"Love and War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anthology)

THUS HUMA, KNIGHT OF SOLAMNIA,

Sturm finished the canto. Artavash was smiling again. Very quietly she said, "And this demigod, this Huma; you are a descendant of his?"

"From olden times, yes," Sturm said with pride.

"I cannot wait to present you to my master," she said.

The fog dispelled and never returned. SEA RAVEN'S oars beat day and night.

Sturm worried about Soren. There had been no sign of the sergeant since he disappeared into the dark, fetid hold of the galley two days ago. Artavash was not available, so the boy complained to Radiz.

"You will not like what you see," Radiz told him.

"I want to see Sergeant Soren," Sturm insisted. The commander agreed without any more argument.

"Perhaps it would be instructive for you to visit the benches," he mused.

The boy and the commander descended a steep set of steps into the hold. There, a long wooden walkway ran from forecastle to stern. Below on either side were the rowers' benches. Four men were chained to each oar, and twenty oars were set on each side. Hard, grim-faced men prowled the walk, lashing the rowers at random. The sight and smell of the neglected slaves was fearsome.

Soren was not hard to find. Compared to the skinny wretches around him, he was a giant. Radiz let Sturm on the catwalk to speak with his friend.

"I'm sorry, Soren!" he said, choking on disgust and angry tears. "I didn't know they'd put you in this horrible place!"

The guardsman hauled back his oar. "Don't — worry — young — lord," he panted in time to the sounding drum. "Alive — there is — hope."

"Hope is a good breakfast, but a poor supper," countered Radiz. He led Sturm away. The boy went back to his mother. He sat between Lady Ilys and Carin and said nothing to anyone for a long time.

After four days and three nights, the SEA RAVEN hove in sight of land. The coast of Abanasinia lay like a low, brown cloud off the port beam. Lady Ilys looked longingly at the far shore.

"So near" she said. Sturm leaned on her arm. "If I knew we were close enough, I'd throw you overboard to swim it and find help."

"I could try," he said eagerly.

She stroked his tangled hair. "No, my son. I fear you would drown."

Abanasinia receded as the SEA RAVEN bore south and west. A plume of smoke followed the wind away from the mountaintop.

"Kernaf is a fire-mountain," explained Artavash. "The natives call it 'HEJ MARAF,' — the Furnace."

"Are you not a native?" asked Sturm.

"Me, a fish-eater? My ancestors laugh at the idea!"

Sturm peeked at Radiz. The swarthy face under the shiny helmet could not conceal annoyance at her insult.

SEA RAVEN gained steadily against an offshore breeze. The sea was empty of ships, even as she drew in sight of the mouth of the main harbor. From the high forecastle, the city of Kernaf spread in a half-circle around the bowl-shaped bay. Two tall, stone towers flanked the narrow harbor entrance. The tower tops were blackened by fire.

"Has someone attacked your town?" asked Sturm.

Radiz squinted into the morning glare. "No, boy. Those are signal towers. Fires were burned up there to mark the entrance for passing ships," he said.

"Don't they use them anymore?" Sturm asked. Radiz was silent.

Artavash ordered message pennants sent as the galley churned to its haven. They passed large numbers of fishing smacks moored to buoys. They were waterlogged from neglect. In the main dockyard, large merchant ships swung untended at anchor, their rigging ragged and their main yards lying rotten on their decks.

"Strange," said Lady Ilys. "Everything looks abandoned. I thought this would be a teeming port."

"Not a soul in sight," agreed Mistress Carin.

That changed when a light ketch skimmed out to meet the SEA RAVEN. A Kernaffi stood in the boat and called to the galley in his native tongue. Radiz replied at length.

"What do they say?" asked Sturm.

"Merely the greetings of our great lord to his returning ship," said Artavash. The man in the boat did not look so very pleased to Sturm.

SEA RAVEN dropped anchors fore and aft. The oars were run in. The pilot ketch put about and tacked back to a long stone pier. Radiz shouted orders, and all hands except slaves assembled on the main deck.

A squat barge rowed out to the galley's bow. Sturm, his mother, and Carin followed Artavash to a ramp that led down to the bobbing barge. Sturm stopped short of the ramp's end.

"What about Sergeant Soren?" he said.

"He will come ashore with the other rowers," said Radiz.

Sturm appealed to Artavash. "He must come with us," he said. She seemed willing to accommodate the boy's wishes, so she sent for the sergeant. Soren was half-carried from the hold and dumped on the ramp by Kernaffi sailors.

"You see, my lady, how four days with an oar tames the boldest warrior," Radiz said. Artavash laughed all the way down to the barge.

Sturm helped his friend stand. "Are you well, Soren?" he said.

"Well enough, my lord." His quilted tunic was in tat ters, and red welts streaked his back. The rowing master had not spared Soren the whip. The guardsman's hands were also raw from gripping the heavy oar.

The barge glided in to the pier. An honor guard awaited them. Brass horns blared as Artavash led the group up some steps to the street. A parade formed:

the warrior woman leading Sturm by the hand, followed by a grim Lady Ilys and Carin. Soren, Radiz, and the Kernaffi guard brought up the rear. Fifes shrilled and drums rumbled as they began to march.

The streets of the city were as empty as the harbor. A few people peered out their windows, and some curious loafers filled open doorways. As soon as they caught sight of Artavash, doors closed and shutters shut.

"Passing strange," Sturm said. "Harbors without ships, streets without people."

"The natives seldom venture out this time of day," Artavash replied. "They think it's too hot."

The parade turned a comer. Ahead rose an imposing facade, a palace of some sort. Before the palace was a high wooden platform covered with a golden canopy. Artavash halted Sturm ten paces from the foot of the platform. The guards ran ahead, forming a double line from Artavash to the bottom of the steps. Javelins clanked on shoulders in salute, and the music stopped.

"Hail, Lord of the Sea!" Artavash cried.

"KAI! NAM KAMAY DURAT!" echoed the guards.

Sturm shaded his eyes. How warm it was here! The afternoon sun glared over him, making sweat break out on his face. Maybe the natives had the right idea!

Something stirred on the platform. A thin shape, black against the dazzling light, came to the front of the platform. Two hands rose, spread in greeting.

"Welcome, beloved Artavash. Who have you brought to me?" said a high, reedy voice.

"Noble guests, my lord." She introduced Lady Ilys, Carin, and Soren. Then she pushed Sturm forward. "And this, Master, is Sturm, Angriff's son, of the house of Brightblade."

A thin, gurgling sound emanated from the platform. "So? Come closer, young fellow, that I may see you better."

Sturm cast a glance back at his mother for guidance. Artavash didn't wait; she put a hand to his back and steered him up the wooden steps. When the shade of the gilded canopy fell across his face, he saw the man known as the Lord of the Sea.

He was tall, and so thin his back bowed under the weight of his large head. The black robe he wore hung loosely from his shoulders. Long, smooth fingers were clasped together at the Sea Lord's waist. And his face — Sturm would long remember that face! Two black eyes glittered on either side of a sharp nose. The skin of his beardless face was gray and dry as autumn leaves… strange that his hands, though bony, were pink and unwrinkled. The Lord of the Sea had only a few wisps of black hair clinging to his globular skull.

"My name is Mukhari Ras," he said. His voice was like a creaking door. "I am so pleased to meet you." He extended a hand to the boy. Sturm took it uncertainly. It was dry and hot, almost feverish.

"Have I done well?" asked Artavash.

"Oh, very well, far better than I expected," said Mukhari Ras. "And you shall be rewarded. All my loyal subjects will be rewarded."

He picked up a large canvas sack, grunting from the obvious weight. Shuffling to the front of the platform, Mukhari said, "Loyal men of Kernaf! I am pleased with the guests you have brought me. Taste the gratitude of Mukhari Ras!" So saying, he dipped his hand in the sack and flung a handful of the contents into the air. A shower of gold coins fell on the soldiers below. The men broke ranks and scrambled after the money, which rang and rolled on the paving stones.

Sturm blinked. He saw coins hit the ground, but it was sand, common sand, that Mukhari threw by fistfuls from the sack.

"You — you're a magician!" he said.

"No, boy. I am no crude conjurer, but a humble acolyte of the mysteries of cosmic matter. My alchemical art has made me master of this island. Soon I shall command all the Inland Sea." Mukhari threw another handful of sand to the Kernaffi. "More! Take more! All the gold in the world is yours if you serve me!" The men dropped their weapons and crawled on all fours in the dirt. They filled their helmets with gold and laughingly chased each new coin as it struck the ground.

The sack emptied, Mukhari Ras tossed it aside. "That's done," he said, showing blackened teeth in his smile. "Artavash, my dear, bring the boy and his noble companions to the palace. I shall receive them for dinner."

Sturm, Lady Ilys, and Carin were taken to an airy suite of rooms on the east side of the palace. There, amid billowing sheets of gauze, the smell of incense, and the ever-present tinkling of wind chimes, bowls of scented water were brought for their bathing. Vested servants stood by with towels, even presuming to pat dry the Solamnians' faces and hands for them. "What odd people they are," said Carin. "That Mukhari Ras is the oddest of them all. Who could imagine a quacksalving alchemist as the ruler of an island? It's — it's contrary to nature, that's what it is," said Lady Ilys.

"Mother, what will become of us?" Sturm said once the towel was taken away from his face.

"I cannot guess," she confessed. "A man who throws gold in the street cannot desire ransom money. In truth, were it not for the violence of our being brought here, I would believe we were honored guests."

Sturm was uneasy. Why had no one else noticed that Mukhari's gold was only sand? He opened his mouth to mention it to his mother, but before he could say a word, Artavash appeared at their door.

"The table of my master is laden. Let us eat," she said.

Dinner in the palace was a major event, presented in an elaborate style. Sturm enjoyed sitting on the floor at the low table, though Lady Ilys provoked a minor crisis by insisting that a proper chair be provided for her. It was not decent, she said, for a well-born lady to squat on her haunches like the family wolfhound.

As the diners — including Sir Radiz, Artavash, and Soren

were busy hacking open their first course of melon, Lady

Ilys said, "Lord Mukhari, may I ask how you came to rule this country? Your servant," she gestured to Artavash, "admits not being native to Kernaf."

The alchemist, who sat by a plate heaped with fruit, replied, "I was marooned on the south coast of Kernaf by men of my own land."

"What land is that?" asked Sturm.

"Moranoco, or as you call it, the Plains of Dust."

"You were exiled then?" said Lady Ilys. Without looking, she handed a napkin to Sturm. The boy blotted melon juice from his chin.

"Indeed, lady; as you are now, so was I once a hard pressed refugee. By my skill in the Art, I won the loyalty and affection of the people of Kernaf. I know the straits you are in, which is why I make you welcome."

"Your servants have not always been so kind," Soren said, giving Artavash a caustic glance. The warrior woman plunged a blunt table knife into her melon and split the fruit in two.

"Ah, well! It has been explained to me that your ship refused the SEA RAVEN'S summons and resisted with blood when boarded. Is it surprising that my good Artavash resorted to stern measures to bring you here? If murder and plunder were our aims, you would not be dining with us now," Mukhari said.

Carin looked confused. Lady Ilys said, "Why do your ships stop free traders on the open sea?"

"Tribute is necessary for the maintenance of Kernaf's position," said Artavash. She popped a sliver of melon in her mouth. Sturm watched her every move with fascination.

There was silence around the table for a moment. Everyone was eating except Mukhari. Sturm wondered why he had the choicest fruit on his plate if he weren't going to eat any of it.

The alchemist fixed his black eyes on Lady Ilys. "Where were you bound, Lady?"

"Solace, in Abanasinia," she replied.

Mukhari wiped his mouth on a linen napkin, though no food had touched his lips. "Shall I put one of my ships at your disposal?"

