With a low cry, Riverwind came awake. He lay shivering and clutching the jar to his chest. Who was she? he wondered. Who was that woman? He should know. She was very important. The questions pounded his brain until, finally, sleep washed over him.
They reached the pass before noon of the next day. A few hours' climb up the steep path, and the trio stood on the high plateau. A remnant of the Cataclysm, the plateau had been formed when a great splash of rock and mud filled in a valley in the mountains. Among the Que-Shu it was said that if you dug into the brown soil of the plateau, you would find houses, animals… and people, all buried exactly where they stood at the time of the Cataclysm.
As it was, the plateau was a pleasant, grassy interval in the rugged, stony ocean of peaks. Bighorn sheep and mountain goats ran in herds on the plateau, and Riverwind fervently wished to hunt them. But, alas, he had no bow, nor even a decent javelin to hurl.
Darmon was quiet as they stood on the plateau. He seemed intimidated by the presence of the taller, older man, though Riverwind was probably no more than a handful of years his senior. Darmon kept as far away from the plainsman as was convenient. Leaning on his wooden staff, Riverwind sat down on a large rock to rest. Lona settled on the ground near him and searched through her bag for a midday snack. Darmon remained standing, several yards away, surveying the way they had come.
“Raisins?” Lona offered Riverwind a handful of the fruit.
He laid the staff on the ground by his left foot and took the proffered fruit. Lona began to eat her own handful slowly. “You certainly don't let that staff out of your sight,” the young woman said.
Riverwind looked down at the homely staff. “It is very important.”
“It's only a stick of wood,” Darmon said, moving in to get a share of raisins.
“Darmon,” Lona chided. “It's important to Riverwind.”
The boy shook his head and went back to his study of their position.
“Why is it important?” Lona asked.
Riverwind picked up the wooden rod. He ran his hands over it and frowned. “It's not just wood,” he said softly. “It's really…” The effort of concentration made his head hurt. He gripped the staff so tightly his knuckles whitened. “I don't know. I can't remember. Have I never told you?”
Lona shook her head sadly. “No, Riverwind. You haven't mentioned it at all. I thought you'd carved it yourself.”
“No. No, I didn't,” Riverwind leaned his face against the wood. “At least, I don't think I did. I think I'm supposed to give it to someone.”
“Who?” asked Darmon and popped his last raisin in his mouth.
“I can't remember.” The words were barely audible.
“Well, don't fret over it,” Lona said cheerily. “I'm sure everything will be clear again once you're well.” She hoisted her gear and said, “We should be moving now.”
She and Darmon were quickly ready, but Riverwind sat on his rock, staring at the staff.
“Come on, barbarian,” Darmon said. “We're ready to go.”
Riverwind finally sighed deeply and stood, shouldering his pack. The staff swung out and swept past Darmon. He jumped back quickly.
“Watch it!” he cried. “Keep that dirty stick off my clothes.”
Riverwind apologized and took a firmer grip on the staff.
“It's only a piece of wood, Darmon,” Lona said. “It won't bite you.”
The three of them moved on across the plateau. River-wind's face showed his anxiety. His memory was so dark. There were so many gaps. But he was on his way home. No matter what else was unclear, that was certain. He was on the road home.
When they camped that night, Lona made hot broth for him again. She boiled what looked like an ox-bone in some water and added a sprinkling of powder from a tiny draw-string bag that she wore around her neck. Riverwind asked her what was in the bag.
“Spice,” she said. “Our poor soup bone is practically glass smooth from boiling, so the broth needs something extra to flavor it.” Riverwind peered at the old bone and nodded. The broth was still nearly tasteless.
That night-the third since meeting the two young people-Riverwind had no troubling dreams. The indistinct face of the woman with golden hair floated in and out of his mind, but there was no pain attached to this. He awoke rested and refreshed, and felt stronger than he had in days. He breathed in the warm air and touched the staff lying on the ground.
He would take it to Que-Shu. Once it was there, someone would surely know what to do with it. He worried a bit over the gaps in his memory, but he felt so much better physically that he was certain his memory would return, too.
