The door of the Inn of the Last Home cracked open, then flew wide as the wind caught it. The tavern’s patrons glared, huddling over their drinks. Their expressions softened, though, when they saw the massive form that squeezed through the doorway. Caramon Majere stomped in, carrying a load of firewood that would have stooped a man half his age. Sweating and panting, he lugged the wood to the hearth and dropped it with a clatter into the firebox. Moving stiffly, he lifted the poker and stirred the fire. A storm of glowing cinders rose up the chimney. Satisfied, he shuffled away from the hearth and slumped into an armchair with an old man’s aching grunt.
Caramon had a right to that grunt. On the downward slope of sixty he’d already seen more years than the Inn’s previous owner, Otik Sandath, had when he’d retired. He folded his hands over his girth-he’d fought its spread all his life, but was finally losing-and leaned back, letting his eyelids droop closed.
The next thing he knew, old Rhea, the Inn’s cook, was shaking him. Snorting, he wiped his eyes and peered blearily up at her. “What’s the trouble?” he asked.
Rhea, who was more than seventy years old, was a severe-looking woman at the best of times. The look she gave him now made it seem as if she’d just taken a large bite of a lemon. “Well,” she said pointedly, “for one thing, the windows were about to break, you were snoring so loud.”
Chuckles filled the tavern. Caramon glowered at her. “I don’t snore,” he grumbled.
“Of course you don’t,” Rhea snapped sarcastically. More chuckles. “I also brought your supper. Think you can stay awake long enough to eat?”
“Keep talking like that,” Caramon warned. “You’ll see how awake I am.”
With a mocking laugh, Rhea signaled to one of the serving girls, who brought out a sizzling platter and placed it on the table before him. Rhea set a tankard of tea beside the plate, then bustled away.
Not long ago, it had been rare for Caramon to take his supper at a civilized hour. The Inn had been too busy, with travelers on their way south to Haven and Qualinesti, or north to Crossing and the New Sea. “Blackguards and barmen dine ‘neath the moons,” the old saying went.
The moons were gone now, though, replaced by a single orb that hung, pale and strange, in the night sky. It seemed the old proverbs no longer applied, either. Since the Summer of Chaos, Caramon had found time to dine with the Inn’s patrons three days out of four. That was because there were few patrons to dine with anymore.
For such a big man, Caramon ate little nowadays, and what there was on his plate, he picked at listlessly. He took sips of tea between mouthfuls of marjoram-rubbed rabbit and spiced potatoes, but most of the time, he just stared around the tavern.
There had been a time, just a few years ago, when the Inn had been packed at this hour. The tables and booths had been full, people had lined the bar shoulder-to-shoulder, and the air had rung with talk and laughter and cries for ale. Caramon had wished, on more than one occasion, that business would cool off so he could have some rest. Now he looked back on those days and wondered if, maybe, he hadn’t wished too hard.
Tonight, he could count the folk in the tavern without taking off his boots, as Tika was wont to quip. In the back sat two hooded elves, probably refugees from the ongoing troubles in Qualinesti. Clemen, Osler and Borlos-regulars who’d hang in till either the Inn closed for good or someone dragged them out feet-first-were drinking mulled wine and playing a game of cards over by the kitchen door, cursing and laughing loudly. A weary-looking tinker, who had found less work in Solace than he’d hoped and would surely move on soon, hunched over a bottle of dwarf spirits. And that was it.
Things just hadn’t been the same since that terrible summer. True, the Knights of Takhisis no longer ruled this part of Ansalon, but their absence was a double-edged sword. They’d been hard masters, and Caramon had hated every moment he’d lived under their sway, but at least they’d kept the bandits and goblins from running rampant. Now the road were more dangerous than they’d been in many years, and no one seemed to travel much anymore. On top of that, the world seemed to have slowed down since the Second Cataclysm. At first, folk had been preoccupied with rebuilding the damage wrought by the Dark Knights and the armies of Chaos. Now, though, with the scars of that summer at last starting to heal, few people wanted to do anything but stay at home. Nobody seemed to hunger for adventure any more. There had been enough excitement of late to last a hundred lifetimes.
