was joined by another figure in a hooded cape.

“Who's that? What did you do to him?” asked the hooded one. The voice sounded like a girl's.

“I did nothing,” replied the boy. “He's only some beggar.”

“He has the bearing of a warrior,” the girl observed. “But he looks quite ill.”

“We can't take in every starving robber who passes.”

“Well, we certainly can't leave him out here in the rain!” the girl declared. Riverwind wanted to applaud her good manners, but he was too weak to even make a sound.

The girl tried to lift him by an arm, but wasn't strong enough. The boy watched for a moment, then joined in. The two of them half-carried, half-dragged Riverwind to the wagons. With much straining and complaining, they hoisted him into one wagon.

The canvas flap fell, and the boy removed his hat. He had a high forehead and lots of freckles. His gray eyes were bloodshot. The girl slipped back her hood. She had a pleasant, plump face, a button nose, and curly black hair.

“Hand me a cloth, Darmon,” said the girl. The boy plucked a rag from the bow frame of the roof and gave it to her. She blotted Riverwind's face and neck, wrung out the rag, and dried his hands and arms.

“Thank you,” the plainsman managed to say.

“What's your name?” asked the girl gently.

“Riverwind.”

The boy, Darmon, snorted. “A barbarian name!” he declared. The girl shushed him.

“Don't take him too seriously,” she advised the young plainsman. “Darmon likes to think he has noble blood, and that allows him to look down on other people.”

“I do have noble blood, Lona! My uncle is Lord Bedric of-”

“So you've told me. And told me.” The girl wrung her cloth again. “My name is Arlona. Lona for short. What happened to you, Riverwind, that put you in such a state?”

He blinked his burning eyes and marshaled his thoughts. “I'm trying to get home,” he said. “To Que-Shu. My beloved is there, waiting for me. I have to give this staff to Goldmoon.” It lay beside him on the pallet of blankets.

“That thing?” Darmon said, pointing at the staff with one toe. “What's so special about that old stick?”

“The Staff of Mishakal. It fulfills my quest,” Riverwind said feverishly.

The boy rolled his eyes and shook his head, muttering, “Barbarians.”

Lona made some hot soup, and while it simmered she told Riverwind how she and Darmon came to be out here in the middle of nowhere.

“Darmon and I are the last survivors of Quidnin's Royal Theatre Company,” Lona said, stirring the broth. “We'd been on the road from the New Ports for Solace when Master Quidnin had a falling out with the wagon leader over the best route to take. Quidnin won out, unfortunately, and we went east.” The dark-haired girl stared into the pot. “It seems we should have gone west. We ended up in the mountains. The drovers were furious with Quidnin for getting us lost. There was a terrible argument, and the drovers abandoned us. Quidnin was still certain that we couldn't be too far off. He sent scouts one by one to search for help, for food, for water. None of the scouts ever came back. Of the eleven people in the theatre company when we set out from the New Ports, only Darmon and I remain.”

“Actors?” Riverwind said. He sipped the mug of weak but hot broth Lona had given him, and felt better. He reached out and fingered the end of the blade Darmon had presented to him in the rain. It bent easily under his thumb. The sword was a prop, made of tin.

“Hey!” Darmon protested. “You'll ruin it! Stop!” He shifted to the other side of the wagon, out of Riverwind's reach. The plainsman chuckled at the realization that he'd been threatened by a boy with a toy sword.

“How did you come to be out here?” Lona asked, watching him intently with bright brown eyes.

“I've traveled from Xak Tsaroth,” Riverwind said. “I found this staff there. Before that-” He frowned. “The details are hazy. There was a girl… a girl with dark hair.”

Lona pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “You have a high fever,” she said. “It's no wonder your head is addled.”

Riverwind drank more broth. “How long have you been out here alone?” he asked.

“The last of the adults, a fellow named Varabo, rode off on the last cart horse, promising to return in a day if he didn't meet up with assistance,” Lona said. “That was a week past, and we've been waiting here in the middle of nowhere ever since.”