That morning, Lona brought him his broth. Riverwind stared at the nearly clear liquid in the mug. It was really quite bad, but he didn't want to hurt Lona's feeling. After all, she was sharing what little they had. So, when neither of the others was looking, Riverwind poured the broth out on the ground. He would try to find some game for them today. This would help ease the strain on their meager food supply.
Later that morning, the Sageway appeared in the distance. Riverwind felt great relief. His memory of directions was still sound.
“Does the road run all the way to Solace?” Darmon asked as they took in the vista of the ancient road, green grass sprouting between its bricks.
“Yes, though it branches at different points,” Riverwind noted.
“Do many travelers use it?” asked Lona.
“Many do, though there isn't much trade going west and east. Most traders ply the routes north and south, from Qualinesti up to Solace and across the sea to Solamnia.”
Darmon shouldered the strap he'd tacked to his case and said, “Let's go, I'm eager to get to Solace.”
Riverwind caught his toe on a hummock of grass. He stumbled and threw out his arms to keep his balance. The staff, in his right hand, swung out and hit Lona on the shoulder. With a low cry, she leaped sideways.
“Are you all right?” Darmon asked, coming quickly to her side.
Riverwind apologized. “It was an accident, Lona. I hope I didn't hurt you.”
Lona took her hand from her left shoulder and smiled thinly. “I'm fine. Do you think that silly stick could hurt me?” She picked up her knapsack with her right hand, but she held her left arm rather stiffly.
Riverwind stood unmoving. Lona's words echoed in his mind. Do you think that silly stick could hurt me?
He felt very strange. He'd heard those words before. Someone had said them to him not so very long ago. Who?
Do you think that silly stick could hurt me?
Lona still hadn't moved, and Darmon was fussing over her shoulder. “No, it couldn't have hurt you,” Riverwind said, frowning. “It barely touched you.” He stared at the young woman for so long that she shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Darmon. He put a hand to his forehead. “I've heard those words before,” Riverwind muttered. He strained to remember, the throbbing in his head growing worse.
“What words?” Darmon asked. When no answer was forthcoming, the boy rolled his eyes. “Ignorant barbarian.”
Riverwind's head came up, and he stared at Darmon. “What did you say?” he asked. Darmon glanced at Arlona. Riverwind pointed the staff at the boy.
“What're you doing?” he snapped. “Get that filthy stick away from me. What's wrong with you?”
“It's only a silly stick,” Riverwind said. He turned to Lona. “The two of you are acting very strangely.” Do you think that silly stick could hurt me? “There is something wrong here.”
Lona pulled Darmon back a few steps. She smiled at Riverwind. “Nonsense. You're only imagining things,” she said. “There's nothing wrong with us.”
“Who are you? Who are you really?” Riverwind demanded. Though he had sensed something odd about the two, he really had no clear idea just what the matter was. He quickly found out.
Before Riverwind's astonished eyes, the two young people began to change. Darmon's hair flew away on the wind like dandelion seed, and his freckled s
kin seemed to melt in strips. Riverwind cried out in horror. Darmon's gray eyes became yellow slits, and his green, scaly body elongated, a pair of wings rising and flexing behind him. His beaked face opened in a wide, hissing grin. Riverwind saw him in his true form and a name he'd forgotten popped into his mind.
“Shanz,” Riverwind croaked, his voice hoarse with shock. “You're Shanz.”
“And me, little man? Do you remember me?” The voice was not Lona's. She was no more. Her dull peasant clothes were a mere heap of rags on the ground. In her place, coiled tightly and wings furled, was a black dragon.
“Khisanth.” Riverwind breathed the name. She had said those familiar words to him back in Xak Tsaroth when he'd first faced her with the staff. “I remember.” Riverwind backed up several steps, holding the Staff of Mishakal-for he knew that that's what it was-before him.
“I commend you, Shanz,” said the dragon. “You said the human might survive the Cursed Lands, and you were right.”
“The warrior who bested Thouriss was not likely to succumb to mud and fever,” Shanz replied. “And your illusions, mistress, were an excellent touch.” His sword was out. Riverwind looked quickly from dragon to draconian to see who would move against him first.