When Caramon finished his tea and grew tired of pushing cold food about his plate, he decided he could afford to have another sleep. If anyone tried to cause trouble, Clemen, Osler and Borlos would give them a knock on the head for interrupting their card game. “Yes,” Caramon muttered, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back, “another nap sounds just fine.”
He was just shy of slumber when the door opened and closed again. The chatter of the card game stopped.
“Look sharp, big guy,” called Osler. “You’re about to get yourself thumped.”
Caramon looked up in time to see Tika, who was moving quickly across the tavern, toward him. Her eyes were blazing, and the look on her face could have frozen Crystalmir Lake, though there was still a week left of summer. Caramon rose quickly, nearly knocking over his chair, and stepped between his loving wife and the iron platter on the tabletop. Judging by the way Tika looked, Caramon didn’t much want her within reach of anything that looked good for bashing heads.
“You’re home early,” he said, trying to sound as if the world were made of sunshine and blooming roses. “How’s Usha?”
Pregnant was what Usha was, of course. Over the past few months, Tika had taken to going to Palin and Usha’s house, fussing over her daughter-in-law incessantly. Palin, having inherited some of his father’s wits, knew enough to let his mother have her way, and to make himself scarce in the meantime. He was at Wayreth now, searching the libraries vainly for some inkling of how to reawaken magic. He’d be coming home soon, though. The child was almost due. Usha was as huge around as a well-fed ogress, and Tika was anxious over the impending arrival of her first grandchild. Caramon was looking forward to the birth too, of course. Life was lonely, even with his daughters to help out around the inn.
“Usha’s fine,” Tika snapped, drawing up so close that he fell back a pace. “I left Laura and Dezra at her place. The child will come before the moon’s full.”
“That’s good,” Caramon said, smiling.
Tika didn’t say anything. She glared at him, her silver-shot red hair gleaming in the firelight. She’d had more than fifty years to perfect her accusing look.
“Rhea’s got supper on,” Caramon offered. “I’ll go get you some, and a glass of that Ergothian wine you like-”
“You don’t have any idea what’s on my mind, do you?” Caramon met his wife’s fiery gaze for a moment, then looked away. “Nope,” he said sheepishly.
Clemen, Borlos and Osler continued their card game quietly, being very careful not to draw attention to themselves.
Tika took a long, slow breath. “On my way back here, I stopped at Tanin and Sturm’s graves.”
Caramon nodded. Though his wife was excited by the prospect of a new baby, no grandchild would ever take the place of her two lost sons. She spent a great deal of time at their graves, often leaving behind wildflowers or toys they’d played with as boys. She always returned from the graves in a grim mood, but today it was different. Grief for her sons wasn’t the only thing bothering her.
“What is it, Tika?” Caramon asked.
“You honestly don’t know?”
“No. I don’t.” Worry was beginning to fray his patience. “For the last time, Tika, what’s the matter?”
She relaxed a little, the anger in her eyes giving way to sorrow. “Riverwind’s come to Solace.”
Caramon hurried down the stairs that led from the tavern to the ground. He was confused, and Tika hadn’t helped much. Riverwind’s arrival in Solace should have been a joyous occasion-he was a friend, after all, and they hadn’t seen him in years-but Tika had been on the verge of tears when she’d spoken his name.
His first guess had been that something awful had happened on the Plains. “Has something happened to Goldmoon?” he’d demanded. “To Wanderer? The girls?”
“No,” Tika had said. “Riverwind said Goldmoon and Wanderer are well, and the girls came here with him. They… wanted to see the graves.”
Moonsong and Brightdawn, Riverwind’s twin daughters, had been fond of Tanin and Sturm. They had played together as children, and both Caramon and Riverwind had watched with amusement as their children developed their first adolescent crushes on each other. Of course, that had come to nothing-the twins would marry men of the Plains when the time came, and the Majere boys had fallen in love, or something like love, with other women-but they’d remained friends up until the day Tanin and Sturm died. The twins hadn’t come to Solace since then, but Caramon had known that one day they would. Their father, evidently, had come with them.
“Why is Riverwind here?” Caramon had asked his wife.
“You know where to find him,” was all she would say in reply.