“I told Varabo I should be the one to go,” Darmon said. “I knew he'd never find the way out.”

“Let me get my strength back, and I'll guide you out of the mountains,” Riverwind said.

“You!” Darmon sneered. “I thought you were lost, too.”

“The fever has dulled my senses,” replied the plainsman. He was developing a dislike for the arrogant boy. “Once my head clears, I can show you exactly how to get to Solace, if that's where you want to go.”

“Hmm, I suppose you'll want to share our food.”

Lona slapped Darmon lightly on the leg. “He's welcome to anything we have,” she insisted. Lona frowned at River-wind's decayed leather clothing. “I can stitch up some of Quidnin's clothes for you, I think. You're taller, but at least they'll cover you.”

“Thank you.”

“Lona's the company seamstress. She enjoys sewing and all,” Darmon sniffed.

With warmth in his belly and a dry blanket over him, Riverwind fell asleep. He dreamed of Goldmoon. She waited for him, arms outstretched. Suddenly, her face changed and she had short, dark hair. This woman he didn't recognize, though her name seemed just out of reach.

Gray clouds torn to shreds by a fresh wind scudded across the mountain sky. Riverwind scratched under his new, uncomfortable clothes. Lona had mended a linen shirt and tight-fitting breeches for him. She rummaged through a dozen pairs of shoes before she found some wooden-soled half-boots that fit Riverwind's feet. This eclectic ensemble was not to his taste-the shirt had faded red stripes, and the pants were much too tight-but it was better than wandering around three-quarters naked, like some savage.

Riverwind had a long argument with Darmon when he told the boy they would have to abandon the wagons. All their theatrical gear was in them, Darmon protested. But who will pull the wagons? Riverwind reminded him. In the end, sullen and silent, Darmon packed what items he wanted in a wooden carrying case and joined Riverwind and Lona on foot.

They followed the narrow wagon track down the slope of the mountain. The great forest spread out around them. Riverwind had to pause frequently to rest. During these respites he noticed how a few of the leaves on some trees were beginning to acquire their fall colors. He saw clumps of yellow starflowers, which he knew bloomed only at the end of the summer season. Finally, at a rest break, he remarked on how strange it seemed that summer was nearly over.

“Why is that strange?” asked Darmon.

Riverwind stared at the young man. “It was late summer when I left Que-Shu,” Riverwind said. “I feel I've been traveling for a long time and yet it is still the end of summer.”

“Perhaps you mix up the seasons?” Darmon said. “Haven't you been paying attention?”

“Be civil!” Lona chided.

“In truth, I think I was in a place that had no seasons.” Riverwind rubbed his temples with his long fingers. “I don't know how that can be so,” he said.

“It will all come back to you when you are well,” Lona said. She reached in a bag and brought out a handful of dried apple slices. She gave a few to Darmon and Riverwind. Riverwind nibbled absently on the fruit. He tried hard to remember. Bits and pieces floated through his mind-a murderous thing flying through the air with black wings, a kind and loving blue light-it made no sense, and it made his head hurt. He gave up for a while.

Gapped as his memory was, some things were quite clear. He knew exactly where they were: an arm of the Forsaken Mountains thrust south and east into the forest. There was a high pass into the southern range of mountains that led directly to the high plateau. The Sageway East ran along the northern edge of the plateau, and once on it, Que-Shu was an easy two days' march away. That memory was also clear-his home was Que-Shu, and there Goldmoon awaited him.

He explained the route to Darmon and Lona, and they agreed to go that way. As they walked, Lona told Riverwind how she and Darmon came to be with the Royal Theatre Company.

“We're orphans, Darmon and I,” she began. “My mother worked as a seamstress and cook for the company. She died a year ago of the flux, and I inherited her duties.”

“I'm sorry,” Riverwind said sincerely.

