"At last, we are free!" he murmured.
Dangling from a rain gutter was Artavash. The gaping dragonmouth spout had snagged her long military cape as she fell. Now she was suspended high above the housetops of Kernaf.
"Help me!" she pleaded. The cape tore a little and Artavash begged for quick assistance.
Sturm eyed Radiz. The Kernaffi blinked dazedly. "I leave it to you, boy. If you wish, we'll bring her up. Or I can cut her free and let her fall. What do you wish?"
Her gray eyes appealed for mercy. "She killed Soren," Sturm said.
True," said Radiz. He pulled the sword from his belt.
"No," said Sturm. "The Measure teaches mercy, even to our enemy."
He dropped on his stomach and reached for her cape. Radiz took hold as well. They hauled Artavash to safety. Once securely on the roof, she rolled over on the tiles and gasped for air. Radiz took her sword and knife away.
He jerked Artavash around on to her stomach and quickly bound her arms and legs tightly. When she cursed too loudly, he drew a brightly colored scarf from his pocket and jammed it into her mouth. At last he stood and faced Sturm.
"Now, what can I do to make amends, young lord?" asked Radiz.
Sturm cradled his bruised arm and frowned with concentration. "I wish to leave," he said. "I want a ship to take my mother, Mistress Carin, and me to Solace. It was my father's wish that we go to Solace, so that is what we shall do."
Radiz nodded. As they walked slowly to the steps, the commander laid a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Whatever made you think of using the old sailor's magic string?" he asked.
"I didn't plan it," said Sturm, swallowing. "My only thought was to turn Mukhari's knife away."
"You didn't realize cutting the cord would release all the wind?"
Sturm shook his head. "I don't know anything about magic. It's not a fitting subject for knights."
Paladine would forgive him for bending the Measure…
At the top of the stairs Sturm paused. "Radiz?"
"Yes, young Sturm?"
"Would you have your men search for Sergeant Soren? He deserves an honorable burial."
"It shall be done."
They descended the steps together. Radiz remarked, "You know, Mukhari was right about one thing; you are a noble lad."
"I am my father's son," said Sturm.
The voices of the boy and the Kernaffi commander echoed through the palace halls long after the rooftop had returned to the clean air, bright sun, and nature's honest wind.
The road to exile was very long. For Sturm Brightblade, this was only the beginning.
Heart of Goldmoon
The air of excitement was high as the Que-shu tribe milled before the ancient stone platform that was the focus of their village. Everyone was clad in colorful festive raiment. Adding to the delight of the senses was the delectable smell of foods being prepared for the celebration to come.
One by one, however, the exhilarated men, women, and children fell into silence as their attention was caught by a lone young woman, climbing the granite construction before them. Soon, all was still. No child giggled, no babe even cried. Nothing disturbed the faint shuffling sound made by the slippered feet of the holy woman as she ascended to the platform.
The woman was Goldmoon, princess and priestess of the Que-shu. Those who watched knew that upon her death
in the far future — Goldmoon would become a goddess, as
had her mother, Tearsong, and all her deceased ancestors. Goldmoon was the tribe's link to their gods. Her father, Chieftain Arrowthorn, would also achieve godhood, but, as revered as he was, the silence and awe of the crowd was reserved for the slender woman who was his only heir.
Goldmoon's long, silken hair was brighter than the golden grasses waving in the fields near the village. Sight of her hair still astonished the dark-haired tribesmen. "It is a mark of her favor with the ancestors," they said. As she reached the platform and bowed to the crowd, the sun glinted from those golden tresses, and no one present witnessing her grace, her beauty, or that bright crown of hair doubted Goldmoon's worth in being honored with this ceremony.
Goldmoon turned from the platform edge and bowed respectfully to her father, who had previously ascended the platform. Though it was her mother's blood that decreed Goldmoon's status as priestess, it was her father's greatness as a warrior that had won him Tearsong's hand in marriage. Only Arrowthorn's cunning and wisdom had kept the reins of power from being torn from their family's hands after the crushing blow of Tearsong's early death, and had held them until she, Goldmoon, was old enough to serve as priestess to her people.
Goldmoon moved to Arrowthorn's right side and fixed her gaze out over the plains to the mountain on the northern horizon. She could not see it from here, but she knew that near the summit was a vast cavern, called the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits, where the mortal remains of Goldmoon's dead ancestors lay, behind a door opened by the rays of Lunitari, the red moon, only once every ten years. On the morrow, Goldmoon would journey to that cavern for the first time to speak with her ancestors, her gods. She found herself excited and perhaps a little anxious.
First, however, must come the games that would decide who her escorts were to be. Only those two warriors who proved to be the best would accompany and protect her on the journey. Twenty young Plainsmen, lean and muscled, all eager for the honor, filed onto a lower tier of the platform and formed a semicircle before their princess. Goldmoon, seemingly transfixed by the heat thermals shimmering in the air before her, appeared not to notice the men.
When the last man took his place, however, Goldmoon turned her gaze to the historian seated on the platform behind her father, writing on a parchment with deliberate strokes. She heard Arrowthorn let out a breath that might have been a subdued snort of annoyance at Loreman. The historian's painstaking slowness was an obvious ploy to demonstrate to the tribe the importance of his own position. Loreman finished writing the names of the contestants with a flourish, then looked up and nodded to the princess.
Goldmoon had already performed hundreds of religious ceremonies. Since her mother's death she had carried all the burdens of priestess — praying for her people, their crops and livestock and weaponry, tending the sick and injured, settling disputes, burying the dead. But because of the infrequency with which the door to the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits opened, she had not been able to perform this most important ceremony, during which she would dedicate her life to her people. Now, this day had arrived. These men seated below her would fight for the privilege of escorting her, and undoubtedly one of them would eventually court her, as her father had courted her mother.
"One of you had better be worthy," she said silently to the men.
Goldmoon unfurled her personal banner; the gold crescent moon emblazoned on the dark cloth shone in the sun as brightly as her hair. She called out, "May the blessings of the Ancient Dead give courage, endurance, and strength to the greatest among you."
Cheering in reply, the Plainsmen held the banners of their individual houses aloft.
Leaning down, the priestess drew a crystal dagger from her boot scabbard. Cunningly fashioned and hollow within, the dagger doubled as a vial containing a handful of sacred sand. With a twist, Goldmoon slipped the handle from the blade and poured some of the fine, warm, dry contents into her palm. Turning with a flourish, Goldmoon sprinkled the golden powder over the men before her, taking care that no head should escape at least a little dusting.
Resisting the impulse to brush the remaining grains from her palm, the priestess began to touch each head With her fingertips in blessing. Each warrior, as she stood before him, knelt and gazed up at her with admiration and devotion. All but the last one.