“I am sorry,” Gilthas said, flushing and shifting to Common, “but that is all I know of your language.” Speaking was painful. His throat was raw.
Waving the sword, the stranger spurred his horse and rode Straight at Gilthas. The king did not move, did not flinch. The sword whistled harmlessly past his head. The stranger wheeled, galloped back, bringing his horse to a halt in a flurry of sand and a fine display of riding skill. He was about to speak, but the tall man raised his hand in a gesture of command. Riding forward, he eyed Gilthas approvingly.
“You have courage,” he said, speaking Common,
“No,” Gilthas returned. “I am simply too tired to move.” The tall man laughed aloud at this, but his laughter was short and abrupt. He motioned for his comrade to sheathe his sword, then turned back to Gilthas.
“Why do the elves, who should be living on their fat land, leave their fat land to invade ours?” Gilthas found himself staring at the waterskin the man car—Tied, a waterskin that was swollen and beaded with drops of cool water. He tore his gaze away and looked back at the stranger.
“We do not invade your land,” he said, licking his dry lips. “We are trying to cross it. We are bound for the land of our cousins, the Silvanesti.”
“You do not plan to take up residence in the Plains of Dust?” the tall man asked. He was not wasteful of his words, spoke only what was needful, no more, no less. Gilthas guessed that he was not one to waste anything on anyone, including sympathy.
“Trust me, no, we do not,” said Gilthas fervently. “We are a people of green trees and cold, rushing water.” As he spoke these words, a homesickness welled up inside him so that he could nave wept. He had no tears. They had been burned away by the sun. “We must return to our forests, or else we will die.”
“Why do you flee your green land and cold water?” the tall man asked. Gilthas swayed in the saddle. He had to pause to try to gather enough moisture in his throat to continue speaking. He failed. His words came out a harsh whisper.
“The dragon, Beryl, attacked our land. The dragon is dead, but the capital city, Qualinost, was destroyed in the battle. The lives of many elves, humans, and dwarves were lost defending it. The Dark Knights now overrun our land. They seek our total annihilation. We are not strong enough to fight them, so we must—”
The next thing Gilthas knew, he was flat on his back on the ground, staring up at the unwinking eye of the vengeful sun. The tall man, wrapped in his robes, squatted comfortably at his side, while one of his comrades dribbled water into Gilthas’s lips.
The tall man shook his head. “I do not know which is greater—the courage of the elves or their ignorance. Traveling in the heat of the day, without the proper clothing ...” He shook his head again.
Gilthas struggled to sit up. The man giving him water shoved him back down.
“Unless I am much mistaken,” the tall man continued, “you are Gilthas, son of Lauralanthalasa and Tanis Half-elven.”
Gilthas stared, amazed. “How did you know?”
“I am Wanderer,” said the tall man, “son of Riverwind and Goldmoon. These are my comrades.” He did not name them, apparently leaving it up to them to introduce themselves, something they did not seem disposed to do. Obviously a people of few words. “We will help you,” he added, “if only to speed you through our land.”
The offer was not very gracious, but Gilthas took what he could get and was grateful for it.
“If you must know,” Wanderer continued, “you have my mother to thank for your salvation. She sent me to search for you.”
Gilthas could not understand this in the slightest, could only suppose that Goldmoon had received a vision of their plight.
“How is ... your mother?” he asked, savoring the cool drops of tepid water that tasted of goat, yet were better to him than the finest wine.
“Dead,” said Wanderer, gazing far off over the plains.
Gilthas was taken aback by his matter-of-fact tone. He was about to mumble something consoling, but the tall man interrupted him.
“My mother’s spirit came to me the night before last and told me to travel south. I did not know why, and she did not say. I thought perhaps I might find her body on this journey, for she told me that she lies unburied, but her spirit disappeared before she could tell me where.” Gilthas again began to stammer his regrets, but Wanderer paid no heed to his words.
“Instead,” Wanderer said quietly, “I find you and your people. Perhaps you know how to find my mother?”
Before Gilthas could answer, Wanderer continued on. “I was told she fled the Citadel before it was attacked by the dragon, but no one knows where she went. They said that she was in the grip of some sort of madness, perhaps the scattered wits that come to the very old. She did not seem mad to me when I saw her spirit. She seemed a prisoner.”
Gilthas thought privately that if Goldmoon was not mad, her son certainly was—all this talk of spirits and unburied bodies. Still, Wanderer’s vision had saved their lives, and Gilthas could not very well argue against it. He answered only that he had no idea where Goldmoon was, or if she was dead or alive. His heart ached, for he thought of his own mother, lying unburied at the bottom of a new-formed lake. A great weariness and lethargy came over him. He wished he could lie here for days, with the taste of cool water on his lips. He had his people to think of, however. Resisting all admonitions to remain prone, Gilthas staggered to his feet.
“We are trying to reach Duntol,” he said.
Wanderer rose with him. “You are too far south. You will find an oasis near here. There your people may rest for a few days and build up their strength before you continue your journey. I will send my comrades to Duntol for food and supplies.”
“We have money to pay for it,” Gilthas began. He swallowed the words when he saw Wanderer’s face darken in anger. “We will find some way to repay you,” he amended lamely.
“Leave our land,” Wanderer reiterated sternly. “With the dragon seizing ever more land to the north, our resources are stretched as it is.”
“We intend to,” said Gilthas, wearily. “As I have said, we travel to Silvanesti.” Wanderer gazed long at him, seemed about to say more, but then apparently thought better of it. He turned to his companions and spoke to them in the language of the Plainspeople. Gilthas wondered what Wanderer had been about to say, but his curiosity evaporated as he concentrated on just remaining upright. He was glad to find that they had given his horse water. Wanderer’s two companions galloped off. Wanderer offered to ride with Gilthas.
“I will show you how to dress yourselves to protect your fair skin from the sun and to keep out the heat,” Wanderer said. “You must travel in the cool of the night and the early morning, sleep during the heat of the day. My people will treat your sick and show you how to build shelters from the sun. I will guide you as far as the old King’s Highway, which you will be able to follow to Silvanesti. You will take that road and leave our land and not return.”
“Why do you keep harping on this?” Gilthas demanded. “I mean no offense, Wanderer, but I cannot imagine anyone in his right mind wanting to live in a place like this. Not even the Abyss could be more empty and desolate.”
Gilthas feared his outburst might have angered the Plainsman and was about to apologize, when he heard what sounded like a smothered chuckle come from behind the cloth that covered Wanderer’s face. Gilthas remembered Riverwind only dimly, when he and Goldmoon had visited his parents long ago, but he was suddenly reminded of the tall, stern-faced hunter.
“The desert has its own beauty,” said Wanderer. “After a rain, flowers burst into life, scenting the air with their sweetness. The red of the rock against the blue of the sky, the flow of the cloud shadows over the rippling sand, the swirling dustdevils and the rolling tumbleweed, the sharp scent of sage. I miss these when I am gone from them, as you miss the thick canopy of incessantly dripping leaves, the continuous rain, the vines that tangle the feet, and the smell of mildew that clogs the lungs.”