“Oh, she had a better life than most, and she didn't suffer much in the end. But, Darmon, he ran away from home to be an actor.” She arched her dark eyebrows and assumed a lofty air.

“My aristocratic family didn't approve of a son acting in plays,” Darmon said. He turned his face into the crosswind and let the air stir his loose blond hair. “They didn't understand I was born to be an artist.”

What rot, Riverwind thought. He said, “What will the two of you do when you reach Solace?”

“If the stars are with us, we should find Quidnin or some of the company there,” Lona said.

“And if you don't?”

“We'll start our own company,” Darmon said firmly.

Riverwind did not voice his own belief that all the actors were dead-starved or murdered-in the vast loneliness of the mountains. Kind Arlona and arrogant Darmon would most likely have nothing waiting for them in Solace. Nothing but a dead end.

Riverwind had a bad attack of the chills that night, in spite of the jar of hot water Lona gave him to hold against his chest. His teeth chattered so loudly he asked Darmon to whittle a white wood twig for him to bite down on. When sleep finally claimed him, he dreamed again. This time the images were more muddled than before.

He stood in a black space. Something flew overhead, a black, winged creature that had haunted his sleep the night before. Out of the dark, a woman's voice called his name.

Her voice was familiar. She walked out of the darkness toward him. Her hair was long and golden, and her beautiful face was sad. As she passed by him, Riverwind saw tears on her smooth cheeks. She moved on, still calling his name, until the darkness had once more swallowed her.

With a low cry, Riverwind came awake. He lay shivering and clutching the jar to his chest. Who was she? he wondered. Who was that woman? He should know. She was very important. The questions pounded his brain until, finally, sleep washed over him.

They reached the pass before noon of the next day. A few hours' climb up the steep path, and the trio stood on the high plateau. A remnant of the Cataclysm, the plateau had been formed when a great splash of rock and mud filled in a valley in the mountains. Among the Que-Shu it was said that if you dug into the brown soil of the plateau, you would find houses, animals… and people, all buried exactly where they stood at the time of the Cataclysm.

As it was, the plateau was a pleasant, grassy interval in the rugged, stony ocean of peaks. Bighorn sheep and mountain goats ran in herds on the plateau, and Riverwind fervently wished to hunt them. But, alas, he had no bow, nor even a decent javelin to hurl.

Darmon was quiet as they stood on the plateau. He seemed intimidated by the presence of the taller, older man, though Riverwind was probably no more than a handful of years his senior. Darmon kept as far away from the plainsman as was convenient. Leaning on his wooden staff, Riverwind sat down on a large rock to rest. Lona settled on the ground near him and searched through her bag for a midday snack. Darmon remained standing, several yards away, surveying the way they had come.

“Raisins?” Lona offered Riverwind a handful of the fruit.

He laid the staff on the ground by his left foot and took the proffered fruit. Lona began to eat her own handful slowly. “You certainly don't let that staff out of your sight,” the young woman said.

Riverwind looked down at the homely staff. “It is very important.”

“It's only a stick of wood,” Darmon said, moving in to get a share of raisins.

“Darmon,” Lona chided. “It's important to Riverwind.”

The boy shook his head and went back to his study of their position.

“Why is it important?” Lona asked.

Riverwind picked up the wooden rod. He ran his hands over it and frowned. “It's not just wood,” he said softly. “It's really…” The effort of concentration made his head hurt. He gripped the staff so tightly his knuckles whitened. “I don't know. I can't remember. Have I never told you?”

Lona shook her head sadly. “No, Riverwind. You haven't mentioned it at all. I thought you'd carved it yourself.”

“No. No, I didn't,” Riverwind leaned his face against the wood. “At least, I don't think I did. I think I'm supposed to give it to someone.”

“Who?” asked Darmon and popped his last raisin in his mouth.

“I can't remember.” The words were barely audible.

“Well, don't fret over it,” Lona said cheerily. “I'm sure everything will be clear again once you're well.” She hoisted her gear and said, “We should be moving now.”