"That would be wonderful!" said Mistress Carin.

"It is gracious of you to offer," said Lady Ilys.

Radiz interjected, "Only SEA RAVEN is on hand, Lord."

"When can it be ready for sea?"

"Not for nine days, Lord. The hull was strained when we rammed the roundship. The seams should be re-caulked," Artavash said. Radiz opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by her harsh glance. "No other vessel is expected back in less than a fortnight," she said.

"It seems you must be my guests for nine more days," Mukhari said. "So that you will be comfortable, please feel free to roam my palace at will." He stood to leave, though the second course had yet to be served. "And now I retire to my nightly studies. Good health to you, my friends."

He waved a hand through the air. A slim glass vial appeared in his fingers. Mukhari hurled the vial to the floor. It shattered, and a coil of rose-colored smoke snaked out. The smoke enveloped Mukhari Ras. The last thing Sturm saw was the alchemist's face. In a halo of pink smoke he looked quite benign.

The cloud dispersed, and Mukhari was gone.

"Oh!" said Carin.

"Tricks," muttered Radiz.

It was hot. Sturm rolled over and pushed back the slick satin sheets. Currents of air stirred the filmy curtains, but the heat in the room was stifling. He got up, pulled on his Kernaffi-style pants and vest, and checked on his mother. Lady Ilys was sleeping soundly. Her cheek was cool and her forehead dry. So why am I sweating so? wondered Sturm.

He tip-toed through the colonnade to the main room. The cool tiles felt good under his feet. Beyond the columns was an atrium. Stars glittered overhead. As Sturm stood searching for familiar constellations, he heard footsteps and muffled voices. He went to the door and lifted the latch.

Two Kernaffi soldiers flanked a third, taller man. Chains clinked faintly from the middle man's wrists and feet. Sturm cracked the door wider. The men passed a wall torch. The fettered man was Sergeant Soren — and he was gagged, too.

Sturm shut the door quickly. His mind raced in tan dem with his heart. Why was Soren in chains? Where were they taking him? When the footsteps faded around the corner, Sturm knew he had to follow.

The massive suite door swung back without a whisper. Sturm saw the hinges were made of ruby. There seemed no limit to the wealth of the alchemist-lord. He slipped down the hall, straining to hear the last word of the Kernaffi guards and Soren. The palace was still.

He kept close to the wall, just as he did when he played 'Storm the Citadel' in Castle Brightblade. His damp palms moved stickily over the glossy wood panels. A strange, irresistible smell came to Sturm's nostrils, an odor of spice such as he had never known before. Where the corridor crossed another he stopped, uncertain which way to go. A fresh waft of spice drew him to the right. Down the hall a high, curving staircase of black marble spiraled up, following the sweep of the palace wall. Midway up, a single torch burned in an iron bracket.

Sturm mounted the steps. The odor was stronger and more compelling with every rising step. As he passed underthe torch, Sturm heard a peculiar sound — the gurgle of slow moving liquid. The steps ended at a black door studded with silver spikes. It was ajar.

Sturm's hand reached out, wavered… He could not resist. He touched the door with one finger, and it opened wide for him.

Even yellow light filled the room beyond. It was a workshop of some sort, filled with all sorts of strange things: tables laden with crystals of odd color and shape; stuffed animals with glass-bead eyes that stared knowingly back at Sturm. Shelves lined with fancy canisters and bundles of dried herbs, neatly labeled in some foreign script. And books. More books than Sturm had ever seen in his life.

He found the source of the gurgling and the spice aroma. An elaborate arrangement of clear tubes and bottles bubbled slowly on a round table in the center of the room. Beside this apparatus was a large red candle, as thick as his wrist. The odor was coming from it.

"Careful, young lord," said Mukhari Ras, appearing ghostlike from a deep alcove. "The essence still is very delicate, and I have need of it soon."

Sturm flinched and stood away from the table. The fluid in the tubes was thick and dark, very like the color of -

"Blood," said the alchemist. "Merely the unwholesome remnants of my last experiment," said the alchemist. He drew nearer even as the boy shrank from him.

"Human blood?" asked Sturm in a small voice.

"Of course," said Mukhari. "No other kind is of any use to me."

Sturm slowly pointed to the red, sweet-smelling candle. "What is this made of? It smells good."

"I am pleased you noticed. It is a very SPECIAL candle. You see, I cannot smell it at all." Sturm couldn't believe that. The spicy aroma was almost overwhelming in the close room. "Only very special people can smell it. The young and pure."

A cold hand came to rest on the back of Sturm's neck. "What does that mean?" he asked.

"It means, my boy, that I needed to know what sort of boy you are, to know if you were suitable for my purposes."

Sturm backed a step. "What purposes?"

"At the command of my Dark Goddess, I seek the true restorative medicine, the elixir of life. My research uncovered the formula, but to make it work, I need noble blood. Your blood."

"Mine!" cried Sturm. "Why mine?"

"You passed the test. The candle led you here."

Sturm bumped into a table. He cast about wildly for a way out. Mukhari did not seem to notice. He looked far away, musing about his experiments.

"Artavash brought me children from Kernaf, but they were imperfect, unworthy. The elixir made from their blood was only partially effective." He held out an arm and pulled back the loose sleeve to his shoulder. "See? I have the arms of a man of thirty, while the rest of me rots at sixty-six."

Fear and disgust rose sourly in Sturm's throat. "So that's why the town is empty — you murdered the children!"

"Don't be silly, boy. Most families fled, true, but they'll come back once I'm rejuvenated. They will come back and fall to their knees to worship the Goddess of Darkness who grants eternal life!"

"Life purchased at the cost of others! Paladine will not allow this!"

"And who is Paladine's representative? You?" Mukhari grinned evilly at the boy. "No matter. In two days the dark moon will rise, and the celestial conditions for the making of the elixir will be propitious."

"You will not suceed — Sergeant Soren — " Sturm began shrilly.

The alchemist clucked his tongue. "He cannot help you. Even now he lies trussed up in my dungeon. As for you, my young lord, if you give me the slightest difficulty, I shall order harm done to your mother and her maid."

"You will not!"

"Nonsense, boy. You're not in Solamnia. I am master here."

Sturm closed his hand around a smooth, cold object — a flask. He hurled the flask at Mukhari and turned to run. The aged alchemist dodged awkwardly. Mukhari, reached for a braided bell cord. Hidden chimes rang. A concealed door sprang open, and Artavash came in. Sturm rushed blindly into her grasp.

"Take charge of him, my dear," Mukhari said. "Only don't bruise him. I wouldn't want him less than perfect for processing tomorrow."

"As you command, master," said Artavash. She laid a firm hand on his neck and guided Sturm from the room.

On the stairs Sturm said, "So — so this was your plan all

along?"

"Why do you think my master had me scouring the seas?" she said. "Other ships have come and gone, seeking pure blood for Lord Mukhari's work. Noble offspring are hard to find; they're usually well guarded. It was the greatest stroke of luck that I intercepted your ship."

Sturm didn't feel at all lucky. He submitted without a struggle as Artavash took him to her chambers. All the while, even when she bound him to a heavy chair with silken sashes, he was thinking, thinking. He batted the feeling of helpless terror that gnawed at his mind. Soren a captive, his mother and Carin hostages,… and himself. To be bled dry, his life drained to further the evil work of the Queen of Darkness…

He thought of his father, standing on the battlements of Castle Brightblade with only a few loyal retainers while a mob of madmen howled around them. Lord Brightblade would meet the foe face to face, head to head, to conquer or perish. It was the knightly way. It was the Brightblade way.

The tremors in Sturm's limbs faded. In their place a heat grew in his chest. He was angry. His father had trusted him to take care of his mother, and he had failed! And who would bear the Brightblade name back to their ancestral home if not him?

"Be still, boy," Artavash said. She tipped a clay cup to her lips and drank.

"Lady Artavash?" said Sturm, his voice cracked with emotion.

"What do you want?"

"Would you help me?"

She yawned and kicked off her sandals. "Don't be silly, boy."

"All you need do is untie me. Then I'll get Soren, and together we'll take my mother and Mistress Carin —»

"You're not going anywhere. Mukhari Ras has decreed your fate." Artavash sat on her high couch and leaned back against the wall. She laid the naked blade of a shortsword across her lap.

"How can you serve a man like him? H-he is a monster who kills children!" said Sturm.

"Children die every day," she said flatly. And with that, young Sturm saw Artavash for what she was: a heartless mercenary. Her only loyalty was to her paymaster.

She drained another cupful of wine, the last of many that evening. "Now, go to sleep." Artavash slumped over a pile of pillows. Her hand went slack, and the clay cup rolled out of it.

Sturm waited until her breathing was soft and regular before he tried to shift the chair. The stout seat bumped loudly on the bare stone floor. Sturm froze. Artavash snorted and buried her face deeper in the satin cushions.

He gazed longingly at the sword Artavash had drawn, now lying point out on the couch. If he could only reach it! He strained against the sashes, but the silken knots only tightened further. Sturm relaxed and shook the damp ends of his long hair from his face.

The lamp above Artavash's couch guttered and went out. In the dense darkness, Sturm could feel his pulse throbbing in his hands and feet. He wiggled his fingers under the binding. His hands were crossed over his lap, so his left hand was over his right pocket, and vice-versa. There was a lump in his left pocket he recognized as Captain Graff's wind cord. He counted the knots. Two hands, plus one; eleven fresh gusts of magic were locked in that dirty strip of rawhide.

But it WAS magic. As a knight, he was forbidden by the Measure to make use of it. Still… to fight the Dark Queen…

The day dawned bright and hot. Sturm awakened from a tense, shallow sleep with the sun in his eyes. His body ached from being tied all night. Artavash did not stir until a pounding on the door compelled her to rise.

"What in thunder?" she grumbled, her voice husky and dry.

"Where is my son?" demanded Lady Ilys through the door.

"Here, Mother! I'm in here!" he shouted.

Artavash winced. She yanked a bell pull by her couch. By the time she staggered to the door and opened it, eight soldiers were waiting for her outside. Two more stood by with Soren, whose hands were chained together.

Artavash slit Sturm's sashes with the shortsword, and the young Brightblade threw his arms around his mother.

"They're going to kill me!" Sturm cried.

"This can't be true!" Lady Ilys gasped, turning to Artavash, who merely shrugged.

"My lady, your son spoke truly. These people mean to kill young Sturm," said Soren.

Lady Ilys pushed her son behind her skirt. Mistress Carin moved in on Sturm's other side. Lady Ilys declared, "No one shall move from this spot until some explanation is given for the barbarous manner in which we are being treated!"

Artavash rubbed her temples a few times and said, "The explanation is this. My master, Mukhari Ras, has need of your son's life. If you interfer in the slightest way, you, your maid, and your man will be speedily killed."

"Impudent pirate! Do you think my son is a lamb, to be butchered for that walking scarecrow's evil purposes?"

"It matters little what you say, Lady. Mukhari Ras commands it, and it will be done." She gestured to the Kernaffi soldiers. They pulled Lady Ilys and Carin apart. Artavash reached for Sturm.

Chained or not, Soren could not stand idly by as Artavash laid hands on his charges. He gathered the bond links in his hands and lashed out at the nearest man. The guard folded under the blow and bowled over his comrades. Soren lumbered forward. Artavash released Sturm and turned to meet the sergeant.

"No, Soren! Stop!" cried Sturm. Artavash nimbly dodged the guardsman's rush. She brought the flat of her blade in hard on Soren's head. The sergeant buckled and fell face down on the cool marble floor. Carin screamed.

Artavash waved the sword point under Carin's nose. "Don't shout so! My head is splitting!"

