Swiftraven reined his dappled horse and faced west, into the storm. On the horizon, black clouds were piling into the storm-green sky. They towered high, dwarfing the distant, gray line of the Kharolis Mountains. His people had a word for such clouds. Hianawek, the Gods’ Anvils. The lorekeepers had once taught that the smith-god Reorx would pound on them in summer’s, dying days, forging the coming winter. Thunder was the clashing of his great hammer, and lightning was the sparks it threw.
It was nonsense, of course. Children’s stories. Reorx’s hammer had fallen still two summers ago, when he and the other gods left the world, but the Hianawek continued to return, pounding the Plains with rain, hail, and worse things still.
The wind howled in Swiftraven’s face, rippling the golden grass like waves on the sea. The cicadas, whose droning buzz was the music of the Plains, had fallen ominously silent, and the only sounds were the distant mutter of thunder and the nervous snorting of the young warrior’s horse. The scent of rain, tinged with the ozone tang of lightning, grew steadily stronger.
The horse tossed her head, fighting the young Plainsman’s grip on her reins. He stroked her neck, then swung down from his saddle and set about hobbling her, to make sure she didn’t bolt. It was promising to be a fierce storm. The horse whickered, rolling her eyes with fear.
“Easy,” he cooed, clucking his tongue to soothe her. “It’s all right. We’re safe here.”
There was a haze beneath the clouds, promising rains heavy enough to flatten the grass that scratched at his bare knees. A few drops spat down, forerunners of the impending downpour. The Hianawek glowed as lightning danced from cloud to cloud. Counting the seconds between one such flash and the answering roll of thunder, Swiftraven gauged the storm’s distance and nodded. It would not be long. A thrill ran through him, for this was the first time he had faced the Hianawek alone. When he returned to his tribe after the storm, there would be no question of his bravery.
Focused as he was on the massive, coruscating clouds, he didn’t notice the riders until they were nearly upon him.
They were five, three astride horses and two riding ponies. There was little more he could make out, with the storm’s darkness overwhelming the Plains. They did not appear to see him at all, though, so he moved quickly. With one hand he let slip the knotted rope that kept his horse from bolting, while his other pulled his bow from the saddle. With graceful ease he strung the weapon, then climbed back up on horseback. By the time he was settled in his saddle, he had a white-fletched arrow nocked on his bowstring. He used his knees to turn the horse, then stood in his stirrups, pulled back the string, and let fly.
The shaft fell just short of the riders, which was what he’d meant it to do. Swiftraven knew, as any good archer did, that a good warning shot could tell a man much about a foe. Cowards would balk or flee, cunning opponents would seek cover, and the brave or stupid would charge. As he notched a second shaft, he noticed that the riders did none of these; they reined in, stopping where he could make a clear shot. That meant something else entirely.
The tallest of the horsemen leaned forward in his saddle, peering toward where the arrow had fallen. Swiftraven saw one of the pony riders reach for something across his back, but the tall rider raised a hand, stopping him. The young Plainsman held his breath, sighting down his arrow as the wind whipped his long, brown hair behind him.
A sound rose then, above the clamor of the storm. A whistle, loud and piercing, rose and fell in a regular pattern. It was a language, though few, even among the Plainsfolk, knew how to speak it. Swiftraven, who had trained as a scout, was versed in whistlespeak, as were others who sometimes needed to signal long distances across the grasslands, such as hunters and shepherds.
Put down your bow, the whistler spoke. Would you feather your chieftain?
Starting, Swiftraven lowered his bow so swiftly he nearly dropped it. Without pause he wheeled his horse about and dug his heels into her flanks. He galloped east toward Que-Shu, riding before the storm to herald the return of Riverwind and his daughters.
The drizzle — was just turning into rain when Swiftraven drew up to the gates. The guards, who held their spears ready until they saw who the rider was, exchanged a few quick words with him, then parted to let him pass.
“What’s the name of this place again?” asked Kronn, looking up at the village walls as they drew near. They were whitewashed and painted with abstract patterns of red and blue, but they were also stout and sturdy, their tops lined with wicked iron spikes.
Riverwind glanced over his shoulder. “Que-Shu.”
“Bless you!” Kronn exclaimed, giggling.
“Kronn!” Catt said.
The Plainsman shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve heard that joke many times before. You’re not the first kender to visit the Plains.”