She and Darmon were quickly ready, but Riverwind sat on his rock, staring at the staff.

“Come on, barbarian,” Darmon said. “We're ready to go.”

Riverwind finally sighed deeply and stood, shouldering his pack. The staff swung out and swept past Darmon. He jumped back quickly.

“Watch it!” he cried. “Keep that dirty stick off my clothes.”

Riverwind apologized and took a firmer grip on the staff.

“It's only a piece of wood, Darmon,” Lona said. “It won't bite you.”

The three of them moved on across the plateau. River-wind's face showed his anxiety. His memory was so dark. There were so many gaps. But he was on his way home. No matter what else was unclear, that was certain. He was on the road home.

When they camped that night, Lona made hot broth for him again. She boiled what looked like an ox-bone in some water and added a sprinkling of powder from a tiny draw-string bag that she wore around her neck. Riverwind asked her what was in the bag.

“Spice,” she said. “Our poor soup bone is practically glass smooth from boiling, so the broth needs something extra to flavor it.” Riverwind peered at the old bone and nodded. The broth was still nearly tasteless.

That night-the third since meeting the two young people-Riverwind had no troubling dreams. The indistinct face of the woman with golden hair floated in and out of his mind, but there was no pain attached to this. He awoke rested and refreshed, and felt stronger than he had in days. He breathed in the warm air and touched the staff lying on the ground.

He would take it to Que-Shu. Once it was there, someone would surely know what to do with it. He worried a bit over the gaps in his memory, but he felt so much better physically that he was certain his memory would return, too.

That morning, Lona brought him his broth. Riverwind stared at the nearly clear liquid in the mug. It was really quite bad, but he didn't want to hurt Lona's feeling. After all, she was sharing what little they had. So, when neither of the others was looking, Riverwind poured the broth out on the ground. He would try to find some game for them today. This would help ease the strain on their meager food supply.

Later that morning, the Sageway appeared in the distance. Riverwind felt great relief. His memory of directions was still sound.

“Does the road run all the way to Solace?” Darmon asked as they took in the vista of the ancient road, green grass sprouting between its bricks.

“Yes, though it branches at different points,” Riverwind noted.

“Do many travelers use it?” asked Lona.

“Many do, though there isn't much trade going west and east. Most traders ply the routes north and south, from Qualinesti up to Solace and across the sea to Solamnia.”

Darmon shouldered the strap he'd tacked to his case and said, “Let's go, I'm eager to get to Solace.”

Riverwind caught his toe on a hummock of grass. He stumbled and threw out his arms to keep his balance. The staff, in his right hand, swung out and hit Lona on the shoulder. With a low cry, she leaped sideways.

“Are you all right?” Darmon asked, coming quickly to her side.

Riverwind apologized. “It was an accident, Lona. I hope I didn't hurt you.”

Lona took her hand from her left shoulder and smiled thinly. “I'm fine. Do you think that silly stick could hurt me?” She picked up her knapsack with her right hand, but she held her left arm rather stiffly.

Riverwind stood unmoving. Lona's words echoed in his mind. Do you think that silly stick could hurt me?

He felt very strange. He'd heard those words before. Someone had said them to him not so very long ago. Who?

Do you think that silly stick could hurt me?

Lona still hadn't moved, and Darmon was fussing over her shoulder. “No, it couldn't have hurt you,” Riverwind said, frowning. “It barely touched you.” He stared at the young woman for so long that she shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Darmon. He put a hand to his forehead. “I've heard those words before,” Riverwind muttered. He strained to remember, the throbbing in his head growing worse.

“What words?” Darmon asked. When no answer was forthcoming, the boy rolled his eyes. “Ignorant barbarian.”

Riverwind's head came up, and he stared at Darmon. “What did you say?” he asked. Darmon glanced at Arlona. Riverwind pointed the staff at the boy.