"Too much wine," said Lady Ilys coldly.

"Enough! By the gods, your tongue is sharper than a dozen swords," Artavash said. "I have no more time to dally with you. The guards will lock you in your rooms." She gave the orders in Kernaffi. Two men picked up Soren, and the rest formed in close order around the two women.

"Sturm! Sturm!" his mother called. He made a step toward her, but was collared by a grim-faced Artavash.

"The time for indulgences is past," she said. "If you resist, the two women will die."

"Mother!" he cried desperately.

"Come." Artavash seized Sturm by the wrist and dragged him away.

Radiz joined them in the main hall. He was splendid in his fine armor and plume, but his face was expressionless. He and Artavash exchanged a look Sturm could not fathom. Then the Kernaffi gave him a handkerchief.

"Dry your eyes," he said with a strange note of compassion.

Radiz and Artavash stood on either side of him as Sturm faced the steps leading up to the palace roof. Radiz, Sturm noted, kept one hand on his sword hilt all the way to the roof.

Four bearded Kernaffi priests stood to one side, offering up prayers and incense to the Dark Queen. Radiz stopped and bowed to them, but Sturm thought he detected a look of disgust on the man's face when he rose. Artavash shaded her aching eyes from the brilliant sun.

Ten paces away, Mukhari Ras worked to prepare the special table for his great experiment. His gaunt, bent figure scuttled from one side to another, reminding Sturm of the vultures that haunted the southeast tower of Castle Brightblade. The alchemist's wide black robe added to this impression.

The air was still. The sun burned fiercely over them. Sturm shivered in spite of the heat. PLEASE, PALADINE, PLEASE SAVE ME!

"Bring him over. Come, come along," said Mukhari, waving his youthful hands. Sturm rubbed his cold, sweating palms on his pants. He looked to Radiz for some sign of sympathy. The commander of the SEA RAVEN stared straight ahead and said nothing.

Halfway to Mukhari, Sturm stumbled. He heard the snick of a sword being freed from its scabbard. A strong hand grabbed the back of his vest.

"Pick up your feet, boy," said Artavash.

Mukhari was waiting, hands folded deep into his voluminous sleeves. Up close, the table was basically just a copper funnel flat enough to lie on. The legs were heavy columns of marble.

"Put him on the table," instructed Mukhari. The priests chanted louder and began to beat a brass gong.

Shouts and clangs of metal rose from the open stairwell. Radiz drew his weapon out of reflex. Artavash shovedSturm to Radiz and got her own sword ready. A death scream cut the air, and a few heartbeats later, Soren bounded up the steps, a bloody sword in his chained hand.

"Sturm Brightblade! I am here!" he roared.

"Stop that man!" quavered Mukhari.

Artavash moved out to meet Soren. His stolen blade thrust in; she parried and beat his sword out of line. Soren was severely hampered by his bonds. Only with his extraordinary strength could he even carry on such a fight. He cut hard at Artavash, one, two, three — right-left-right. She dodged, fox-quick, and struck home in the guardsman's chest. Soren staggered back. Artavash circled, circled; feinting an overhand cut, she changed direction in the wink of an eye and thrust through Soren's weakened guard. The point of her blade grew out his back.

Eye to eye, she said, "You should have stayed on your oar." Artavash recovered, and Soren collapsed.

Sturm broke free from Radiz and ran to his fallen friend. "Soren! Soren!"

His eyes were open. He said, "My lord… sound the charge."

"Leave him, boy. He's dead." Radiz was standing over Soren. Nearby, Artavash casually wiped the blood from her blade.

Sturm was numb. With leaden feet, he walked between Radiz and Artavash to the alchemist's killing table. His hope was gone. Four steps to go. Below the neck of the table's funnel was a large iron pot. Three steps. Mukhari was pale and sweating in the heat. Two steps.

He had nothing left, nothing at all but Graff's wind cord. Magic… forbidden… The last step…

Artavash swept Sturm off his feet and laid him on the table. The metal was warm from the sun. "Lie still," she warned. "Remember your mother."

She backed away. Mukhari Ras loomed above him. With both hands, Mukhari clasped a long, wickedly curved dagger. Sturm's heart missed a beat. His jaw tightened, and he said the briefest prayer of his life:

"Paladine, help me."

The dagger wavered in the frail alchemist's grasp. Artavash opened Sturm's vest and shirt. Mukhari Ras smiled down at him. "Here, then, is your destiny," he whispered. "I give you to my Queen!" He closed his eyes and raised the dagger high to strike.

Down came the blade. Sturm held out the wind cord taut between his fists. The keen edge of the dagger scraped the briefest instant against the rawhide. Mukhari felt it and opened his eyes. "What — ?" was all he could say before the cord parted.

A mighty wall of wind, invisible, irresistible, blast ed across the palace roof. The emaciated alchemist, his robes filling with air like black bat's wings, was lifted off his feet. Screeching with terror, Mukhari Ras flew backward to the edge of the roof. An upward gust filled his skirt, lofting him. The Lord of the Sea soared into the sky, borne by the ensorceled wind. On and on he flew, his brittle body spread flat by the torrent of air, until he was lost in the billowing clouds and dust.

Mukhari was gone, but the danger was not yet passed. The wind blew Sturm over the table, but he managed to thrust an arm through the funnel hole. He held on dearly as the tempest howled around him. Retorts and alembics from the spirit still toppled over and were blown away. The Kernaffi priests collapsed in a heap, only to be torn from each other by the brutal wind. One by one they were swept away, the last pair clinging together even as they were carried off.

Sturm cried out in pain as the wind tore at him. He thought his arm would snap off at the shoulder, but he was able to get a relieving grip with his free hand. The table shifted and turned. Sturm pressed his face to the copper top. Dust scoured the roof, stinging the boy's exposed flesh. Just when it seemed he could endure no more, the wild fury abated.

He clung fiercely to the table, the instrument of death that had preserved his life. He heard a faint call for help. Gingerly, Sturm removed his aching arm from the funnel hole. The arm was black and blue from wrist to elbow.

The cry came again: "Help me, help…" Sturm shaded his eyes and looked around. He was alone on the roof. Everything, including Soren's body, was gone.

Radiz, his plume bent at an angle and his golden armor dented, hobbled up the steps. He stared around. The groan for help came again. Radiz and Sturm walked converging paths to the edge of the roof.

"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

Laura Hickman and Kate Novac

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.

He wore well-cared-for but well-dented armor, and his clothing showed equal signs of wear and repair. His was not a familiar face, but Goldmoon recognized his banner as belonging to a poor family that lived in a hut at the edge of the grazing lands the Que-shu shared with bordering tribes. The warrior's name was Riverwind, and there was something about him that Arrowthorn, Goldmoon's father, spoke about with other men, but it was a subject always dropped when she entered the room.

Goldmoon moved into position before Riverwind, wondering idly what emotion she would see in his eyes, but he stepped back with a feline grace. Startled, and annoyed at the break in the smoothness of the ceremony, Goldmoon managed not to show her surprise. Believing the young peasant too simple to understand the ritual, she said softly, "We are not quite finished. If you will kneel before me, I will bless you."

"I need no blessing to pass this day's test, and I will not kneel to you or any other mortal creature," Riverwind replied. He spoke quietly, but his deep voice sounded across the platform.

Goldmoon stiffened with repressed anger. She would not be embarrassed before the tribe, her holiness denied. She gestured for the guards to come from the side of the platform. They stood behind the infidel, prepared to haul him away at her command.

Before she could motion for them to remove Riverwind from her sight, however, Arrowthorn was by her side interceding. "If it please, your grace," he whispered to her, "this one" — he glared icily at Riverwind — "intends no disrespect; he simply does not believe as we do."

The chieftain spoke up so the crowd could hear, "Riverwind, grandson of Wanderer, why are you here at this ceremony? It is not required for you to attend."

Riverwind shifted his eyes from the daughter to the father. Goldmoon's breath caught in her throat at his daring and pride. Yet the warrior's blue eyes showed not a hint of nervousness. Calmly, but with enough volume to carry to the tribe below, he replied, "I am a warrior, and my swordarm will be a strength to my people. Although I do not worship as you do, you have my loyalty. I, too, desire a safe journey for my Chieftain's Daughter. Today's games will prove my worth."

Riverwind glanced away from Arrowthorn, capturing Goldmoon's own reluctant gaze. He smiled ever so slightly. Goldmoon quickly shifted her focus out across the plains. What she had seen in those eyes in that brief instant caused her to shiver despite the golden heat of the sun. It was the look of a hunter stalking his prey.

"Well said," Arrowthorn stated, then he turned to the waiting crowd. "Let the games begin."

Goldmoon stood stunned, not seeing the men before her or the plains spread out around her. She could not believe what she had just heard. How could her father give his approval to this arrogant, rebellious peasant? And how dare he circumvent her will? He might be her father, but SHE was the priestess!

The warriors filed from the altar, Riverwind at the end of the line. Goldmoon followed behind him stiffly. She took each step down the stairs firmly, as though she were trodding on this Riverwind's head.

The chieftain followed his daughter, appearing completely calm. Loreman remained up above, still scratching away at the parchment with his quill, relating his version of the events which had just passed.

Goldmoon entered her lodge, closing the door behind her father. Then she whirled about, free to vent her anger and confusion. "I do not understand how you could allow —»

"Silence!" Arrowthorn said.

Goldmoon bit back her words.

The chieftain surveyed his daughter critically. She wore a formal robe that Tearsong, his dead wife, had also worn, and was, but for her hair, the image of her mother. She performed all the duties of Chieftain's Daughter without trouble or complaint. Goldmoon was, in fact, nearly flawless, yet Arrowthorn could never bring himself to tell her so. Godhood was not earned by the careless.

He suppressed his pride and snapped, "Your circlet is crooked."

Goldmoon felt her face flush crimson as her hands rose to straighten the slender silver band on her head.

"How are young men supposed to see a goddess in you if you do not take better care of your appearance? That won't do. Take it off. Have your women comb your hair again before you replace it."

She was a full-grown woman of power, yet her sub jects would be astonished to see how she shook before her father's words.

Still, it was not easy for Arrowthorn to watch his only child tremble with shame. He put his hand on her shoulder and lifted her chin to bring her eyes up to his own. "It would hardly matter in Riverwind's case. His whole family is cursed thus."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Arrowthorn drew in a long breath. "Wanderer, grandfather of Riverwind, learned too much in his wanderings. He broke pact with our gods and taught his family to do the same."

"Is that why they are so poor?" Goldmoon asked, remembering their shabby hut out on the plains.

"That is not important. Suffice it to say that I do not question their loyalty, despite their peculiar beliefs."

"But, how can you not when they deny us?"

"You remember once we spoke together of those among us who say their faith is strong, or their loyalty is great, and yet the truth is another matter?"

Goldmoon nodded. The priesthood of the Que-shu passed from mother to eldest daughter, but — peculiar among the tribes of the Plains — the position of chieftain went to the man who won the hand of the priestess. Such a man's worthiness was judged both by the priestess herself and the current chieftain, her father. It was a tradition stemming from antiquity, a tradition that had kept the royalty of the Que-shu strong. Yet there were men, especially chieftains' sons and spumed suitors, who rankled that their bids for power were thwarted by one healthy girl-child grown to womanhood. Arrowthorn had warned her once that many argued against this tradition, though none dared do so in the royal family's presence — yet. That was why she must beperfect in her example. The people obeyed their goddess-to be, but evil men could turn them away from her if they could make her seem no more than a mortal woman.

Arrowthorn continued, "And just as it would not be expedient to probe these false claims of loyalty too deeply, we accept the loyalty of those who claim a different belief."

"But why?"

