“You’re going there,” the young kender persisted. “I overheard you tell the lady—just as you paid her only seven steel.”
“Where I go is my business,” the dwarf returned.
Raph opened his mouth to ask another question.
“And when I go somewhere,” the dwarf interrupted, “I prefer to go there quietly.” He crossed his stubby arms, closed his eyes, and continued to glower.
The rest of the trip passed in an uneasy silence, with the two kender often at the bow, where they could chatter without bothering the dwarf.
The sight of the Citadel of Light left even the noisy kender speechless. The sunlight bouncing off of the Citadel’s many huge crystalline domes made it hard to look directly at the structure, but its beauty drew them closer. Arcs of water from two grand fountains followed the curves of the sparkling buildings and drew attention to the central dome of the citadel. A figure stood in its entryway, waiting.
“She greets all who come here to learn the powers of the heart,” said the dwarf, his mood brightening considerably. He eagerly moved forward and the kender followed him.
Dhamon looked back toward the sea. Rig had agreed to wait just offshore until late afternoon tomorrow—for the promise of another ten pieces of steel. He said he’d bring the rowboat back for them when they signaled. If they took longer than that, the dark man said they’d have to catch him on his return trip next week. Dhamon grudgingly accepted the terms. He didn’t want the Wind Chaser out of sight. He had no desire to be stranded, even though he had no particular place to go.
When Dhamon turned back to face the citadel, he found his companions had left him behind. The figure standing in the entry of the central crystalline dome beckoned to him. He was unsure of what waited for him. He rushed to catch up with his cohorts and found himself breaking into a run, suddenly swept up by an exhilarating wave of emotion that carried him forward.
14
The Faces of Goldmoon
Dhamon heard the hurried footsteps of the dwarf and the kender behind him and briefly wondered if he should have slowed his pace to accommodate them. He wasn’t sure of what had come over him. He had sped right by. It wasn’t like him to be pointedly rude. He turned to retrace his steps and apologize to them.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
The voice was familiar. He turned to see a small woman with pale, wrinkled skin. Her white robe fluttered in the sea breeze and outlined her slight frame.
“I have been calling out to many warriors who visited the tomb, but you were the first to answer my summons.”
It was the phantom woman, but her voice sounded softer than when he’d heard her near Solace and she looked much older than the young woman he saw at The Last Heroes Tomb. Her blond hair was wispy, and contained thick streaks of white. Her blue eyes were dull and rheumy. The strong sunlight revealed the lines on her face, and Dhamon could see that the flesh on her arms and along her jaw sagged slightly.
She was an old woman, seventy or eighty, he guessed, though she exuded a matronly air and carried herself with a quiet grace and dignity. Her gait was slow, but he could tell she was not infirm. There was a presence about her, a sensation of power.
“Please, come closer.” Her voice was soft, not much above a whisper.
Dhamon’s eyes locked onto hers, but he held his place. “I can see you well enough from here,” he said.
“Tell me what brought you to the tomb.”
Dhamon gave a slight shrug. “I came to the tomb to pay my respects to the knights. That’s why most people go there, isn’t it? But the tomb has nothing to do with why I’m here.” He paused and pursed his lips. “And just why am I here?”
“I go to the tomb to honor my friends,” she replied, ignoring his questions.
“Who are you?”
“I am Goldmoon of the Qué-Shu.”
He stared at her as he searched his memory. Was this the Goldmoon, a Hero of the Lance? Was she the woman who fought in the War of the Lance and helped to restore healing magic to Krynn? The age would be about right, he mused.
“How were you able to call me?” was the only question he voiced.
“There is still some magic left in the world and in me. I sent my thoughts to the tomb in Solace. A place that honors fallen heroes should attract living ones, don’t you think? I believed the tomb would be the best place to find new champions.”
“Did you have to use your magic to make yourself look like a young woman? Did you think you needed that to get my attention?” Dhamon snapped. “Did you think I’m only interested in helping—”
“Goldmoon!” Jasper came rushing forward, panting from his long, hurried run. He regarded Dhamon. “His legs! They go on forever.”
The dwarf’s stubby legs carried him past Dhamon. The old woman smiled and extended a hand, and the dwarf shook it. Jasper looked into Goldmoon’s starlike blue eyes. They were bright and full of warmth and surprisingly youthful.
“Sorry I’ve been away so long,” he muttered. “I tried to get into Thorbardin, but you know they sealed the mountain. I thought I could find a way in, visit my relatives. Maybe I could have if I would’ve looked harder. But I remembered my promise and came back here.”
Jasper watched her brush a strand of thick, silky hair away from her unblemished face. Her ruddy complexion nearly matched his, and the skin on her hand felt soft and smooth against his calloused fingers. The dwarf wasn’t looking at an elderly woman. He saw Goldmoon as an ageless beauty full of life and filled with a sense of hope and faith. There were no age lines when he looked at her. There were no wrinkles or white hairs, no slowness of motion. Her voice and her manner were strong, as she was at the time of the War of the Lance.
“It’s all right, Jasper,” she said. She reached a finger down and touched the tip of his nose. “And I’m glad you escorted our visitor. I sent for him.”
The dwarf looked at her quizzically, stroking his short beard. “A new student? Should I leave?”
“I want you to stay,” she added.
“Can we stay, too?” Raph panted, as he edged forward. “Raph, slow down! I told you not to barge into things.
You could get hurt!” Blister huffed and puffed up behind him, staring at Goldmoon. She straightened her tunic, brushed the sand off her shoes, and offered Goldmoon a smile. “Excuse us for coming to your home uninvited. My companions are rather headstrong. They didn’t mean to be impolite.”
“No apology needed,” Goldmoon replied. “You are all welcome here.”
She glided toward Dhamon. “There is a grand adventure in the offing,” she said. “And it is an adventure one person alone should not undertake, Dhamon Grimwulf.”
“You know my name?” The moment after Dhamon spoke the words, he wished he could draw them back into his mouth. If a woman could project an image over hundreds of miles and through a tomb door, she no doubt could learn the identity of whom she was projecting to.
“I know a lot about you, Dhamon. But do you know anything of me?”
He didn’t answer.
“Decades past, my companions and I sought to stop the Dragonarmies. In droves, the evil men and creatures came west from the Khalkist Mountains, sweeping into Balifor and beyond. It was the start of the War of the Lance. Our struggle lasted five years, and in that time we witnessed the fall of eastern Ansalon.”
Dhamon knew the stories of the Heroes of the Lance by heart. There were few on Ansalon who didn’t know about the exploits of Caramon and Tika Majere, Raistlin, Goldmoon and the rest.
“The dragonlances were the key,” Goldmoon said, interrupting his thoughts. “The secret of creating dragonlances was rediscovered during a time when many people had given up hope—like many have now. We used the newly forged weapons to drive back the Blue Dragonarmy. The good dragons, once held at bay because their eggs had been stolen, entered the war. The tide turned, and Takhisis’s forces scattered. The evil dragons fled to remote parts of Ansalon and became weaker. Some of my companions who fought in that war have passed beyond this world—the kender Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Tanis Half-Elven, Flint Fireforge, Sturm Brightblade, dear Riverwind. Those few of us left...”