“What're you doing?” he snapped. “Get that filthy stick away from me. What's wrong with you?”

“It's only a silly stick,” Riverwind said. He turned to Lona. “The two of you are acting very strangely.” Do you think that silly stick could hurt me? “There is something wrong here.”

Lona pulled Darmon back a few steps. She smiled at Riverwind. “Nonsense. You're only imagining things,” she said. “There's nothing wrong with us.”

“Who are you? Who are you really?” Riverwind demanded. Though he had sensed something odd about the two, he really had no clear idea just what the matter was. He quickly found out.

Before Riverwind's astonished eyes, the two young people began to change. Darmon's hair flew away on the wind like dandelion seed, and his freckled skin seemed to melt in strips. Riverwind cried out in horror. Darmon's gray eyes became yellow slits, and his green, scaly body elongated, a pair of wings rising and flexing behind him. His beaked face opened in a wide, hissing grin. Riverwind saw him in his true form and a name he'd forgotten popped into his mind.

“Shanz,” Riverwind croaked, his voice hoarse with shock. “You're Shanz.”

“And me, little man? Do you remember me?” The voice was not Lona's. She was no more. Her dull peasant clothes were a mere heap of rags on the ground. In her place, coiled tightly and wings furled, was a black dragon.

“Khisanth.” Riverwind breathed the name. She had said those familiar words to him back in Xak Tsaroth when he'd first faced her with the staff. “I remember.” Riverwind backed up several steps, holding the Staff of Mishakal-for he knew that that's what it was-before him.

“I commend you, Shanz,” said the dragon. “You said the human might survive the Cursed Lands, and you were right.”

“The warrior who bested Thouriss was not likely to succumb to mud and fever,” Shanz replied. “And your illusions, mistress, were an excellent touch.” His sword was out. Riverwind looked quickly from dragon to draconian to see who would move against him first.

“Why did you play this game with me?” the plainsman asked bitterly. “Why pretend to be Darmon and Arlona? You found me; you could have killed me any time.”

“I still can,” rumbled the dragon. “When it suits me. But-” She lowered her horned head, canting it sideways in a darkly thoughtful gesture. “I wanted to retrieve the staff you carry. It contains much power, power that I want for myself. If you had died in the swamp, it might've fallen into other hands.”

“It's useless to you,” Riverwind declared. He had his eye on something on the ground. Among the rough clothing was the small drawstring bag with the “spice” in it. “You may want this staff, but neither you nor Shanz can touch it. You need me to carry it for you. That's why you were giving me the 'spice.' You wanted to destroy my memory, and then my will.”

“Nonsense! I can take that little twig any time I wish,” said Khisanth.

Riverwind poked at the dragon's face. A blue spark arced from the staff's tip to the beast's cheek. Khisanth hissed loudly and jerked her head back.

“Nothing evil can bear the touch of this staff,” Riverwind told her coldly.

Khisanth opened her mouth in a terrifying snarl. Razor-sharp fangs and acid saliva were only a few feet from Riverwind. He gripped the staff with both hands.

The draconian brought his sword down. Riverwind blocked it with the staff. Holding Mishakal's sacred rod like a quarterstaff, he took all of Shanz's attacks and delivered a few of his own. The advantage Riverwind had was he didn't have to strike Shanz hard; merely touching him delivered a violent shock. Armor didn't protect him.

Within a minute of the battle's start, Riverwind planted the end of the staff hard into Shanz's pointed chin. The dra-conian's jawbone shattered, and the full magical force of Mishakal's staff coursed through his frame like lightning. Shanz uttered a protracted groan and fell to the ground. His body twitched and then was still.

Khisanth froze. Instead of attacking Riverwind immediately, she moved to Shanz's body. Her head snaked down, and she sniffed at the corpse, her eyes never leaving the plainsman's face. Her expression was hideous. No more illusions and trickery, she decided. It's time to kill this impudent mortal.