It was to the Last Heroes’ Tomb, then, that Caramon hastened. It stood outside the town proper, in the peaceful field where the gods-and Raistlin with them-had bidden the world farewell. Low and square, it might have been mistaken by a careless traveler for just another barrow in a world where tombs had grown all too common. There were few travelers in Ansalon, however, who were so ignorant. The tomb was a sacred place, regarded with awe and reverence by everyone-human and elf, dwarf and kender. Even the goblins dared not disturb it.
The sun was setting in the west, the pale moon rising full in the east, when Caramon arrived at the tomb. He hastened through the sheltering ring of trees the elves had planted-saplings two years ago, they grew quickly, spreading their slender limbs toward the pewter-colored sky-and jogged toward the tomb itself. It was crafted of marble and obsidian, white stone and black woven together by dwarven hands in memory of the alliance between Good and Evil that had brought down Chaos. Its gold and silver doors, one etched with the Solamnic symbol of the rose, the other marked by the lily worn by the Knights of Takhisis, stood open. Torchlight glowed within, and Caramon could hear a faint voice chanting in a language he didn’t understand but had heard before. It was the language of the Plainsmen.
Caramon paused at the doors, just for a moment, and glanced at the name carved on the lintel. No one could prove that Tasslehoff Burrfoot was indeed dead, for there was no body to be found, but Palin and Usha both had sworn they’d seen him crushed beneath Chaos’s heel. That was enough for Caramon, whose heart ached whenever he saw the kender’s name, and the hoopak graven beneath it.
There were, thankfully, no kender here tonight. They had been turning up in greater and greater numbers lately, making pilgrimages to the tomb from every part of Ansalon. The kender were the only people who could be counted on the travel in these dread times; unfortunately, much to the townsfolk’s horror, they could also be counted on to continue being kender. The Inn of the Last Home was missing several dozen mugs, half its silverware, and-Caramon had never been able to explain it-a couch. Similar losses had been reported all around Solace, and all fingers pointed at the light-fingered kender. The captain of the town guard was prone these days to uncontrollable facial tics.
Caramon stepped into the tomb, and for a moment was blinded by darkness. When his eyes adjusted, he descended the stairs that led down into its depths, following the ever-brightening light and the soft, familiar voice. He hastened along a long tunnel, passing vaults containing the bodies of knights slain in battle with Chaos, until finally he reached the innermost sepulcher. Swallowing, he ducked through the doorway and beheld the biers.
On his left stood a slab of black marble, graven with skulls and thorns and other fearsome things. Despite the gruesome carvings, though, there was an aura of peace about the bier. The sigils were those of the Knights of Takhisis, but they held a certain beauty, just as the lily the knights venerated smelled sweet when it bloomed.
Upon it, undisturbed by the passage of time, lay the body of Steel Brightblade. He wore black armor, grimly etched, and in his hands he clasped an ancient sword. The blade had been handed down through the Brightblade family from ancient times and had been buried with Steel’s father, Sturm, in the Tower of the High Clerist. Caramon had been in Sturm’s tomb when the dead knight’s ghost had risen and passed the sword on to his son. Steel had fought with the blade in the battle that had killed him.
All around Steel’s body, the bier was strewn with black lilies. Caramon raised his eyebrows at this. No one but the Dark Knights would leave such tokens for their slain hero, but there had been no word of members of that brotherhood around Solace for months. Yet the lilies were fresh, as though they had bloomed this very morning.
Shivering, Caramon let his gaze drift from the black bier, over to the white one on the room’s other side. The second bier bore no carvings. It was a simple block of white marble, veined with blue. It was heaped with white roses, just as Steel’s was covered with lilies. In the midst of the roses lay the body of Tanis Half-Elven.
Caramon looked upon his friend’s face, at the odd smile that twisted his gray beard. After a moment, though, he bowed his head, grimacing. The pain of seeing Tanis, quiet and still upon the slab, had not lessened with the passage of years. It still made him feel terribly alone.
He wasn’t alone this time, though. At the bier’s foot knelt a tall man clad in buckskins and furs. A many-feathered headdress-doffed out of respect for the dead-rested on the floor by his side. Long hair, once black but now mostly white, spilled loose over his shoulders. The firelight came from a torch in the man’s left hand. He chanted softly, then stopped suddenly, raising his head.