The guards at the gate lowered their spears, kneeling, as the-party drew near. Seeing this, Riverwind quickly crossed his arms in salute. “Get up,” he told them kindly. “Your wives have enough to do, I’m sure, without having to wash the mud from your trousers.”
Rising, the sentries returned his salute, then stood aside. They eyed the kender warily. Lightning raged in the inky sky as Riverwind came home for the last time.
Word of the chieftain’s return had spread swiftly after Swiftraven’s arrival. The thunder of drums called the villagers out of their homes, into the worsening rain. They lined the road, shouting and waving their hands as Riverwind’s party rode past the rows of painted skin tents and mud-brick huts, toward the arena at the center of town. In spite of Riverwind’s protestations, men knelt to him and women threw autumn flowers in his path. Children laughed and ran about, jumping in puddles with shrieks of delight.
“Quite the welcome,” Catt noted, impressed.
“It’s better when the weather’s nice,” Brightdawn remarked. “There are pipers and dancers, and everyone sings the Chant of the Ancestors.”
They reached the arena, where a row of grim-faced men, resplendent in beaded jackets and feathered headdresses, stood in their way. As one, the men held up their hands, and the riders reined in. Riverwind climbed down from his horse and handed the reins to a young boy; his daughters and the kender followed suit. As the boy led the animals away, Riverwind bowed to the row of men and crossed his arms again. The men returned the gesture as one.
“Who are those people?” Kronn asked, unabashedly staring.
“The Honored Ones,” Moonsong replied. “Chieftains of other tribes, and the elders of Que-Shu.”
“See the young one on the end?” Brightdawn said, pointing to a lean, swarthy man of thirty summers, whose bare chest was marked with a tattoo of a coiled serpent. Riverwind walked up to the man and clasped his arms in greeting. “That’s Graywinter. He just became chief of the Que-Kiri this spring, after his father died.”
“He means to court Brightdawn,” Moonsong added. Brightdawn shot her a scathing look.
“I thought you said you were going to marry Swiftraven,” Catt said innocently.
“I’m not going to marry anyone,” Brightdawn said, blossoms of red blooming on her cheeks. “Not until I’m ready.”
Kronn yawned, finding this talk of marriage boring. “Who’s that big one next to him?”
“That’s Nightshade,” Brightdawn replied, glad for the change of subject. Riverwind was speaking now with a grey-haired warrior with a jagged scar that ran from his nose his jawline. “He’s chieftain of the Que-Teh. Swiftraven and Stagheart are his sons.”
“There’s Swiftraven!” said Moonsong, pointing.
The young warrior had not had time to change out of his plain hunting skins before taking his place beside his father. He stared at his leather moccasins, still ashamed at having fired an arrow-even a warning shot-at his chieftain. Riverwind paused before him for a moment, then clapped Swiftraven on the shoulder. The young warrior relaxed, beaming, as Riverwind moved on down the line.
Catt looked around, her brow furrowing. “What about Stagheart? Isn’t he here?.”
“No,” Moonsong said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. “He must still be on his Courting Quest.”
“So we don’t get to see any griffon’s head?” Kronn asked, crestfallen.
“I saw a griffon once,” Catt stated proudly. “Of course I saw its head too. But the elf she belonged to wouldn’t let me ride her. Although I asked really nicely and everything.”
“Who’s that, Brightdawn?” Kronn pressed as Riverwind approached a fat, kind-faced old man. “Brightdawn? Hey, quit mooning at Swiftraven and pay attention!”
Brightdawn, who had indeed been staring longingly at Nightshade’s younger son, started guiltily and stammered.
Moonsong laughed at her sister’s embarrassment. “The next few are the elders,” she said. She nodded toward the fat man. “Hartbow there used to be one of Mother’s suitors, for a time. Briar,”-she indicated a short, wiry man whose hair was still charcoal-black, though he was plainly Riverwind’s age-“watched over our people when they were exiled in Thorbardin during the war. The man to his right, leaning on the crutch, is Hobblestep. He used to be one of the Que-Shu’s best warriors, but he lost his foot to a draconian soldier.”
Riverwind went down the line of elders quickly, then stopped at a gaunt, stooped man, who clutched a thick-bound book to his chest. “Good heavens,” Catt exclaimed, regarding the man’s bald head, wizened face, and sparkling black eyes. “I think that’s the oldest human I’ve ever seen.”