Riverwind took a step backward. Without warning, the dragon's head shot up, and her chest expanded as she inhaled deeply. She was preparing to breathe acid mist all over Riverwind. The plainsman dove into the pile of old clothes and found the drawstring bag of spice. He tore the top open and flung the contents, a yellowish powder, into the dragon's face, then scrambled madly away. Khisanth was still inhaling, and most of the powder was drawn into her nose.

The dragon shook her head from side to side, lungs filled with the alchemical powder. With a rasping roar, Khisanth blew the dust out in a cloud mixed with her own acid breath. Riverwind felt the edge of the stinging mist, tasted its metallic bite on his lips. He shut his eyes tightly and ran. The ground shook as the black dragon crashed to the ground and began to roll in the grass. She tore the sod and howled in a voice like thunder. Riverwind ran blindly, stumbling frequently, but he didn't stop until he felt the paving of the Sageway under his feet. Only then did he look back. A column of dirt and dust rose high in the air, marking the spot where Khisanth was thrashing in rage and pain.

Goldmoon, daughter of Arrowthorn, sat in the chieftain's chair, her head perched on a clenched fist. Though she was bored to death, outwardly she maintained an air of intelligent interest. Two Que-Shu men stood before her, in front of the chieftain's home, disputing the ownership of a cow, and were just as loud about their respective rights now as when the trial had begun, over an hour ago.

A disturbance arose on the other side of the empty village arena. Goldmoon raised her head when she heard the shouts and saw the dust churned up from the dry path by many Que-Shu feet. “Be silent a moment,” she said to the quarreling men. The two reluctantly ceased their disputation. The noise grew louder, and the outer fringe of a large crowd began to spill around the edges of the sunken arena.

Goldmoon stood. Her attendants likewise rose. She said, “Fetch my father.” Two brawny men nodded and entered the chieftain's house. They returned shortly carrying a litter in which the bent form of Arrowthorn sat. Fate had dealt the chieftain a bitter blow. Ten months after he'd sent Riverwind on his Courting Quest, a mysterious illness had laid the chieftain low, leaving him unable to walk or talk intelligibly. His eyes told the true story, though; the mind of Arrowthorn still dwelled within the ruined body, a helpless prisoner of his own flesh.

The crowd flowed into the arena, down the stone seat-steps and up the other side. Children pranced among the adults with growing excitement. Goldmoon strained to see around the Temple of the Ancestors, which blocked her view. It would not do for chieftain's daughter to wade into the crowd like a common person. She had to remain cool and detached, though she ached with curiosity.

The Que-Shu folk thinned at what was the center of the disturbance. A lone figure walked slowly in the eye of this human tempest; a tall figure, head above the crowd, who leaned on a dark wooden staff as he walked.

A single tear stung Goldmoon's eye. It could not be- after so long!

The tall man skirted the arena, choosing a course near the village hall. The afternoon sun broke over that building, throwing a cloak of shadow over him.

Arrowthorn made a low, gurgling sound. Goldmoon reached over to his litter and grasped his hand.

The murmur of the crowd resolved into a steady chant. There was no doubt any longer, for what the Que-Shu people repeated over and over was a name: Riverwind.

Goldmoon couldn't bear it any longer. She slipped free of her father's feeble grasp and moved. But she moved slowly and with the dignity of her position. The people parted, making a path for her directly to Riverwind. He was between the village hall and the Temple of the Ancestors when he saw her, and stopped. Goldmoon halted, too. He was thin, and sunburn painted his face. Riverwind lifted a hand in greeting.

“Goldmoon,” he said hoarsely. “I remember.”

She spoke his name, then, to her horror, he collapsed. The crowd closed in on the fallen man, but Goldmoon cried, “Get back!”

She hurried to his side, ignoring her spotless white hem trailing in the dirt. Goldmoon fell on her knees and turned Riverwind's face to the sky.

“My beloved,” he said.

