They were in a valley beneath the mountain. The waterfall poured out of a cliff face so far above them that their survival seemed a miracle.
"I knew," Goldmoon gasped, "that you would find us a way out."
Riverwind laughed, and Goldmoon laughed with him. She rolled near to him and lay her head on his shoulder. Then she sighed heavily and her eyes became clouded with concerns for the future — now that they had one. "We'll have to explain about Hollow-sky. At least now we know just how far Lore-man will go. He won't catch us off guard again."
"I don't understand," Riverwind said. "After he tried to get Hollow-sky to kill you, won't your father just banish his family?"
"We have no proof — just Hollow-sky's words — and he is dead. Loreman is very powerful; there are too many people who will take his side. Since Hollow-sky failed, Loreman will probably denounce him as a traitor himself."
"And what do we say about us?" Riverwind asked.
"Father won't be pleased," she said. "But I will tell him that I will wed none but you."
"If I ask him for a courting quest, can he deny me?" Riverwind asked tensely.
"No. He'll be forced to follow tradition. But he may send you to find or do something impossible."
"If it will earn me you, the gods will aid me." Riverwind smiled gently and slid his fingers through her wet hair.
Goldmoon shifted her position and sat up on her knees, facing him. "Tearsong told me that one day you would bring great power to my hands. So I know you will return triumphant."
"And quickly," Riverwind added hopefully.
"Do you know what happens at the questing ritual?" Goldmoon asked.
Riverwind shook his head no.
"Well, after you've spoken privately with Father, you'll stand before the whole tribe. Arrowthorn will proclaim that you will go on a quest to prove your worthiness to be my husband. Then, he'll ask me if that is what I want — »
"And you'll say yes," Riverwind added with a smile of certainty.
"Well, yes." She smiled back. "Then he'll announce us betrothed, until such a time as the quest is fulfilled or forsaken."
"It will be fulfilled," he said solemnly, capturing one of her hands in his own.
"And then," she said, "we'll kiss before the whole tribe.
.." She placed her free hand on his shoulder and leaned
toward him. She heard his swift intake of breath before she kissed him lingeringly. "Well, perhaps not quite like that," she whispered sweetly.
"The servants are probably wondering where we are," Riverwind said huskily. "It's going to be a long way around the mountain to find them."
"I know."
"We should get started," he added.
"If I must wait for you," Goldmoon whispered, once again settling herself in the crook of his arm with her head on his shoulder, "surely you can wait for me — until… until…" She pondered. "Until the sun dries my hair," she said finally, laughing.
"That may take some time."
"But not long enough." Goldmoon sighed.
"I will enjoy the waiting," Riverwind assured her as he spread locks of the golden strands across his armored chest. "Who knows? Maybe a cloud will pass by."
Raistlin's Daughter
I first heard the legend of Raistlin's Daughter about five years after my twin's death. As you can imagine, I was extremely intrigued and disturbed by the rumors and did what I could to investigate. In this I was assisted by my friends — the old Companions — who had by this time scattered over most of Ansalon. We found versions of the legend in almost every part of the continent. It is being told among the elves of Silvanesti, the people of Solamnia, and the Plainsmen who have returned to Que-shu. But we could find no verification of it. Even the kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, who goes everywhere and hears everything (as kender do), could discover no first-hand information regarding it. The story is always told by a person who heard it from his aunt who had a cousin who was midwife to the girl… and so forth.
I even went so far as to contact Astinus, the Historian, who records history as it passes before his all-seeing eyes. In this, my hope to hear anything useful was slim, for the Historian is notoriously close-mouthed, especially when something he has seen in the past might affect the future. Knowing this, I asked only for him to tell me whether or not the legend was true. Did my twin father a child? Does he or she live still on this world?
His response was typical of that enigmatic man, whom some whisper is the god Gilean, himself. "If it is true, it will become known. If not, it won't."
I have agreed to allow the inclusion of the legend in this volume as a curiosity and because it might, in the distant future, have some bearing upon the history of Krynn. The reader should be forewarned, however, that my friends and I regard it as veritable gossip.
Caramon Majere
Twilight touched the Wayward Inn with its gentle hand, making even that shabby and ill-reputed place seem a restful haven to those who walked or rode the path that ledby its door. Its weather-beaten wood — rotting and worm ridden when seen in broad daylight — appeared rustic in the golden-tinged evening. Its cracked and broken windowpanes actually sparkled as they caught the last rays of dying light, and the shadows hit the roof just right so that no one could see the patches. Perhaps this was one reason that the inn was so busy this winter night — either that or the masses of gray, lowering clouds gathering in the eastern sky like a ghostly, silent army.
The Wayward Inn was located on the outskirts — if the magical trees deemed it so — of the Forest of Wayreth. If the magical trees chose otherwise, as they frequently did, the inn was located on the outskirts of a barren field where nothing anyone planted grew. Not that any farmer cared to try his luck. Who would want anything from land controlled, so it was believed, by the archmages of the Tower of High Sorcery, by the strange, uncanny forest?
Some thought it peculiar that the Wayward Inn was built so close to the Forest of Wayreth (when the forest was in appearance), but then the owner — Slegart Havenswood — was a peculiar man. His only care in the world, seemingly, was profit — as he would say to anyone who asked. And there was always profit to be made from those who found themselves on the fringes of wizards' lands when night was closing in.
There were many this evening who found themselves in those straits apparently, for almost every room in the inn was taken. For the most part, the travelers were human, since this was in the days before the War of the Lance when elves and dwarves kept to themselves and rarely walked this world. But there were a few gully dwarves around; Slegart hired them to cook and clean up, and he was not averse to allowing goblins to stay in his place as long as they behaved themselves. There were no goblins this night, however, though there were some humans who might have been taken for goblins — so twisted and crafty were their faces. It was this large party who had taken several of Slegart's rooms (and there weren't many in the small, shabby place), leaving only two empty.
Just about the time when the first evening star appeared in the sky, to be almost immediately overrun by the advancing column of clouds, the door to the inn burst open, letting in a chill blast of air, a warrior in leather armor, and a mage in red robes. From his place behind the dirty bar, Slegart frowned. It was not that he disliked magic-users (rumor had it that his inn existed by the grace of the wizards of the tower), but that he didn't particularly like them staying in his place.
When the big warrior (and he was a remarkably big young man, as both Slegart and the others in the common room noted) tossed down a coin and said, "Dinner," Slegart's frown broadened immediately to a smile. When the big man added, "and a room for the night," however, the smile slipped.