“He looks like a dried-apple doll,” Kronn chirped, his eyes wide. “AU shriveled and brown.”
“That’s Far-Runner,” Moonsong said. “He is old-more than a hundred, though no one knows his exact age.”
Many of the Que-Shu found it strange that their chieftain and lorekeeper should be friends, given the history they shared. Forty years ago, Far-Runner had been a warrior and a member of the council of elders under Goldmoon’s father, Arrowthorn. He had been present when Riverwind, a low-born heretic, had petitioned Arrowthorn for his daughter’s hand. He had assented to the Courting Quest that Arrowthorn had imposed upon the young shepherd. He had seen that young shepherd return from the impossible quest, bearing a staff of blue crystal. And he had been present when Arrowthorn condemned Riverwind to death by stoning as a blasphemer. By all rights, the chieftain of the Que-Shu had reason to resent the old man.
But Riverwind had watched the council carefully all those years ago, even in the face of death. Not all the elders had agreed with Arrowthorn, and Far-Runner had spoken out both before and after the Courting Quest, asking the chieftain to show mercy for Riverwind. In the end, though, his words had not been enough, and he’d had no choice but to abide by the council’s decision. Still, Far-Runner had protested the sentence: of all the elders in Que-Shu, he had refused to go to the Grieving Wall to witness the young warrior’s execution. For this reason, the Plainsfolk whispered, the gods had seen to it that Far-Runner survived the War of the Lance, while the rest of the elders had perished, either in the battle against the dragonarmies or in the mines at Pax Tharkas. And for this reason, Goldmoon and Riverwind had forgiven him when they returned to Que-Shu after the war and had named him lorekeeper of the tribe. He had remained at their side for more than thirty years now, and though he was stooped and frail with age, many of the Que-Shu believed he would still be there, thirty years hence.
Riverwind tarried at Far-Runner’s side for some time, resting a gentle hand on the ancient man’s arm as they spoke in hushed tones, then at last he stepped onward, to the last man in the row.
That man could have been the chieftain himself, years younger-he was tall and thin like Riverwind, and had the same sharp, hawklike features. His hair was black, though, instead of Riverwind’s white, and he was only starting to show signs of the wrinkles that lined the chieftain’s face.
“Let me guess,” Catt said. “Your brother?”
“Yes,” Brightdawn answered. “That’s Wanderer.”
“He’s a stony looking fellow,” Kronn observed. Riverwind smiled as he spoke to his son, but Wanderer’s expression remained dour.
Moonsong sighed. “He wasn’t always that way,” she said. “He used to smile a lot, once-before the Chaos War, anyway.”
“What happened?” asked Catt and Kronn at once.
“That’s the worst part,” Brightdawn said. “No one’s sure.” Seeing the puzzled looks on the kender’s faces, she shook her head. “Have you heard tales about the shadow-wights? Of their powers?”
Kronn nodded gravely. “I have. From what I hear, a shadow-wight doesn’t just kill you-it destroys you. If you look into its eyes, there’s nothing there, but it can catch you with its gaze, and tear out your soul. Bit by bit you cease to exist, until nothing remains. Not even-” He gasped in horror, his hand going to his mouth.
“Not even in the minds of those who loved you,” Moonsong said gravely.
“Wanderer has a son,” Brightdawn added, her voice heavy with sorrow. “Cloudhawk. He’s three years old. And no one, not even Wanderer, can remember the mother.”
“A shadow-wight killed her?” Catt asked, her eyes wide.
“Like I said,” Brightdawn repeated, “no one knows.”
Wanderer stepped forward, unbuckling the bone-lattice plate he wore upon his breast, and held it out to Riverwind. “I return this to you, Father,” he said tonelessly.
Riverwind took the breastplate and held it a moment, turning it over in his hands, then gave it back to his son. A murmur rippled through the crowd. Wanderer’s eyes widened, but he said nothing.
“I will only be staying in Que-Shu one night,” Riverwind said. He nodded back toward Kronn and Catt. “I have promised our guests my help. We will be leaving on the morrow.”
The villagers began to grumble, disbelief in their voices. The curious glances they cast at the kender grew hard, suspicious. The Honored Ones-even old Far-Runner-stared at Riverwind as the rain hammered all around them.
“You mean to help them?” Graywinter asked, his serpent tattoo swelling as he puffed out his chest. There was no mistaking the distaste in his voice.