Arrowthorn sighed. "Because they are only mortals, my child. And though mortals are not infallible, they must be given the freedom to make their own choices. How else are we to choose the truly righteous when it comes our time to judge as gods?" Goldmoon mused over that for some moments, then argued, "But we must teach them the true path."

"Teach, but not force them to march along it."

"Perhaps Riverwind could be coaxed to follow the path," Goldmoon pointed out.

Secretly, Arrowthorn thought: He might follow quarry down it some ways, but he'd drag it back once he'd shot it. Aloud, he merely warned his daughter, "I would not waste too much time on him, my daughter. Men like Riverwind will take orders, but persuasion only brings out their stubborn streak. More likely he will make you look foolish."

"Is that what you discuss with Loreman and the rest when I am not about, how his family makes us look foolish?"

Arrowthorn would not lie, so he merely shrugged and replied, "Among other things."

"Like what things?"

But Arrowthorn turned about to go, commanding her as he left, "Have your hair done, replace the circlet, and go about your other duties. They are numerous this day, aren't they?"

As the contest time neared, Goldmoon crossed the challenge ground, her hair and circlet now as perfect as the rest of her appearance. All about the edges of the clearing warriors were warming up and practicing. As they caught sight of her, they stopped their activity and watched her approach. The priestess kept her eyes fixed on her destination, the weapons tent. Thus, while all eyes were on her, it was she alone who saw a man crawl out from beneath the canvas near the rear of the tent.

Goldmoon's brow furrowed upon recognizing the intruder. It was Hollow-sky, son of Loreman. The historian was a man of wealth and influence in the tribe;

his family had kept the records of the Que-shu for many generations. Goldmoon knew that he had been one of her mother's suitors, but it was impossible for the priestess to imagine Tearsong choosing him over Arrowthorn. His stature was only average, his frame wiry, and the features of his face — though considered handsome and refined by many women — were so pale and ill-defined that Goldmoon sometimes felt sorry for him. He faded into the background beside her father's strongly masculine and still hearty form. Loreman wasn't half the warrior her father was, he was arrogant and tight with his money, and he lost his temper or brooded when he did not get his way. After Tearsong died, he had argued constantly with her father about the management of the tribe. Yet Lore-man's son Hollow-sky was among the few men Arrowthorn had judged fit company for his daughter in her childhood.

The princess had thought once how magnanimous that was of her father, but she came to realize it had been the chieftain's way of bartering for peace with Loreman. The unity of the tribe was of the utmost importance to her father. He would buy it at any price, even if it meant selling his daughter's affection to his enemy's son.

Once, Goldmoon might not have minded, for when she was a child she had loved Hollow-sky dearly. But when Hollow-sky began training as a warrior with his older brother, Hawker, he had changed. For the next few years her former playmate, engrossed in more «manly» pursuits, had practically ignored her. When his attentions to her were finally renewed, it had been all too obvious that he was not interested in her as a friend, but only as a prize.

At first, his attentions had been exceedingly satisfying, for then she had thought Hollow-sky was attractive and powerful; but soon his personality began to irritate her as Loreman's irritated her father. Worse, his courtship was tainted by his persistent conviction that he was the wiser, the stronger, the superior of the two of them. He made decisions for her without her leave, or tried to dissuade her from decisions she had already considered carefully. When they fought, he made a point of reminding her of their youthful games to coax her out of her anger, tainting the only pleasant memories she had of him.

Unfortunately, her father seemed to assume her dwindling feelings of friendship for Hollow-sky would grow into love because of his own need to keep the tribe unified, and others whispered what a perfect match they would be — he so strong, she so beautiful. No one could see how her feelings had changed, and she had no mother to counsel her.

Now Hollow-sky was up to some mischief in the weapons tent, a place he should not even be near. Goldmoon knew she should question him, but she did not want to confront him today. She didn't want to listen to his excuses or even speak with him, so she said nothing as she approached the guards posted at the opening to the weapons tent. Oblivious to their fail ure, they bowed respectfully to the priestess and held back the flaps of the tent for her to enter.

Left alone inside, Goldmoon found nothing apparently amiss. All weapons were stored here on festival days, ostensibly in acknowledgement of the chieftain's sovereignty, though it coincidentally cut down on injuries in brawls that might develop as the celebration wore into the night. Goldmoon shrugged. Whatever Hollow-sky had been up to she would get out of him later. For now she must put him out of her mind and bless the warriors' weapons.

She took a deep breath to calm herself, but her eyes caught on some feathers that she recognized as marking Riverwind's sparring pole. There was nothing shabby about the rare and precious wood, probably something his grandfather, Wanderer, had harvested on his journeys. Angrily Goldmoon snatched it up and started to toss it to the side. "We'll see what a marvelous weapon this is and what a great warrior he is without my blessing." But then she noticed the thin crack running along the upper third of the pole. She saw at once that it was not a natural crack.

"Hollow-sky!" she whispered.

Knowing that Hollow-sky and his brother, Hawker, were clear favorites to win the contests, Goldmoon immediately assumed he'd done this deed for her. Perhaps he'd even tell her later how he had paid Riverwind back for the unbeliever's insult to herself.

Unsure she wanted this sort of championship, Goldmoon debated what to do. Perhaps ignominious defeat was the fate the ancestors had decided for Riverwind. Yet… why would the gods have let her discover the crack, if not to correct the matter?

Her duty was clear to her.

Finding another pole of the same rare wood was not easy. She had to substitute one of her father's old poles, and affixing Riverwind's feathers to the replacement was a nuisance. Finally, when she had finished the work and placed the substitute pole among the blessed weapons, she began to have second thoughts.

Her father's sparring pole was a weapon her mother had undoubtedly blessed, perhaps even the one her father had used when he'd won the right to escort Tearsong to the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits. Stubbornly she tried to recall if there was a way to UNsanctify the weapon.

"Goldmoon?" Arrowthorn entered the tent and looked quizzically at his daughter. A slight smile crossed his lips. "Still praying? They are only going to fight one another, you know, not our enemies 1"

Goldmoon lowered her eyes to hide her worry and confusion. "Father, please. This is serious to me."

"Forgive me. Of course. But everyone waits on you."

Goldmoon followed her father and took her place in the viewing stand. The contests started with a series of wrestling matches. The tribe all gathered about, unreserved in their cheers and boos. Goldmoon watched silently with intense interest. She was the leader of a warrior tribe and was herself a trained fighter, as were all Que-shu women.

A new bout was just starting when she heard Clearwing, one of her female attendants, whisper to the other, "Perhaps it's true what they say of this Riverwind."

Goldmoon's eyes remained on the games, but her attention was drawn to her servants' conversation.

"What?" Starflower, her other attendant, whispered back.

"They say he was raised by leopards," Clearwing replied.

"What nonsense!" Starflower sniffed. "There are no leopards on the plains."

Clearwing shrugged. "My grandmother says he was raised by leopards and that Wanderer brought him back with him from one of his wanderings."

Goldmoon turned her attention back to the wrestling. Riverwind's bout was just starting. Undeniably powerful and graceful, there WAS something feline in his movements.

"You have to admit he has the grace of a cat," Clearwing added, echoing her mistress's thoughts.

"So true!" Starflower said with a sigh.

Not wishing to listen to any more praises of Riverwind, Goldmoon sent both girls off with some coin to purchase stickycakes to keep their mouths closed. The smell of the sweetened bread set her stomach rumbling, but she bore it stoically. The royal family ate in public only on ceremonial occasions so as not to remind their subjects of their mortality.

The wrestling matches, a footrace, and an archery contest culled the contestants down to eight. The ancestors had yet to bring Riverwind to his knees, and Goldmoon wondered if he attributed his victory to whatever gods he did worship. As he came forward with the others to collect his sparring pole, the priestess watched him deliberately, but he gave no sign at all that he detected the switch she had made. He did, however, look up at her and smile.

The grim hunter's expression disappeared from his eyes. His smile was that of a young man, warm and friendly, and Goldmoon saw there the loyalty her father had not questioned.

The final event was longsticks, a contest fought in a large circle, in which the fighters had to stay armed and within the circle. At the judge's signal, the men engaged each other with dangerous thrusts and parries, and the crack of wood shattered the air.

Two men quickly managed to knock each other out of the ring and roll clumsily into the crowd, instantly disqualifying themselves. Goldmoon saw that Hawker and Hollow-sky were being very aggressive, smashing at their opponents' weapons time and again. Riverwind, with a series of unrelenting, well-timed jabs and blows, wore down his opponent, Treewhistle, until Treewhistle lost his grip on his pole. The weapon clattered to the ground and rolled out of the circle before its owner could retrieve it.

There was a sudden snap of wood, and then another, as Loreman's sons both broke the weapons of those they fought. Goldmoon frowned. This could not be coincidence. The full extent of Hollow-sky's activities in the weapons tent was now clear. This was sacrilege! She would let him know of her displeasure.

Simultaneously, the brothers turned on Riverwind. It seemed a foregone conclusion that they would double-team him and win the contest together, but Riverwind had had a moment to breathe and analyze their movements. He held his pole high, almost inviting them to smash it. Only one of them could strike without getting in the other's way, so Hawker declined in his brother's favor.

Hollow-sky swung, but Riverwind was a blur of color as he dodged, weapon and all, beneath Hollow-sky's arms. The unblessed warrior slammed his pole at the unsuspecting and relaxed Hawker. Hawker's weapon soared from his hands over the heads of the crowd and landed on the viewing stand at Goldmoon's feet.

Hollow-sky, witnessing his brother's defeat, seemed about to smash his weapon down on Riverwind's head, but the judge rushed forward between the two, proclaiming them the winners. Riverwind and Hollow-sky would be Goldmoon's escorts to the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits.

The crowd cheered, but the priestess eyed both critically as they approached her. Hollow-sky gave Riverwind a vicious glare, then stepped forward as Goldmoon extended her hand to touch his forehead in blessing. But Hollow-sky grasped her fingers and pressed a lingering kiss on them.

Though this was hardly customary, the crowd cheered again, laughing. There was, after all, that other aspect to these games — finding a warrior worthy of courting their priestess/princess. Distressed, however, by the ardor in Hollow-sky's gaze and still angered by the broken poles, the princess was determined to show him no favor. She held her hand out to Riverwind to give him the same advantage.

Riverwind looked startled at the slender, graceful fingers before him. He took the hand as though it were very fragile and turned it over, seeming uncertain as to what he should do.

"Well, Riverwind?" Goldmoon said, arching her eyebrows expectantly. Inside, the sudden fear surged that, for religious reasons, this… peasant might refuse to kiss her, and she would be embarrassed before the whole tribe.

"Perhaps he reads your palm, my princess," Hollow-sky joked.

Goldmoon was instantly grateful to Loreman's son for breaking the silence and saving her.

"No," Riverwind replied gravely. "That is not one of my skills."

"What? You don't even see a long journey?" Goldmoon teased, though inwardly she was growing just a little nervous — the warrior's grip on her wrist was now quite firm.

Riverwind's countenance grew more serious, though his smile never entirely left his lips. "A journey you shall have, no doubt. And with my protection it will be a safe one. I swear."

Without turning her hand over he lifted it to his lips. Goldmoon's heart started pounding as she felt him sniff at the scent on her wrist and then, very gently, kiss her palm. Long after he released it and she lowered it to her side, she could feel Riverwind's warm breath on her hand.

The Princess Goldmoon spent the remainder of the afternoon in the privacy of her lodge while the rest of the tribe began celebrating in earnest — eating, drinking, dancing, arguing, and brawling. The music filtered into her quarters, making the priestess wish that she could join them, like any other young woman. She sat at her loom, but her shuttle lay unmoving in her lap. Riverwind and Hollow-sky would be seated with her at the evening feast, and she was anxious to know what further surprises they had in store for her.