“Why did you play this game with me?” the plainsman asked bitterly. “Why pretend to be Darmon and Arlona? You found me; you could have killed me any time.”
“I still can,” rumbled the dragon. “When it suits me. But-” She lowered her horned head, canting it sideways in a darkly thoughtful gesture. “I wanted to retrieve the staff you carry. It contains much power, power that I want for myself. If you had died in the swamp, it might've fallen into other hands.”
“It's useless to you,” Riverwind declared. He had his eye on something on the ground. Among the rough clothing was the small drawstring bag with the “spice” in it. “You may want this staff, but neither you nor Shanz can touch it. You need me to carry it for you. That's why you were giving me the 'spice.' You wanted to destroy my memory, and then my will.”
“Nonsense! I can take that little twig any time I wish,” said Khisanth.
Riverwind poked at the dragon's face. A blue spark arced from the staff's tip to the beast's cheek. Khisanth hissed loudly and jerked her head back.
“Nothing evil can bear the touch of this staff,” Riverwind told her coldly.
Khisanth opened her mouth in a terrifying snarl. Razor-sharp fangs and acid saliva were only a few feet from Riverwind. He gripped the staff with both hands.
The draconian brought his sword down. Riverwind blocked it with the staff. Holding Mishakal's sacred rod like a quarterstaff, he took all of Shanz's attacks and delivered a few of his own. The advantage Riverwind had was he didn't have to strike Shanz hard; merely touching him delivered a violent shock. Armor didn't protect him.
Within a minute of the battle's start, Riverwind planted the end of the staff hard into Shanz's pointed chin. The dra-conian's jawbone shattered, and the full magical force of Mishakal's staff coursed through his frame like lightning. Shanz uttered a protracted groan and fell to the ground. His body twitched and then was still.
Khisanth froze. Instead of attacking Riverwind immediately, she moved to Shanz's body. Her head snaked down, and she sniffed at the corpse, her eyes never leaving the plainsman's face. Her expression was hideous. No more illusions and trickery, she decided. It's time to kill this impudent mortal.
Riverwind took a step backward. Without warning, the dragon's head shot up, and her chest expanded as she inhaled deeply. She was preparing to breathe acid mist all over Riverwind. The plainsman dove into the pile of old clothes and found the drawstring bag of spice. He tore the top open and flung the contents, a yellowish powder, into the dragon's face, then scrambled madly away. Khisanth was still inhaling, and most of the powder was drawn into her nose.
The dragon shook her head from side to side, lungs filled with the alchemical powder. With a rasping roar, Khisanth blew the dust out in a cloud mixed with her own acid breath. Riverwind felt the edge of the stinging mist, tasted its metallic bite on his lips. He shut his eyes tightly and ran. The ground shook as the black dragon crashed to the ground and began to roll in the grass. She tore the sod and howled in a voice like thunder. Riverwind ran blindly, stumbling frequently, but he didn't stop until he felt the paving of the Sageway under his feet. Only then did he look back. A column of dirt and dust rose high in the air, marking the spot where Khisanth was thrashing in rage and pain.
Goldmoon, daughter of Arrowthorn, sat in the chieftain's chair, her head perched on a clenched fist. Though she was bored to death, outwardly she maintained an air of intelligent interest. Two Que-Shu men stood before her, in front of the chieftain's home, disputing the ownership of a cow, and were just as loud about their respective rights now as when the trial had begun, over an hour ago.
A disturbance arose on the other side of the empty village arena. Goldmoon raised her head when she heard the shouts and saw the dust churned up from the dry path by many Que-Shu feet. “Be silent a moment,” she said to the quarreling men. The two reluctantly ceased their disputation. The noise grew louder, and the outer fringe of a large crowd began to spill around the edges of the sunken arena.