“No, not just us,” Catt answered. She stepped forward and bowed before the elders. “He’s coming to Kendermore to help the kender nation fight the ogres and the dragon.”
Scattered laughter rose among the crowd. The Honored Ones regarded Catt sourly. “Madness,” said Hobblestep, shifting on his crutch. “You can’t be serious about such a mission, my chief. Ogres? Dragons?”
“We’ve been trying to dissuade him,” Moonsong said.
“I have sworn to help,” Riverwind stated simply. “I leave with them tomorrow.”
“But, my chief,” Swiftraven blurted. “Why should you help them? They’re just kender.”
“Hey!” Kronn said peevishly.
“Just kender?” Riverwind demanded. He stalked over to the young warrior, who lowered his eyes self-consciously, and glowered at him. “Perhaps you’re right, Swiftraven,” he said after a moment. “Not worth the bother. Let the kender die. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“I-” Swiftraven stammered. “No… I don’t…”
Riverwind turned away from him in disgust, walking back to his son. Of all the Plainsfolk, Wanderer alone seemed untroubled by his father’s words. His face was impassive.
“Where is your mother?” Riverwind asked.
“She waits for you in the chieftain’s lodge,” Wanderer replied, glancing toward a wooden longhouse at the far side of the arena.
Riverwind nodded, taking a deep breath to calm himself. His face stern, he turned to face the nervous crowd. Thunder roared.
“Go home,” he told them. “All of you. Get out of the storm.”
He walked past the still-amazed Honored Ones, bound for the chieftain’s lodge. The villagers dispersed, running for shelter as the rain of the Hianawek overtook Que-Shu.
She had not changed as much as her husband, but age had not left Goldmoon of Que-Shu untouched. She was plumper than she had been in her youth. Her long braided hair was more silver now than gold. There were crow’s feet around her pale blue eyes and worry lines around her mouth.
“You are still beautiful,” Riverwind told her as he stepped into the chieftain’s lodge.
Goldmoon looked up from where she sat, smiling. “And you still flatter me too much.”
She rose from her sitting-blanket, pushing herself gracefully to her feet, and stepped forward to meet him. They embraced, but when his lips sought hers, she turned, allowing him to kiss her cheek only.
“You weren’t at the Ceremony of Greeting,” Riverwind chided gently.
“I’m sorry,” said Goldmoon. “Did I miss something? I thought it might not be good for my illness to be out in the rain.”
“Illness?” Riverwind paled with worry “What has-”
“Don’t fret so,” she scolded him gently. “It isn’t serious. Merely a cold, but I don’t want it to grow worse-nor would I want you to catch it.”
He gazed at her a moment, his eyes filled with pain. Then, before she could turn away, he kissed her full on the lips, hard and fierce. When they parted, she looked at him with piercing eyes.
“I can tell by your face,” she said. “You aren’t staying. Why?”
He shook his head. “When I was in Solace, two kender came to the inn. There is trouble in Kendermore-ogres, and a dragon. I told them I would help them.”
“Kender?” she asked.
“Two children of Kronin Thistleknot. All grown now, and kender through and through.”
“And you promised to help them?”
Another woman might have wept, might have begged him not to go. Goldmoon only studied his face, nodding. There was sorrow in her gaze, but there was also understanding. “If you must,” she murmured. “It will not be the first time I have waited for your return.”
Thunder bellowed, and brilliant light blazed outside the lodge’s narrow windows. The flash drew Goldmoon’s attention, and she did not see the grimace that twisted her husband’s face. When she turned back to him, he was composed and stoic once more.
“When do you leave?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “In the morning.”
She nodded, then reached out and took his hand. Her grasp was strong, sure. His breath quickened as she raised his fingers to her lips.
“What fools we would be, then,” she murmured, “to let this night go to waste.”
They went to the bedroom then, husband and wife. The storm raged on, but they paid it no heed.
The folk of Que-Shu rose early the next day. It was a clear morning, with a chill in the air that spoke of summer’s end. The villagers set about mending what the storm had broken. The wind had torn tents from their moorings, and debris was scattered through the streets. As the sun rose above the Eastwall Mountains, however, the folk began to set aside their work and gather at the gates to see their chieftain off on his journey.
Kronn and Catt were the first to arrive. The Plainsfolk muttered darkly at their approach, making warding signs and glowering balefully. A few of the younger men spat in the mud as the kender passed.