Finally, her father sent a servant, signaling that it was time for the priestess to dine with the tribe.

A flute and a drummer accompanied her entrance to the torchlit feasting grounds, where she sat at her father's right. The two chosen warriors then entered as the tribe sang a victory song in their honor. They sat opposite her. Goldmoon rose and, with a quick wary glance at Riverwind, invoked a blessing over the food. If the shepherd/warrior objected, he gave no sign. Then the feast began.

Goldmoon hadn't eaten more than two bites, however, before Hollow-sky rose and begged leave to speak.

"I have a gift to present to you, Princess, in honor of this day," he announced.

As the young man spoke, his father, Loreman, walked proudly toward the head table. He wore a ceremonial cloak decorated with feathers, and he was carrying a heavy, ornate leather book.

Loreman lay the book on the table beside Goldmoon, saying, "It has taken me many long hours to complete this work. It is a history of the generations of Que-shu since the great Cataclysm three hundred years ago. I have condensed many old writings and made them into one book. The last page, you will see, describes the events of this very day. It is for all the people of our tribe to read, but we give it into the care of the princess, and hope she is the first to read it."

There were many murmurs of appreciation from the people seated at the tables near the royal family. A book was a rare thing, and the gift was completely unexpected, especially coming, as it did, from Loreman, who was not noted for his generosity. Goldmoon ran her hand along the smooth cover, delighting in its texture.

Hollow-sky leaned over the table, placing his hand over her own. "Read it carefully, Princess," he whispered.

Goldmoon wanted very dearly to see this last page. She wondered if Loreman had anticipated his two sons winning today's contests, and if he had had to rewrite it. Hawker, seated at his father's table, did not accept defeat graciously, and did not bother to hide his scowl. Goldmoon was suddenly very pleased that Riverwind had defeated him.

"We had best keep it from harm by storing it in your lodge right away," her father suggested, and he abruptly whisked the book out of her possession.

"Perhaps she would prefer to leave it on display or to look at it further," Loreman argued.

"Forgive my haste, Loreman, but it may rain, and we would not want it damaged," Arrowthorn replied in a tight, sharp voice.

The two men stared at each other in an obvious contest of wills, but a moment later the historian deferred with a bow and returned to his own table.

Arrowthorn summoned some of his own men to convey the book to his daughter's lodge.

Goldmoon, anxious to cover the moment's strain, called for the musicians to play. Her father, too, recognized the need for distraction and bid them, "Play a merry tune, to whet the people's appetite for dancing so that they might not overeat."

Laughing at the chieftain's joke, the people began to feast in earnest. Goldmoon noted that Riverwind had a hearty appetite, if not the most dainty table manners. Hollow-sky, on the other hand, though well-trained in what passed for courtly graces among the Que-shu, picked sulkily at his meal.

Less than half an hour into the meal, young people began to rise from their tables to dance. Goldmoon felt a momentary twinge of envy at their freedom and knew that the emotion had shown on her face when Riverwind asked, "Would you like to dance?" Once again he gave her that warm smile.

Hollow-sky quickly interjected, "Chieftain's Daughter does not dance. But then an infidel shepherd could not be expected to know her as well as a longtime family friend. Perhaps a short walk would suit better," he added, holding out his arm for her to take.

Goldmoon gritted her teeth. It was true that she did not dance. If she were to grow winded, it would be another reminder to her subjects of her mortality, something her father objected to. But Arrowthorn had left the meal early to throw the bones with his generals, and since he was free to indulge in the vice of gambling, Goldmoon could not see what harm there could be in one little dance. There was another reason, as well. She was determined to show Hollow-sky that he could not make her decisions for her.

"Chieftain's Daughter does dance, she just does not always choose to do so," Goldmoon replied coldly. "She chooses to dance now with Riverwind. Later she chooses to walk with Hollow-sky, for she has a few things to say to him."

"Alas, lady, but I must rest early tonight if I'm to be a good guardian in the morning," Hollow-sky objected.

"Then rest well, Hollow-sky," Goldmoon remarked, shrugging. Abruptly, she took Riverwind's arm and moved toward the dancers.

Actually, Goldmoon had NEVER danced in public before. Humming the music, she had practiced in the privacy of her lodge, doing as many of the steps as she could recall seeing. But REALLY dancing was quite different. As Riverwind led her away from the tables, she began to stiffen.

A calloused but gentle finger ran down the inside of her forearm, startling her into looking up at her partner. "The musicians want to know what dance you choose," Riverwind said softly.

"Please, choose for me," Goldmoon whispered back urgently.

"Something simple enough for my great, clumsy feet," he joked.

Goldmoon looked up into his blue eyes. He knows, she thought, that at this I am not infallible, yet he is kind enough to cover for me.

Riverwind untied the long, burgundy sash at his waist and held it above his head with a great flourish. "The princess chooses 'Tiger-hunt,'" he announced loudly.

Goldmoon relaxed. Tiger-hunt was a reel. Very simple. She noted Hollow-sky's sister, Ravenhair, smiling weakly at her, obviously vexed. But for Goldmoon, Ravenhair had the highest standing among the women of the tribe. She would have led the dance if the princess had remembered her place and stayed off the dance ground.

The high staccato notes of the flutes pierced the air as Goldmoon took her place a few paces behind Riverwind. Riverwind stamped his foot and tossed one end of the sash behind him. Goldmoon echoed the stamp with a lighter patting of her foot, just short of the sash's end. Riverwind walked a few steps forward, pulling the sash in a teasing manner, a hunter baiting a tigress.

Goldmoon pounced forward and scooped up the end of the sash in one graceful motion. She gave it a tug and Riverwind spun on his heel to face her. The hunter's look was in his eyes again, and the torchlight glittering in his blue irises made them appear red. Holding the sash between them, the shepherd and the princess circled one another, Goldmoon entranced by those eyes.

She had always found this dance a little silly, and never understood its popularity. It seemed better suited to children's play. Yet, as Riverwind fell to one knee and she spun about him at the end of the sash, she suddenly understood the dance's true meaning.

Riverwind gave a tug, and Goldmoon began spinning toward him, winding herself into the sash. As soon as she was within his reach, Riverwind caught hold of her and pulled her self-tied form down to his knee. With his arm wrapped about her, it seemed to Goldmoon that Riverwind was not as large as her father, but there was no doubt he was powerful, at the height of his manhood.

There was a pause in the music, and Goldmoon became aware that all about them young men were taking the opportunity to snatch kisses from their «helpless» partners. Her heart beat with anticipation. With a flick of her tongue, Goldmoon moistened her lips, but Riverwind held her stiffly, his eyes averted from her face, staring out into the starlit night.

Though his face was stem, Goldmoon could tell that he was breathing more heavily than the dancing's pace warranted, and with her arm pressed against his naked chest, she could feel his heart pounding.

Goldmoon leaned closer. Riverwind's breathing quickened. He started to turn his face directly to hers when the flute trilled without warning and the dance resumed.

Riverwind and all the other «hunters» gave a tug on their sashes, sending the «tigresses» spinning outward like tops. In a flurry of laughter and bright-colored clothes, each woman shifted around the next man.

"I'll have that flute player flogged!" Goldmoon muttered to herself as she smiled politely at her new partner, Hartbow, Watcher's son. They repeated the same silly pantomime with his blue sash. Hartbow's eyes were blue, too, but the light did not catch them the way it had Riverwind's, and Hartbow's look was not very predatory. He, too, took no liberty with her as she sat, bound up, on his knee, but smiled shyly at her.

It was the same with all the rest of her partners. Some, she sensed, would have kissed her if they'd had more nerve. Hollow-sky would certainly not have hesitated, but he had not stayed for the dance. Still, she found herself irritated that no other Que-shu warrior had the courage to touch his lips to her own. No one had even held her as closely as Riverwind had.

"Is Riverwind kissing his other partners?" she wondered curiously. "Does he watch them with the same hunter's look?" It was impossible to sneak a peek at him, though, and still pay attention to what she was doing. The pauses in the music and the uneasiness of her partners became more unbearable. Embarrassed and frustrated, she vowed silently not to wait until her wedding night for a kiss…

Then Goldmoon was once again only one partner away from Riverwind. He danced with Ravenhair. They held each other as aloofly as possible. Goldmoon understood that Ravenhair resented Riverwind's defeat of her brother, Hawker. But whether her escort had been so distant with all his other partners, the princess could not know.

The last repeat to the dance came with all the original couples together. Goldmoon studied the lines of Riverwind's back and legs, not truly paying much attention to the sash he snaked in front of her, so she was a little late diving for it. But when he tugged, she had a firm grip and tugged back with equal ferocity.

He looked just a little surprised, which made her smile, and if she could have seen herself, she would have recognized the tigress in her eyes. She spun about him, pulling hard, watching his muscles strain to hold onto the sash. Then she twirled herself into his arms. Bound, sitting on his knee with his arms about her, she realized that he was as much a prisoner as she, hardly able to dump his princess on the ground before the whole tribe. The tigress had won.

Placing her arms around Riverwind's neck, Goldmoon pulled his head toward her and pressed her soft lips against his, just as she'd seen the others do but as she'd never done herself.

Riverwind's arms tightened about her, and he kissed her back with a passion that sent an unexpected thrill of pleasure through her body. His mouth tasted of the sweet fruit they'd eaten at dinner, and his bare arms were warm against her sweat-cooled flesh. Suddenly he pulled his head away from hers, as though he had just realized he was kissing Chieftain's Daughter before the entire tribe. His face flushed darkly as he heard murmurs and giggles.

Goldmoon, breathing hard, spun out of his sash without his help. She turned abruptly and walked from the dance ground, leaving her partner behind as the music diminished.

Her father, standing at the edge of the crowd, watched her approach. But before he could begin to chide her, Goldmoon raised her chin and announced, "I go now to my lodge to pray for a safe journey to the resting place of my ancestors. Good night, my chieftain." She kissed him gently on his cheek and walked past him. Suddenly he didn't seem so very much larger than Riverwind. For that matter, Riverwind did not seem quite so overpowering either.

Arrowthorn came to Goldmoon's lodge before dawn, before even the night owls ceased their hunting. He sat beside her on the edge of her cot. "We must speak."

Goldmoon sat up with a yawn. She thought the lecture on dancing was coming. But when she looked at Arrowthorn, she knew something much more serious was wrong. Her father looked tired, as though he had not slept.

"It's about Riverwind, isn't it?" She sighed.

Arrowthorn snorted derisively. "Among other things," he answered. "Since he is still the least of our worries, we will start with him. You know you can never marry him?"

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because our tribe has enough trouble remaining stable without you adding the killing blow. Riverwind is an unbeliever. The man you marry will become chieftain when I die, and the chieftain cannot be an unbeliever. If a chieftain denies your authority, he denies his own, leaving a wedge for another power to drive into the tribe, destroying it."

Goldmoon shrugged. "Riverwind is taking me to the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits. There, when I speak with the gods, he will learn his error."

"More likely the gods will speak with you and not allow their words to be heard by the heretic," Arrowthorn argued.

"But for his disbelief, he would make a good chieftain," Goldmoon countered. "Even you were Impressed with him — I could tell. I will beg the gods to give him a sign. Surely Mother will not deny me that."

At the mention of Tearsong, Arrowthorn's warrior's frame shuddered. The years since his wife had died of fever and slipped into godhood had been too long and too lonely. He had carried all the responsibility for raising their daughter, ruling and protecting the tribe, and keeping the likes of Loreman from tearing it apart. But the joy that should have been his reward — lying beside Tearsong every night — was denied him. His leadership and strength had suffered from her absence, and he knew it better than any other. Whenever he let Loreman get his way without an argument, whenever he wasted entire evenings gambling, whenever some battle scar ached or a coughing fit seized him (as they did more and more often these days), Arrowthorn was full of self-loathing. He cursed his unworthiness and lived in despair that he would ever join Tearsong as a god.

