Riverwind shook his head stubbornly, then glanced at the Honored Ones. They returned his gaze, saying nothing. Riverwind then looked to his wife.
“It’s your decision,” Goldmoon said simply. Riverwind raised his eyebrows at that but said nothing.
Moonsong stepped forward. “Let her go, Father.”
Riverwind frowned at her, then looked to his son. Wanderer nodded once, silently. At last, the chieftain sighed. “Very well, Brightdawn,” he said. “You may come to Kendermore.” He turned to Swiftraven. “And you, as well, son of Nightshade. If you have any wish to marry my daughter, then let this be your Courting Quest. If any harm comes to her, then woe to you.”
The villagers murmured at this. Swiftraven beamed with pride, then turned to his father.
“Go,” Nightshade said simply.
His smile growing even wider, the young warrior dropped to his knees before Riverwind. The arrows in his quiver rattled. “I accept, my lord.”
Riverwind nodded, his face troubled, then walked to the Honored Ones. He moved down the line, clasping arms with each man in turn. There was doubt and worry in the elders’ eyes, but none spoke against him. No matter how grave their misgivings were, he was their chieftain, and his word was law. When Riverwind reached Far-Runner, though, the ancient man bowed his head and began to cry softly.
“What is this, lorekeeper?” Riverwind asked gently. “Why do you weep?”
“My chief,” Far-Runner murmured. “I weep because my heart is heavy I have wronged you in the past, when I let Chief Arrowthorn use the Courting Quest to keep you from his daughter. I would be doing you wrong again if I did not ask you to reconsider, and stay with us on the Plains.”
Riverwind smiled. “You have long been loyal to me, Far-Runner,” he said. “If I had not gone on Arrowthorn’s impossible quest, the gods might have remained lost. The dragonarmies might have won the war-and Chaos might have won the next. If you hadn’t wronged me, so many years ago, we might not be here today. I forgive you-but I cannot stay. I have given my word, and I will not break it.”
Far-Runner nodded slowly, looking up at Riverwind. “Farewell, my chief,” he murmured.
“Farewell, lorekeeper,” Riverwind said, resting a comforting hand on the old man’s shoulder.
He walked onward, to Wanderer, and father and son embraced in silence. Riverwind met his eyes. “I will tell my son of you,” Wanderer murmured, his face dark.
Moonsong, who had remained stoic thus far, broke down completely, sobbing as she threw her arms around her father. She clutched him tightly, refusing to let go, and in the end it took both Swiftraven and old Hartbow to pull her away. No sooner did she release Riverwind than she fell upon her sister. Both twins’ faces shone with tears when at last they parted.
The stableboy strode through the gates leading three horses and two ponies. Catt and Kronn climbed into their saddles, then Brightdawn and Swiftraven, but Riverwind made no move toward his bay stallion-a gift bestowed upon him by Chief Graywinter when the Que-Kiri joined the allied tribes. Instead, he turned toward Goldmoon, his heart in his eyes. He dropped to one knee before her. Mud soaked through his pantleg, but he paid it no heed.
“Kan-tokah,” he said, choking. “My beloved.”
Smiling serenely, she bent down and kissed him on the forehead. Then she cupped his chin with her hand and raised his head so he looked into her bright, blue eyes. “Why so solemn, my hero?” she asked. “We have been separated before.”
He nodded, unable to find his voice.
“You have always followed your heart,” she said, smiling. “It is an arrow that flies straight and true. I will await your return.”
Taking his hand, she pressed something into his palm, then kissed his fingers, turned, and walked away.
He watched her go, his gaze seeking her as she approached the chieftain’s lodge. He could feel eyes on him-the villagers, the Honored Ones, his children-but he did not rise. Instead, he opened his hand, and his face lit with wonder at what his wife had given him.
It was a simple chain, shaped of common brass. The charm that hung from it was crafted of shining, silver-blue steel. It was shaped like two teardrops, touching tip-to-tip-the symbol of Mishakal.
He had given her the medallion many years ago, so long it seemed another man’s life. It was called a Forever Charm, and it was both a sign of the goddess and a token of his neverending love. She had never given it to him before. He looked up through clouding eyes to ask her, “Why?” But she had already disappeared into the chieftain’s lodge.
While the rest of the villagers watched their chieftain ride out through the gates, Goldmoon sat alone in the chieftain’s lodge. She did not cry, but rather picked up an old, worn lute, nestled it gently in her arms, and set her fingers to her strings.
She played an old song, laden with memory. She had sung it for the first time many years ago, at the Inn of the Last Home. She sang it today, for what she hoped would not be the last time.
o Riverwind, where have you gone?
o Riverwind, autumn comes on.
I sit by the river
And look to the sunrise,
But the sun rises over the mountains alone.
Chapter 7
The eastern tip of the Goodlund peninsula had never been what humans and their ilk would call hospitable. Only the most stubborn trees and bushes had clung to the barren, gravelly steppes. Dry, dusty wind had gusted through its narrow canyons. Water had been hard to come by, save for the Heartsblood River, and even that had been tainted, stained rusty red in grotesque mimicry of the sea to the north.
To Kurthak’s people, it had long been home. The grasslands to the south had provided livestock and slaves for plundering, as had the Kenderwood to the west. The steppes were shot through with veins of copper, iron, and silver, ripe for mining. Sometimes, when a ship foundered on the rocky outcroppings along the coast-a treacherous stretch of shoreline mariners called Land’s End-the ogres had waded out to them through the surf, to slaughter their crews and loot their holds.
Kurthak and Tragor stood at the edge of the Heartsblood, in a place where it had once flowed quick, wide, and deep. Now, though, it was nothing but a meager, muddy trickle, seeping down the middle of what had been its bed. The Black-Gazer stared hard at the feeble rill, his brow furrowing as if he could will the flow to return to its former strength. His champion scratched his pockmarked jawline, confused.
“The land’s changed,” Tragor said.
Slowly, as if reluctant to do so, the Black-Gazer nodded. “I’d thought I was imagining it. It’s been many weeks since Lord Ruog led us west, to the kender lands.”
“You imagine nothing,” Tragor declared, shaking his head. “I have forded the Heartsblood here many times. The current was nearly strong enough to drag me off my feet.”
Kurthak considered the muddy creek a moment longer, then looked around. “The river’s not the only thing that’s changed. Speargrass and eaghon trees used to grow here.” He glanced around, looking for some sign of the sharp-thorned plants that once had clustered thirstily along the riverbanks. The earth, though, was barren. He looked up, squinting north, and pointed a hairy finger. “Do you know what lies ahead there?”
Tragor followed the gesture, past the Heartsblood toward the far-off, dust-cloaked horizon. Some five leagues away, a mass of jagged, stony crags groped toward the sky. Above them hung a black, hazy pall, as might swathe a burning city.
“Mountains,” Tragor said.
“Mmm. But that isn’t what should be there.” Kurthak regarded his companion, his single eye boring deep. “Think, Tragor. Do you recall what the humans call the lands beyond the Heartsblood?”