“They don’t seem very pleasant this morning,” Kronn remarked, regarding the Plainsfolk in puzzlement. “Must be something they ate, although I thought supper was fine. Breakfast too. And I’m looking forward to lunch.”
“It’s because we’re kender, you ninny,” Catt said. She forced a smile at the angry Plainsfolk. The muttering was getting louder. “They’re not all as nice as Riverwind.”
Kronn frowned thoughtfully. “I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with that misunderstanding last night. I thought I explained that it wasn’t my fault those sacred talismans ended up in my pouch. If they’d taken them down when the storm started, they wouldn’t have been blowing around like crazy, and I wouldn’t have had to keep them safe. They should probably thank me, actually.”
“No,” Catt replied. “I think they’ve calmed down about that-although I’m a bit miffed they decided to post guards outside our hut. I was hoping to do some more exploring.”
“Me too,” Kronn agreed with a disappointed sigh. He glanced back toward the arena. “Hey, someone’s coming.”
The Honored Ones were striding down the street, toward the gates. Wanderer walked in the lead, his face looking as if it was carved of stone. The elders followed, then Graywinter of Que-Kiri and Nightshade of Que-Teh. At the last came Moonsong, Brightdawn and Swiftraven.
“No Riverwind,” noted Catt in a low voice. “Do you think he maybe changed his mind? People here don’t seem to be too keen on him going. Maybe they convinced him to stay.”
The Honored Ones stopped at the edge of the crowd, which grew quiet at their approach. The Plainsfolk continued to glare at the kender, and Graywinter and some of the elders did the same.
Kronn nodded to them respectfully. “Say,” he said, “what’s with Brightdawn?”
Catt looked at the young Plainswoman and frowned. While Moonsong was clad in an embroidered white dress and buckskin slippers, Brightdawn still wore traveling clothes: a brown tunic and leggings, with high boots and a plain, fur cloak. Her mace still swung from her belt. Swiftraven was similarly attired, a quiver of white-fletched arrows on his back and a slender sabre at his hip.
Catt opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment the crowd stirred again, pointing. Looking, the kender saw Riverwind and Goldmoon walking toward them from the center of town. As one, the villagers knelt before their chieftain and priestess.
Riverwind marched up to Brightdawn, scowling. “Where are you going?” he demanded.
“I’m riding along with you,” she replied, her chin rising defiantly.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Riverwind’s tone was harsh. “I alone agreed to make this journey.”
“Actually,” Kronn piped up, “Paxina said it would be fine if we brought more than one person back with us…
Riverwind ignored him, rounding on Swiftraven. “And you,” he growled. The young warrior fell back a pace, paling. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Leave him be, Father,” Brightdawn said. “He only wants to come along so he can protect me.”
“No one is ‘coming along,’ ” Riverwind said. “This isn’t like a sleigh ride to Solace, Brightdawn. It’s dangerous business.”
“You weren’t much older than me when you went on your Courting Quest,” Brightdawn challenged. “You’re always telling us how dangerous that was.”
“This is different. I was a shepherd boy; I had no choice in the matter. But you’re-”
“I’m what?” Brightdawn asked, her eyes flashing. “A girl?”
“My daughter.”
Those words, and the plaintive way her father spoke them, gave Brightdawn pause, but only for a moment. “I’m not helpless, Father,” she said. She held up her mace. “I know how to use this. I fought against the Brutes when they attacked Que-Shu.”
“That was different,” Riverwind reasoned. “We had no choice but to fight. You should know your place is here with your mother.”
“My place,” Brightdawn repeated. “And what is that, Father? Wanderer has his-he wears the champion’s breastplate, for he is Chieftain’s Son. Moonsong is Chieftain’s Daughter and will become high priestess when Mother is gone. One day, she and Stagheart will lead the tribes. But who am I, Father? Chieftain’s Third Child, the extra daughter. I have no place.”
Riverwind shook his head stubbornly, then glanced at the Honored Ones. They returned his gaze, saying nothing. Riverwind then looked to his wife.
“It’s your decision,” Goldmoon said simply. Riverwind raised his eyebrows at that but said nothing.
Moonsong stepped forward. “Let her go, Father.”