The only thing he had to feel proud of was Goldmoon, but if she continued with this stubborn championing of the heretic Riverwind, she, too, would be lost.

There were more immediate dangers than River wind, however. "We waste time on this," Arrowthorn declared. "We must speak of the book."

"Hollow-sky's gift? I was wondering about that. I could not find it last night. I wanted to read the last page."

"It is in my lodge. If I could, I would bum it before I would let it defile your eyes."

"Father! Why?"

"It is full of slanders, vile insinuations against the line of priestesses and all the warriors they have married and made chieftains. At the same time it praises Loreman's line. One who reads this book would think the tribe survived only because of the wisdom and generosity of Loreman's ancestors."

"But how can that be? Loreman said he condensed it from ancient writings?"

"If I could get my hands on those writings… but Loreman's grandfather hid them away from the tribe. 'For safekeeping,' he said, in anticipation, no doubt, of the day his jackal heirs would gain the daring to threaten us."

"They've given it to me in public, for the whole tribe to read, so we could not bum it," Goldmoon reasoned.

Arrowthorn nodded. "Loreman must have hoped that you would believe it, be shamed by it, and marry one of his sons to gain some semblance of respectability."

"That is exceedingly unlikely." Goldmoon sniffed.

"There was a time you cared very much for Hollow sky," he said quietly.

Goldmoon's eyes narrowed.

Arrowthorn looked away from his daughter, his eyes misted with tears she must not see. The chieftain had hoped Goldmoon could love whatever man she must marry, but her disgust for Hollow-sky was clear. He spoke softly, "This matter has weighed heavily on me for many years. I do not want you to be unhappy, Goldmoon, and I can understand that your feelings for Hollow-sky have cooled now that you are older and your judgment more sound. But if no other powerful warrior of worthy family can be found, you must consider Hollow-sky your only suitor. Your marriage to him would keep our tribe together." He paused and added, "That is your duty."

Goldmoon breathed deeply, controlling her turbulent feelings. It was rare that her father expressed his concern for her happiness, and she was touched that he did so now. But that did little to soften her anger. Now any accusations she made against Hollow-sky for sabotaging his opponents' poles yesterday would look like a weak counter-attack; Hollow-sky's character did not enter into this, only his skill as a warrior and his family's position in the tribe. The injustice galled her.

"Why must my duty to the tribe always come first?" she asked. "Why can't I choose with my heart as other women may?"

"You are not as other women." Arrowthorn raised his hands as though they were the trays of a balancing scale. "Weigh carefully which is more important, your heart or your duty. Consider — Loreman is powerful, Hollow-sky may become even more so. Unless you wed a strong leader whom all the people will follow, you will never be able to fend off the historian's or his son's lust for the office of chieftain. They will divide and splinter the tribe. Then there will be no priestess, no Book of the Gods, no faith. We must prevent this at all costs, even if it means sacrificing our happiness." He rose and gently stroked her hair as he had when she was a child. Then he left without another word.

Goldmoon's head remained bowed in humility at her father's words and the tears she had seen gleaming in his eyes. Arrowthorn was right. The tribe must be kept together at any price. She could not leave her people without her guidance as a priestess. And the Book of the Gods must be preserved, for in that volume the names of those who were to become gods at death were written down. The faith that had bound her people since the time of darkness must remain intact. She resolved to put her father's worries to rest. She would bear the burden for these responsibilities, but on her own terms.

It was now imperative that Tearsong help her bring Riverwind to the true religion of the Que-shu. If the warrior became a believer, her father could have no strong objectionto their union. She was confident that Loreman and Hollow sky would be no match for her with Riverwind by her side.

The princess was dressed in her riding leathers of doeskin when Clearwing and Starflower finally came in to attend her. She had already packed up her own bedroll for travel.

"Forgive us for keeping you waiting, mistress," Clearwing begged.

"It is of no matter, Clearwing," Goldmoon said softly. "I rose very early. Just do my hair quickly. I'm anxious to be off."

The very first golden rays of morning lit the grasslands as Chieftain's Daughter stepped from her lodge to begin her journey to speak with her gods. Many villagers had turned out to see her off, despite the early hour. Riverwind held her horse's reins and stroked the animal's forehead. Hollow-sky stepped forward.

"Allow me to help you up, Princess."

Goldmoon paused. Her father watched them, looking older and more tired than she had ever seen him look before. She could make his life and her own much simpler. Hollow-sky's hand reached out for her own.

What kind of goddess has no pride? she thought. She turned a withering look on Hollow-sky and said in a frigid tone, "I've been riding horses since before I could walk! Do I look as if I need help, Hollow-sky, son of Loreman?" She grabbed her horse's mane and pulled herself onto its back.

Hollow-sky and Riverwind mounted their own beasts while Clearwing and Starflower climbed into a small cart driven by Clearwing's younger brother.

Without warning, a flutter of dark wings swooped down on the princess. Goldmoon felt a pinch at her scalp. She cried out more from surprise than pain. Glancing up, she saw a huge raven circling overhead, cawing fiercely, waiting for another opportunity to strike.

"It is an evil omen!" Loreman cried.

"Nonsense," Riverwind countered. The bird plunged again at the princess, but a twang of a bow put an arrow through its breast, and it dropped to the ground with a thud. A boy in the crowd retrieved it and handed it up to Riverwind, for it had been the shepherd's arrow that felled the creature.

"You are a very quick notch and aim," Goldmoon complimented him.

Riverwind smiled at her.

"It is an omen," Loreman repeated more loudly, "of war!"

"Just a crow" — Riverwind laughed — "that wanted to steal the princess's shiny treasure." Carefully he drew out several strands of long, golden hair clenched in the bird's claws. He held them up for the crowd to see. "Wealth beyond any man's dreams," he called out. "Who can blame the poor crow?"

The crowd laughed, and as the sun shone even brighter, the evil feeling was dispelled. The crowd cheered as the party left, Goldmoon in the lead.

When the near-silent party crossed into lands the Que shu shared with other tribes — sometimes disputed over — Hollow-sky took the point, which he considered his by his superior rank, while Riverwind rode behind the princess.

As they settled into their new positions, Goldmoon held her horse back from Hollow-sky's and signaled for Riverwind to ride alongside her. She saw that the raven was strapped to his saddlebag.

"What are you going to do with that bird?"

Riverwind grinned. "Later, we will see if it is good eating. Some of them are, you know."

Goldmoon shook her head. It was not a dish she had ever been served. Noticing then that the Plainsman had her strands of stolen hair still wrapped about his fingers, she gave a slight, hastily concealed smile.

Riverwind looked down at his hand to see what made her smile. "Stolen gold," he murmured, flushing. "These are yours, I believe, lady," he said, untangling the golden threads from his fingers and leaning over to hand them to her.

Goldmoon took the hair carefully.

"It is a lovely color." Greatly daring, he reached over to push back a strand of living hair that had fallen across her eyes.

Feeling a thrill at his touch and knowing that her own cheeks must be burning, Goldmoon hastily smoothed her hair over her shoulder. To cover her pleasure, she held up the broken strands. "Thank you for saving these for me," she laughed awkwardly. "I can hardly be Goldmoon without the golden hair."

Riverwind looked back at her. "Of course you can. You were Goldmoon when you were born, and you were quite bald then."

"That's ridiculous!" Goldmoon said, shocked. "How dare you?"

Riverwind shrugged. "It's true. You can ask Hollow sky, if you like — he must remember. Though he's not likely to tell you the truth if he thinks it will displease you."

Goldmoon closed her mouth on the disparaging comment she had been about to make. Riverwind certainly understood Hollow-sky. She thought for a moment, then argued, "I don't believe there is such a thing as a bald baby. I've never seen one."

"Well, you've never seen anyone with hair like yours, have you?" Riverwind returned. "I was five when I first saw you. I remember asking Wanderer if you'd been sick, because you had only tiny, pale wisps of hair. He told me that you were going to have light hair, and that sometimes light hair comes in more slowly. He said such things were natural among distant tribes. You will see for yourself, no doubt."

"What do you mean?" Goldmoon asked.

"When you have a baby of your own," Riverwind explained.

Goldmoon flushed and looked away, disturbed at the direction the conversation had taken. She lowered her head, allowing her golden hair to fall across her feverish cheeks. The thought of bringing up little Hollow-skys, grandchildren for Loreman, was disgusting! But Riverwind

..

She was silent for so long that Riverwind asked, "Is something wrong, Princess? Have I offended —»

Goldmoon shook her head. "Tell me about your family," she said, glad to change the subject. "Didn't your father used to be a tanner? Why did he leave the village and become a shepherd?"

Riverwind raised his eyebrows in surprise. "The story is common knowledge," he answered.

"I have not heard it," Goldmoon replied firmly.

Riverwind shrugged and proceeded to explain. "Duringthe summer of drought, the Que-shu battled with the Que kiri, and my grandfather Wanderer was wounded. Your father went to the village of the Que-kiri to negotiate a peace, and since you were still far too young to sit in judgment, Loreman sat in your place. As Wanderer lay dying, Loreman came to him and offered to write his name in the Book of the Gods — to make him a god for his bravery in battle. But Wanderer refused, saying that men could not make gods of each other."

Goldmoon bit her lip, determined to hear Riverwind's story in full before debating truths with him.

"Loreman was angry and declared that Wanderer had planted a dark seed, meaning, of course, my family's belief in gods more ancient than the gods of the tribe. Loreman decreed that the seed must not spread beyond our family. So he confiscated my father's trade and cast us out. We may live only at the edge of the Que-shu's lands. Therefore, tending sheep and hunting are our only ways of making a livelihood."

"And having granted Loreman the authority, my father could not undo what he had decreed," Goldmoon added. She silently determined that she would do something to reverse Loreman's ban on Riverwind's family when she returned. She had only to prove to Riverwind that her ancestors were the true gods to get him to give up his ridiculous belief in the foreign gods of Wanderer.

Hollow-sky dropped back by the twosome, causing the cart-horse behind them to whinny in annoyance and prance to reposition itself behind the riders' horses. A peevish look marred Hollow-sky's fine-boned face. He gave Riverwind a cursory glance of disdain and then turned his attention on Goldmoon. "Great Lady," he began, "if you would ride ahead with me, I would enjoy talking with you on such a fine day."

Riverwind's face darkened with hostility, and Goldmoon wished Hollow-sky would vanish.

"Lady?" Hollow-sky queried, impatiently. His hands gripped his reins too tightly.

Riverwind's hand slid smoothly along his longstick in a vaguely threatening manner. In response, Hollow-sky, with seeming casualness, ruffled the feathers atop his own pole.

If I do not separate them, Goldmoon thought, they are likely to continue with yesterday's contest.

"Please excuse me," she said regretfully to Riverwind. "Come, Hollow-sky." She nudged her horse ahead a bit, and Hollow-sky followed.

The party of riders and servants made only a few short stops to stretch their legs. They ate dried meat and fruit on the trail. It was a typical summer afternoon on the open plains — hot and still. Grass insects hummed and swarmed and made a nuisance of themselves. The only excitement of the ride came when their passing flushed birds out of the grass or when snakes or small animals underfoot startled the horses.

At last, just when Goldmoon felt she could no longer bear her own trickling sweat, they began to climb into the hills at the foot of the mountain that held their goal. Cool, pine-scented air reached the travelers, renewing their energy and spirits.