“Yes, yes, I'm here,” she replied softly. To the assembled crowd, she said, “Fetch a healer! He is roasting with fever!”

Goldmoon stroked his blistered face. “My love,” she whispered, “I prayed to all the true gods you would return to me. They have answered my prayers.” Riverwind slowly brought the staff up to her face. “What is it?” she asked.

“Proof. This is the Staff of Mishakal. Our quest is over.” She tried to take the staff, but his fingers were locked on it. Not until the healer had come and administered a soothing herbal potion did Riverwind's hand relax enough for her to pry the staff away.

At Goldmoon's command, strong men lifted Riverwind. She ordered him to be taken to the chieftain's house. The men looked at each other wonderingly, but they obeyed. Goldmoon had been chieftain in all but name since her father's illness, and she had led her people well.

She strode ahead of the litter that held the young plainsman. The crowd parted respectfully. When she reached the spot where she'd left her father, she saw Loreman was there. He was one of the few who resisted her rule. The scheming old man was speaking into Arrowthorn's ear, and he stiffened when he saw Goldmoon staring at him.

“Take my father and Riverwind inside. Healer, attend to the son of Wanderer.” The litter bearers, their burdens, and the healer went into the house. Loreman cleared his throat, halting Goldmoon before she could follow.

“What?” she asked coldly.

“Riverwind has returned. Does he admit defeat in his quest?” said Loreman.

“Not at all. He has triumphed.”

“Where then is the proof of the old, dead gods?”

She thrust the staff out at him. “Here! Riverwind brings this, the sacred staff of the goddess Mishakal.”

Loreman smiled. “An impressive piece of wood,” he said sarcastically.

“I will speak with Riverwind and learn more,” Goldmoon said. “You need not concern yourself.”

“Heresy always concerns me.”

“Enough! I am needed within.” She swept past Loreman, attempting to hide her loathing.

She went to Riverwind's side. A screen of hides had been hung around his bed for privacy. Goldmoon slipped in and dismissed the healer. When they were alone, she kissed him.

His face was wet.

“Are those your tears or mine?” she said, sniffing.

“Ours,” he said, his voice like a sigh.

“Loreman asked if you had failed in your quest. I said you hadn't. How can we prove it, beloved?”

Riverwind coughed raggedly. Goldmoon lit a stick of curative incense by his bed. The aromatic smoke drifted over the room. There was something about the smoke that struck a chord in him, a place he'd seen, a person he'd known. Gold-moon looked down at him tenderly. He put a hardened hand to her soft cheek. “The staff is a sliver from the throne of the goddess,” he explained. “Made of sapphire. It is disguised as wood, but will show its true nature when needed. The goddess herself gave it to me. She said I was to give it to you.”

Goldmoon's eyes widened and she gasped. “To me? Why? What shall I do with it?”

“Heal the sick. Repel evil. Perhaps even raise the dead.”

Goldmoon regarded the crude wooden stave with awe. So much power-could she wield it justly?

Even as the thought crossed her mind, the handworn wood began to glow. In a heartbeat, the rod lying across Goldmoon's lap became a fiercely glowing scepter. The chieftain's daughter felt the presence of the goddess, knew the Tightness of her holding the crystal staff. Riverwind grasped the staff also, and the sky-blue aura passed up his arm to envelop him.

“I don't remember much of what happened to me,” Riverwind said. “There was great hardship and an evil place where death rode on black wings. I know that people died, good people, like the old soothsayer, Catchstar. There was a girl-a woman, I think-who saved my life. It's all so blurred and confused.” He looked into her eyes. “But throughout my trials, the one truth I held firm was you. Your love always broke through the veils cast around me. It saved more than my life. It saved my soul.”

Goldmoon couldn't speak through her tears, but her hand on Riverwind's face was soft and warm.

The divine glow penetrated and healed Riverwind's fever-plagued body. When it finally dimmed and receded, he lifted his arms and embraced the woman he loved.