“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.