The trail became steeper and narrower. Just when it seemed that the cart could go no farther, a high meadow came into view. Here Goldmoon instructed Clearwing and Starflower to unhitch the cart horse and load it with her belongings. They were then to make camp and await her return, which should be by midday the next day. Her serving women were reluctant to let her go on without them, but she repeated her orders, eyeing them sternly. No one but herself and her two escorts were allowed on the holy ground.

Goldmoon and her escorts continued upward with the cart horse. The trail grew worse; in some spots it became almost vertical. The cart-horse-turned-pack animal balked, and Riverwind had to dismount and coax, tug, and push it along. Hollow-sky watched without offering to help, an amused look on his face. Finally, they came to a spot where the horse refused to be moved no matter what Riverwind did.

Tossing her horse's reins disdainfully to Hollow-sky, Goldmoon slid off her horse and joined Riverwind. She covered the animal's eyes with her hands and murmured softly in its ears. When she sensed the beast relax, she tugged gently and it followed her along the rim.

Riverwind stared at her with admiration, but Goldmoon, failing to acknowledge it, remounted without a word, and they continued on.

The path divided unexpectedly on the lower slopes of the mountain itself, one trail heading up the west slope, the other the east.

"Which way, Princess?" Hollow-sky asked.

Goldmoon's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "I do not know. I thought there was only one trail."

"The shadows are lengthening," Hollow-sky said unnecessarily. "If we take the wrong route and need to turn back, we shall have to travel in the dark to be there when Lunitari's rays open the cavern, and that could be dangerous."

The princess wondered why Arrowthorn had not warned her of this. She looked for signs that one trail was newer than the other, but she really could not tell.

"Why don't you rest, Princess?" Hollow-sky said. "I will scout down one path and return as quickly as I am able. And you, shepherd, scout the other."

Goldmoon bristled. Riverwind was not an underling for Hollow-sky to command, and worse, the son of Loreman was again making decisions and giving orders on her behalf.

"You will scout the trail, Hollow-sky," she said firmly, "and Riverwind will remain here as guard." Her tone brooked no argument.

Hollow-sky sat stiffly astride his horse as Riverwind dismounted, tossing a tight-lipped smile at his rival. Hollow-sky's fingers strayed to the feathers atop his long stick as they had earlier. Ignoring the subtle challenge, Riverwind defiantly turned his back on Hollow-sky.

The Plainsman stood alertly at the path's divide and watched Hollow-sky depart, as Goldmoon sat down on the ground and leaned against a tree.

"Come sit with me, please," she commanded.

Riverwind lowered himself into a cross-legged position before his Chieftain's Daughter.

"I have something for you. I made it during the ride across the plain," Goldmoon whispered. She held out her hand, displaying a small golden circlet. "You rescued them from the crow," she said, and Riverwind saw that she had woven the strands of her hair which he had rescued into a lacy ring. She laid it in the warrior's palm, where it glistened golden in the sun.

Riverwind was silent for many long moments staring down at the gift. When he finally slipped it around a finger, Goldmoon let out the breath she found she'd been holding for fear he would reject it.

Drawing a chain from his shirt and removing it over his head, Riverwind said, "I would like you to have this."

Goldmoon quickly shook her head. "You don't have to give me anything in return."

"You must take it," Riverwind insisted. "I have already accepted two gifts from you."

"Two?"

Riverwind reached up and placed a hand over the pole strapped to his back. "This was not Wanderer's weapon."

"Well, I'm afraid his weapon was…" Goldmoon paused confusedly — "damaged."

"I thought as much. Why did you replace only mine?"

"It was the only one I knew about. I wanted the contest to be judged by the gods, not by mortals."

Riverwind nodded. "I see."

"But I am not displeased that you were one of the victors," Goldmoon assured him.

Riverwind smiled at her, the smile of a friend. "Then please," he said, "accept this."

Taking the chain from him, Goldmoon saw that it was made of common brass, but the charm hanging at the end — two circles joined together — was of brilliantly polished silver-blue steel, so valued a metal among the Que-shu that it was never used to make jewelry.

"It's called an infinity sign or a forever charm. But it is more than a decoration — it will protect you, keep you from harm."

Looking slightly puzzled, Goldmoon ran her fingers around the steel circles. "This has something to do with the ancient gods, doesn't it?" she asked.

Riverwind nodded. "It is the symbol of a goddess, but her name was lost to the memory of our people as were all the names of the true gods. I suspect Loreman knows them, but he will not say."

On first hearing that the charm was a symbol of a strange goddess, Goldmoon was tempted to reject the gift. However, if Loreman does not like it, she thought, perhaps there is some good to it. She slipped the chain over her head and tucked the amulet into her shirt.

Riverwind, too, let out his held breath and smiled gently at his princess.

They sat quietly, giving in to their fatigue. Goldmoon's eyes closed.

The sound of galloping hooves startled Goldmoon awake. While she slept Riverwind must have tucked her fur cloak around her. He stood alert, his bow at the ready. But it was Hollow-sky who rode up, his face flushed with excitement.

"This must be the right path. It leads to a road like none I have ever seen before. Hurry, the sun is going down."

Goldmoon and Riverwind mounted up and followed Hollow-sky down the path he had scouted. About a quarter of a mile along it suddenly turned into a broad road, at least ten feet wide and paved with huge, flat stones, work never seen among the tribes of the plains. Still, it seemed familiar to Goldmoon, though she could not tell why.

Although the slope was steep, traveling was easier now, for the way was quite smooth and they could let the horses trot. There was still plenty of light in the sky when they arrived at the landmark Arrowthorn had described to Goldmoon — a large stone arch straddling the road.

"I recognize this stonework," the princess said, relieved to know they were on the right road. "It's just like the platform in our village."

Riding underneath the arch, she halted her horse where she could touch the cool rock. Looking up, she saw symbols carved on the underside of the arch. Many were unrecognizable, but the largest, carved at the apex of the arch, consisted of two circles joined together. Goldmoon drew out the amulet Riverwind had given her and gasped softly. The steel charm glowed with a soft blue light in the shadow of the rock.

"Is something wrong, Princess?" Hollow-sky asked, turning to see why she had not passed all the way through.

Instantly Goldmoon cupped her hand about the symbol to hide its light and tucked it back into her shirt. "No, nothing," she said coolly, riding on through the archway.

Beyond the arch was a large, grassy clearing, surrounded by tall, ancient pine trees. The clearing sloped upward to a stairway carved out of the stone of the mountain. Set into the cliff face at the top of the stairs was a pair of huge stone doors. Goldmoon sat motionless on her horse for several minutes, just gazing at those doors. Beyond them, she knew, lay her ancestors who were now gods and goddesses. But most special to Goldmoon was her mother, Tearsong.

Goldmoon remembered her mother alive, laughing and beautiful. She also remembered her ill and dying. And she remembered her dead, encased in the sarcophagus which held her remains until the doors above had opened ten years ago, allowing Arrowthorn to entomb them at last. The princess's dearest and most secret wish was to see her mother again, as a goddess, laughing and beautiful.

A touch on her forearm made Goldmoon turn. Silently, Riverwind made a gesture toward the plains they had crossed. Far below, the sun was setting on the golden fields, painting them a rosy-purple hue. She could pick out a hundred hawks rising on late afternoon thermals, sighting prey, and swooping down on their dinners. Farther off, barely visible, were the thin wisps of smoke which she knew came from her father's village. "It's beautiful," she whispered.

"Shepherd, you cook supper while I tend to the animals," Hollow-sky ordered, tossing a bag of ground grain at Riverwind's feet.

Riverwind nudged the bag with his boot and said flatly, "I will roast the crow instead — after I've cared for my own horse and pitched the princess's tent."

Hollow-sky clenched his jaw, and his eyes narrowed as he inhaled deeply, an angry reply bubbling to his lips.

Assessing the tension, Goldmoon took command. "It is kind of you to raise my tent, Riverwind," she said lightly. Turning to Hollow-sky, she added, "You may make the porridge after you've attended to the pack animals."

"As you command, Princess," Hollow-sky replied coldly.

When Riverwind finished pitching her tent, Goldmoon arranged her things within. She laid out the ceremonial garb she would wear later — a long, sky-blue gown embroidered with gold crescent moons on the hem and sleeves.

Outside, Riverwind roasted the bird that had stolen Goldmoon's hair, while Hollow-sky stirred a pot of boiling cereal, eyeing the bird with apparent disdain. In the brisk mountain air, after the long day's journey, Goldmoon would have found anything delicious. Hollow-sky's well-prepared meal was quite satisfying, but the smell of Riverwind's bird was mouthwatering. So when the warrior declared it done and offered her a portion, Goldmoon could not resist, though Hollow-sky only sneered and would have none of it.

Replete, Goldmoon rose to go to her tent. She smiled when she saw Riverwind attempt to hide a yawn and fail utterly.

Hollow-sky, on the other hand, seemed to be filled with energy. "If it pleases you, Princess, I will take first watch. Riverwind has worked hard to get us here, he could use some sleep."

Goldmoon looked at Loreman's son, amazed at his sudden thoughtfulness, not to mention the fact that he'd asked her permission before making a decision.

Observing her astonishment, Hollow-sky said lamely, "It is the least I can do."

Wordlessly nodding her assent, Goldmoon hurried off to her tent. The night air was bitter cold. Once wrapped in her warm sleeping furs and rugs, the princess/priestess dropped off to sleep immediately.

She seemed to have slept only a few minutes when Hollow-sky, at the door to her tent, called her name softly. "Dawn is only half an hour off."

Shaking off the temptation to curl up in her warm rugs again, Goldmoon dressed hurriedly in her ceremonial robe and stepped out of the shelter of her cozy tent into the predawn coolness. It was time for the ceremony for which she had waited all these years. She fastened several, small, ancient crystal globes on her belt. In the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits, they would be filled with sacred sand.

"Where is Riverwind?" she whispered to Hollow-sky as he handed her a torch.

"I could not wake him, so I took both watches. The sheep-herder sleeps like a rock," he said, contempt in his voice.

"Try again!" Goldmoon commanded.

Hollow-sky shrugged. "Why bother? The sheep-herder is not a believer. The ceremony will mean nothing to him. He may even spoil it. Let him sleep."

Hollow-sky's refusal to obey her orders angered the priestess.

Goldmoon quickly knelt by Riverwind's bedroll and gave the warrior a shake. But he did not respond.

She spun about and stood to face Hollow-sky. "You've drugged him," she accused.

"Yes," he admitted. "I couldn't let him spoil my plans."

"YOUR plans? What are you talking about?" The princess suddenly felt chilled and even a little frightened in the predawn darkness. She began to search through her saddlebags for something, anything, that might bring Riverwind around.

Hollow-sky shrugged. "I know you will think this presumptuous of me, but I guarantee you will find my plans infinitely preferable to my father's."

"I know about the book, if that's what you mean." She could see nothing of use among her things.

Grabbing her arms, Hollow-sky forcibly turned her back around to face him. "You have no idea, do you?" He grinned and then said, as if explaining to a child, "Goldmoon, my father wants the title of chieftain for himself, but he can't take it as long as Arrowthorn has an heir. If you were out of the way, my sister Ravenhair would be priestess, then my father would be chieftain."

"Out of the way?" she asked in a sharp voice, determined not to reveal the fear spreading through her.

"Yes. Gone. Dead!" He bit off the words as he drew a sharp dagger from his belt and grabbed her roughly around the waist. The knife's edge glinted in the pale light as Hollow-sky held it menacingly near her throat.

"So why didn't you kill me in my sleep?" Goldmoon demanded, feeling the world reel about her. Stubbornly she forced herself to concentrate.