Riverwind frowned at her, then looked to his son. Wanderer nodded once, silently. At last, the chieftain sighed. “Very well, Brightdawn,” he said. “You may come to Kendermore.” He turned to Swiftraven. “And you, as well, son of Nightshade. If you have any wish to marry my daughter, then let this be your Courting Quest. If any harm comes to her, then woe to you.”
The villagers murmured at this. Swiftraven beamed with pride, then turned to his father.
“Go,” Nightshade said simply.
His smile growing even wider, the young warrior dropped to his knees before Riverwind. The arrows in his quiver rattled. “I accept, my lord.”
Riverwind nodded, his face troubled, then walked to the Honored Ones. He moved down the line, clasping arms with each man in turn. There was doubt and worry in the elders’ eyes, but none spoke against him. No matter how grave their misgivings were, he was their chieftain, and his word was law. When Riverwind reached Far-Runner, though, the ancient man bowed his head and began to cry softly.
“What is this, lorekeeper?” Riverwind asked gently. “Why do you weep?”
“My chief,” Far-Runner murmured. “I weep because my heart is heavy I have wronged you in the past, when I let Chief Arrowthorn use the Courting Quest to keep you from his daughter. I would be doing you wrong again if I did not ask you to reconsider, and stay with us on the Plains.”
Riverwind smiled. “You have long been loyal to me, Far-Runner,” he said. “If I had not gone on Arrowthorn’s impossible quest, the gods might have remained lost. The dragonarmies might have won the war-and Chaos might have won the next. If you hadn’t wronged me, so many years ago, we might not be here today. I forgive you-but I cannot stay. I have given my word, and I will not break it.”
Far-Runner nodded slowly, looking up at Riverwind. “Farewell, my chief,” he murmured.
“Farewell, lorekeeper,” Riverwind said, resting a comforting hand on the old man’s shoulder.
He walked onward, to Wanderer, and father and son embraced in silence. Riverwind met his eyes. “I will tell my son of you,” Wanderer murmured, his face dark.
Moonsong, who had remained stoic thus far, broke down completely, sobbing as she threw her arms around her father. She clutched him tightly, refusing to let go, and in the end it took both Swiftraven and old Hartbow to pull her away. No sooner did she release Riverwind than she fell upon her sister. Both twins’ faces shone with tears when at last they parted.
The stableboy strode through the gates leading three horses and two ponies. Catt and Kronn climbed into their saddles, then Brightdawn and Swiftraven, but Riverwind made no move toward his bay stallion-a gift bestowed upon him by Chief Graywinter when the Que-Kiri joined the allied tribes. Instead, he turned toward Goldmoon, his heart in his eyes. He dropped to one knee before her. Mud soaked through his pantleg, but he paid it no heed.
“Kan-tokah,” he said, choking. “My beloved.”
Smiling serenely, she bent down and kissed him on the forehead. Then she cupped his chin with her hand and raised his head so he looked into her bright, blue eyes. “Why so solemn, my hero?” she asked. “We have been separated before.”
He nodded, unable to find his voice.
“You have always followed your heart,” she said, smiling. “It is an arrow that flies straight and true. I will await your return.”
Taking his hand, she pressed something into his palm, then kissed his fingers, turned, and walked away.
He watched her go, his gaze seeking her as she approached the chieftain’s lodge. He could feel eyes on him-the villagers, the Honored Ones, his children-but he did not rise. Instead, he opened his hand, and his face lit with wonder at what his wife had given him.
It was a simple chain, shaped of common brass. The charm that hung from it was crafted of shining, silver-blue steel. It was shaped like two teardrops, touching tip-to-tip-the symbol of Mishakal.
He had given her the medallion many years ago, so long it seemed another man’s life. It was called a Forever Charm, and it was both a sign of the goddess and a token of his neverending love. She had never given it to him before. He looked up through clouding eyes to ask her, “Why?” But she had already disappeared into the chieftain’s lodge.
While the rest of the villagers watched their chieftain ride out through the gates, Goldmoon sat alone in the chieftain’s lodge. She did not cry, but rather picked up an old, worn lute, nestled it gently in her arms, and set her fingers to her strings.
She played an old song, laden with memory. She had sung it for the first time many years ago, at the Inn of the Last Home. She sang it today, for what she hoped would not be the last time.
o Riverwind, where have you gone?
o Riverwind, autumn comes on.
I sit by the river
And look to the sunrise,
But the sun rises over the mountains alone.