“My friend,” the man said. “I am glad you’ve come.”
“Riverwind?” Caramon asked.
The man nodded, but still he did not turn. He raised a muscular arm, deeply tanned from years spent in the wilderness. “Please, Caramon,” he beckoned. “Come see what we have brought, my daughters and I.”
Caramon stepped forward. As he did, he glimpsed something on the bier, beside Tanis’s body. It was a long, slender staff with a plain shaft and an ornately carved head. The torchlight caught it, and it flashed with bright blue light.
Slowly, stiffly, Riverwind rose. He turned to look at Caramon. His face was as it had always been-more weathered and wrinkled, perhaps, but the strength and kindness were still there. His dark eyes shone.
“Goldmoon felt it would be fitting,” he said.
Caramon gazed upon the staff that lay beside his friend’s body, and words would not come. It had been more than thirty years since he had seen it, but it was just as he remembered: hewn of blue crystal, a single sapphire shaped with craftsmanship beyond the ken of man. So much had begun with that staff.
“Is it real?” he asked, his voice faint with wonder.
Riverwind nodded. “When the war with Chaos ended, Goldmoon and I went east again, on a pilgrimage to Xak Tsaroth. I had found proof of the old gods there before. We hoped to find it again.” He was silent a moment, frowning, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “We did not. When we reached the temple, the statue of Mishakal there had fallen and shattered upon the floor. We found the staff amid the rubble and took it with us. It is not a holy relic any more, Caramon. It has no magic. But when we learned of this tomb, we knew it belonged here. Tanis would understand.”
Caramon blinked back tears. “I’m sure he does.”
Neither man said anything for a long while. The torch crackled and popped.
“Where are the girls?” Caramon asked.
“I asked them to leave me here,” Riverwind replied. “They went, I think, to visit Usha.”
“Tika told me they’ve been to the graves.”
The Plainsman nodded solemnly. “They wanted dearly to see them and begged to come with me. I am sorry we couldn’t visit sooner, my friend. Things have been difficult for our people, these past two years.”
“So I’ve heard,” Caramon said. “Are you still having trouble keeping the alliance between the tribes?”
“From time to time,” Riverwind answered. “But that is no great worry. When the Dark Knights left these lands, though, they left their Brutes behind. Several clans have settled in the Eastwall Mountains. My son is seldom home these days, there is so much fighting.”
Caramon nodded. “But Wanderer is well?”
“As well as one might expect,” Riverwind said grimly.
Caramon hesitated. “And Goldmoon?”
“She fares well,” Riverwind assured him. “The loss of the goddess weighs on her, of course, but she has always been strong. She wanted to come, but with Wanderer away she couldn’t afford to leave Que-Shu.”
“That’s a shame,” Caramon said earnestly. “I’m sure she’d want to see-” He stopped abruptly, his hand waving feebly at the green-cloaked body upon the bier. Together they stared down at Tanis’s remains.
“Do you know,” Riverwind said sadly, “the last time I saw him was ten years ago? He and Laurana came to visit us on the plains. I wanted to return the favor, to go to Solanthus, but-” He spread his hands. “I always thought there would be time for such things later. I was sure he’d outlive us all.”
“Well,” Caramon said, “he was part elf.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Riverwind pressed his hands together, raising them to his lips. “Tanis always knew what to do. Even when we didn’t think he did-even when he didn’t think he did-in his heart he knew.”
“I know,” Caramon answered. “And that’s what killed him. Just like Sturm-he knew the right thing to do, and he did it, damn the cost.” He bowed his head. “Sometimes, I wish he hadn’t. I know it’s selfish, but even so. Sometimes I wonder if any of us will ever die peacefully in bed, with the people we love all around us.”
Riverwind flinched, then looked away. For a moment, the Plainsman said nothing. When he spoke again, his voice was tight and strained. “Be careful what you wish for, Caramon.”
Caramon stared at him, his forehead creased with confusion. “What do you mean?”
The Plainsman turned to face him, his eyes shining in the torchlight. “My friend,” he said, “I am dying.”