Goldmoon stood. Her attendants likewise rose. She said, “Fetch my father.” Two brawny men nodded and entered the chieftain's house. They returned shortly carrying a litter in which the bent form of Arrowthorn sat. Fate had dealt the chieftain a bitter blow. Ten months after he'd sent Riverwind on his Courting Quest, a mysterious illness had laid the chieftain low, leaving him unable to walk or talk intelligibly. His eyes told the true story, though; the mind of Arrowthorn still dwelled within the ruined body, a helpless prisoner of his own flesh.
The crowd flowed into the arena, down the stone seat-steps and up the other side. Children pranced among the adults with growing excitement. Goldmoon strained to see around the Temple of the Ancestors, which blocked her view. It would not do for chieftain's daughter to wade into the crowd like a common person. She had to remain cool and detached, though she ached with curiosity.
The Que-Shu folk thinned at what was the center of the disturbance. A lone figure walked slowly in the eye of this human tempest; a tall figure, head above the crowd, who leaned on a dark wooden staff as he walked.
A single tear stung Goldmoon's eye. It could not be- after so long!
The tall man skirted the arena, choosing a course near the village hall. The afternoon sun broke over that building, throwing a cloak of shadow over him.
Arrowthorn made a low, gurgling sound. Goldmoon reached over to his litter and grasped his hand.
The murmur of the crowd resolved into a steady chant. There was no doubt any longer, for what the Que-Shu people repeated over and over was a name: Riverwind.
Goldmoon couldn't bear it any longer. She slipped free of her father's feeble grasp and moved. But she moved slowly and with the dignity of her position. The people parted, making a path for her directly to Riverwind. He was between the village hall and the Temple of the Ancestors when he saw her, and stopped. Goldmoon halted, too. He was thin, and sunburn painted his face. Riverwind lifted a hand in greeting.
“Goldmoon,” he said hoarsely. “I remember.”
She spoke his name, then, to her horror, he collapsed. The crowd closed in on the fallen man, but Goldmoon cried, “Get back!”
She hurried to his side, ignoring her spotless white hem trailing in the dirt. Goldmoon fell on her knees and turned Riverwind's face to the sky.
“My beloved,” he said.
“Yes, yes, I'm here,” she replied softly. To the assembled crowd, she said, “Fetch a healer! He is roasting with fever!”
Goldmoon stroked his blistered face. “My love,” she whispered, “I prayed to all the true gods you would return to me. They have answered my prayers.” Riverwind slowly brought the staff up to her face. “What is it?” she asked.
“Proof. This is the Staff of Mishakal. Our quest is over.” She t
ried to take the staff, but his fingers were locked on it. Not until the healer had come and administered a soothing herbal potion did Riverwind's hand relax enough for her to pry the staff away.
At Goldmoon's command, strong men lifted Riverwind. She ordered him to be taken to the chieftain's house. The men looked at each other wonderingly, but they obeyed. Goldmoon had been chieftain in all but name since her father's illness, and she had led her people well.
She strode ahead of the litter that held the young plainsman. The crowd parted respectfully. When she reached the spot where she'd left her father, she saw Loreman was there. He was one of the few who resisted her rule. The scheming old man was speaking into Arrowthorn's ear, and he stiffened when he saw Goldmoon staring at him.
“Take my father and Riverwind inside. Healer, attend to the son of Wanderer.” The litter bearers, their burdens, and the healer went into the house. Loreman cleared his throat, halting Goldmoon before she could follow.
“What?” she asked coldly.
“Riverwind has returned. Does he admit defeat in his quest?” said Loreman.
“Not at all. He has triumphed.”
“Where then is the proof of the old, dead gods?”
She thrust the staff out at him. “Here! Riverwind brings this, the sacred staff of the goddess Mishakal.”
Loreman smiled. “An impressive piece of wood,” he said sarcastically.
“I will speak with Riverwind and learn more,” Goldmoon said. “You need not concern yourself.”
“Heresy always concerns me.”
“Enough! I am needed within.” She swept past Loreman, attempting to hide her loathing.
She went to Riverwind's side. A screen of hides had been hung around his bed for privacy. Goldmoon slipped in and dismissed the healer. When they were alone, she kissed him.
His face was wet.
“Are those your tears or mine?” she said, sniffing.
“Ours,” he said, his voice like a sigh.
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