"I told you, I have other plans. I want you for myself, though the gods know why. You really are an arrogant witch sometimes. We'll marry, and then I'LL be chieftain. Loreman wants the power for himself, but the knowledge that his son, and later his grandchildren, will rule should satisfy him. In the meantime, he'll be content with your dowry." He smiled slightly, a smile that made Goldmoon shudder. "You should thank me for saving your life."

With his free hand, Hollow-sky clenched her hair close to the scalp, forcing her head to tilt back. As tears came to her eyes, Loreman's son kissed her as no man had ever dared to kiss her before. His passion was not an expression of affection, but an assault.

Struggling to wrench her face from him, Goldmoon gasped, "You're dreaming! I'll never marry you." Desperate, she threatened the first thing that came to her:

"I'll scream! I'll —»

"There is no one to hear you," he said, sneering.

His crushing grip bruised her shoulders through the silken cloth of her gown. She forced her arms down on the hand holding the dagger and almost succeeded in thrusting him away. He snatched at her and ripped the sleeve from her shoulder. Holding her more firmly than before, his face just inches from hers, the dagger point resting gently against her chin, he said, "Of course, you love the peasant!" He gave Riverwind's unconscious body a sharp kick and smiled cruelly when Goldmoon flinched. "That's why we'll ride down to the Que-kiri this morning. Any woman a man can drag to their priest, they'll declare married. Then, if your father ever wants to see you again, he'll have to agree to my worthiness and accept the vows of the Que-kiri as binding."

HE IS INSANE! Goldmoon thought to herself. I will humor him, stall him, until the doors to the hall open. Then surely the ancestors will aid me!

Goldmoon felt the weight of the forever charm against her breast. Her fingers closed around it. "Please, if this charm truly has a god, then help me now!" she prayed silently. A slow tingling sensation rose in the fingers that held the charm. It was so slight that she wasn't certain she'd felt it. She waited expectantly. Nothing happened. She suddenly felt foolish and angry with herself for even testing the charm.

Forcing herself to relax, she pressed against him, though his hot breath on her face sickened her.

"That's better," Hollow-sky whispered, squeezing her tighter. "Oh, Goldmoon, you'll get used to the idea. You'll discover that I'm more of a man than… than that shepherd there." He motioned at the still figure behind his back and moved his face close to hers. "You are so beautiful," he murmured, and then he kissed her again, even more intimately than before.

As Hollow-sky kissed her, she was astonished to detect movement in Riverwind's sleeping-bag. His head poked above the edge, two fingers pressed against his lips in a gesture for silence.

She roughly pushed Hollow-sky back. He scowled and thrust the dagger toward her threateningly, but it never reached the skin. The forever charm gleamed brilliantly, and a single arc of lightning leaped from it and flashed down the dagger, causing Hollow-sky to yelp in pain and drop the weapon. Goldmoon gasped in wonder.

As Hollow-sky stared disbelievingly at his burned hand, Riverwind threw back his bedclothes and stood.

The man reputedly raised by leopards stalked his prey so silently that Hollow-sky was totally unaware of him until Riverwind's two fists landed on his neck. Hollow-sky stumbled forward, stunned, letting go his grip on Goldmoon, who fell back away from him.

The shepherd could have drawn his sword and finished Loreman's son before he ever knew what hit him, but instead Riverwind slid his sparring pole off his back and waited for the other man to recover.

Hollow-sky turned about, his eyes widening with astonishment. "How — ?" he started to gasp.

"Draw your pole, carrion crow," Riverwind snarled. "I didn't eat your drug-tainted porridge."

Hollow-sky's hand went for his sword, but Riverwind's pole lashed out. Hollow-sky cradled his injured hand in his other already stinging hand.

"I didn't hurt you badly. Draw your pole before I do," Riverwind warned.

Hollow-sky drew out his sparring pole. The two warriors circled each other warily. Goldmoon crouched on the grass in the pearl-gray of the predawn sky as the echoing crack of wood shattered the silence.

The men thrust and blocked, using jabbing maneuvers that she hadn't seen at the games. With a sharp intake of breath, she realized they weren't sparring but using moves meant only for real combat. Riverwind took a fierce jab under the kneecap, and she heard his gasp of pain. But pain seemed to spur the Plainsman on, for he suddenly whirled his pole aggressively, trying to disarm his opponent. Hollow-sky twisted his pole vertically and stopped the twirling of Riverwind's stick, nearly disarming the princess's champion.

The men were more evenly matched than Goldmoon had thought. Hollow-sky was good. Why he had bothered to sabotage his opponent's poles for the contest, Goldmoon could not understand. Is it possible he did not believe in his own skill, or is he simply so inured to his father's treacheries that he just automatically cheated? she wondered.

Goldmoon bit her lip anxiously.

The sky had taken on a faint reddish light, indicating that the red moon, which would open the doors to the hall, was about to rise. The dawn of the sun was brightening the sky all about her. She could see the combatants' faces clearly now. Riverwind's features were grim and determined. Hollow-sky's eyes were filled with bloodlust and hatred. Goldmoon shivered, but not with cold.

Sweat trickled off the men's bodies despite the cool mountain air. They circled each other again, waiting for an opening in the other's defenses. Goldmoon's fingers dug into the flesh of her arms as the tension rose like the mist in the meadow.

Suddenly, Riverwind snarled like a wild cat. The sound mocked a real wild cat's so accurately that it flushed a small flock of birds from the trees. The noise of their wings diverted Hollow-sky's attention for just an instant, but that was all it took. Riverwind knocked his adversary down, and Hollow-sky lost his grip on his pole. Riverwind closed in to deliver a blow that would knock the traitor senseless — or worse.

But Riverwind's injured knee slowed his attack, and Hollow-sky rolled away, scrambling to his feet. He slipped beneath Riverwind's blocking swing and ran up the stairs that led to the doors of the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits, dragging his pole behind him. Riverwind pursued him, just two steps behind. Goldmoon sprang to her feet and ran across the grass, following the warriors up the stairs.

As she reached the top step, Lunitari, the red moon, made its appearance above the horizon, shedding its light directly across the great stone doors. Very slowly the massive portals began to swing outward, showering gold sparks down on the two men locked in their deadly struggle. The footing on the rock platform out side the doors was slippery with sand, and the sides adjacent to the staircase edge and the door fell off sharply over sheer cliffs.

Goldmoon forgot her desire to gain entrance to the hallas she watched Riverwind, by jabs and blows, push Hollow sky toward the cliff. Both men teetered dangerously near the edge.

The opening doors nudged Riverwind slightly, breaking his concentration and forcing him to struggle to keep his balance. In that moment, Hollow-sky managed to land a blow across the side of the shepherd's head and face. Dazed, Riverwind raised his staff to block the next attack, but his reactions were slowed. Hollow-sky jabbed wickedly at the shepherd's already injured knee, bringing him crashing down on both knees. Seeing Hollow-sky close in on Riverwind, Goldmoon, consumed by fear for Riverwind's life, drew her crystal dagger.

She lunged forward, holding the dagger high over her head. Hollow-sky, intent on the kill, failed to look up. Goldmoon slammed the dagger down hard, gashing his right arm deeply. Hollow-sky's blood splashed over her dagger and wrist and onto the rock platform.

Startled, Hollow-sky staggered backward — and lost his footing on the sandy precipice. He tumbled over the edge, and his scream echoed up the cliff face, seemingly forever.

until his body hit the ground below. Bathed in red

moonlight, Goldmoon stood staring over the rock's edge, her hair stirred by a gentle thermal rising from below.

"Goldmoon! Come away from there," Riverwind cried, shaken.

As if in a dream, the priestess of the Que-shu turned from the cliff face and moved to the shepherd's side, helping him to his feet. Hollow-sky's scream echoing through her head, she sheathed her dagger without cleaning it.

"I had no choice. He was going to kill you!" she said and suddenly burst into shuddering sobs.

"I know," he answered. "I wanted to protect you this morning, but felt helpless while he held the dagger to your throat. Then the charm…" His voice trailed off as Goldmoon softly answered, "Yes, it protected me." Pulling her close to his chest, he stroked her hair in a gentle, calming motion.

Suddenly Goldmoon was very much aware of the man's arms around her. Then, remembering why she was here and how urgent it was that she convince Riverwind of the reality of her gods, she sprang away from him.

"The hall!" she cried. "We must get inside and hold the ceremony quickly before the doors close!"

As though mocking her attempts, the first ray of sunlight shot over the horizon, striking the doorway. The huge stone doors began closing on their own, scraping and rumbling against the stone platform beneath them.

"Hurry!" Goldmoon insisted, tugging Riverwind. With his injured knee, Riverwind had to lean on her to make it through the rapidly narrowing portal.

As they slipped through the opening, it closed with a thunderclap. Beneath the deafening echo, Goldmoon heard Riverwind gasp in pain. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"My injuries are minor," he answered curtly. "How do we open the doors again?"

Goldmoon hesitated. "I'm not sure we can. The ceremony is supposed to be held quickly between the red moon rising and the sunrise, while the doors stand open."

"You mean you risked being trapped in here?" Riverwind hissed angrily. "It's not enough you almost get yourself killed attacking Hollow-sky, you have to also bury yourself alive!"

"I stabbed him to save your life," Goldmoon reminded him with equal curtness.

Riverwind drew away from her. "You should have run," he said coldly, "not tried to save me. After all, I'm supposed to protect you, not the other way around."

"You are no use as a bodyguard if you are dead!" Goldmoon retorted, not understanding her own anger. Remembering those terrible moments when she thought Riverwind was going to die, she began to tremble.

"I suppose not," Riverwind said, chagrined. She could hear him withdraw even further.

Reaching out, Goldmoon found his hands in the darkness and took them in her own. "And, if you had died, I would have died out there, too," she whispered.

Riverwind drew several deep breaths without speaking. Goldmoon could feel his hands quivering in her own. Releasing his hands and moving forward, she wrapped her arms about him and rested her head against his chest. This time she noticed that his leather armor smelled of the spiced oil used to clean it. Riverwind pressed her near, holding her gently. In the cold, damp cavern, he radiated heat like a fire.

"When you first approached womanhood," he whispered, "and I saw then your beauty, I asked my family what age you would have to be before Arrowthorn would allow men to court you." He stroked her hair as he spoke.

Not interrupting him, Goldmoon luxuriated in the feel of his broad back beneath her hands, of his arm about her shoulders.

"My adopted parents tried to make me see that my poverty and faith would always keep us apart," Riverwind continued, "but I would not believe them. You never noticed me when I watched you, but others did, and Loreman himself came to our hut to warn my parents to keep me away from you."

Goldmoon guessed that that must have been the time she'd first heard her father discussing Riverwind with Loreman in hushed tones.

Riverwind continued his story. "My father sent me out to watch sheep in the fields farthest from the village. My mother's skill at weaving is great, so many send their daughters to apprentice under her, even though Loreman has forbidden it. My mother would invite the loveliest of these girls to eat with our family, but the memory of your face stayed with me. Then one night, Wanderer's spirit came to me and told me of the games held to choose escorts for the priestess's pilgrimage to this place. He said that some day you would give your heart to one of those escorts."

"And so I have," Goldmoon whispered. She raised her lips, so that she could kiss him, but Riverwind pulled away from her and held her at arms length.

"I must admit," the warrior said, "I felt certain of myself, seated next to you at the banquet. I could not imagine you with Hollow-sky, though my mother often warned me that the two of you were a likely match. When I saw you watching the dancers and realized you wanted to dance, I thought, 'She is just a woman, like other women.' But I was wrong. You will never be just a woman. You are and always will be Chieftain's Daughter. Now I doubt my worthiness. I am still poor, and our gods remain different."

Goldmoon was silent for many moments, before she said, "If I do not doubt your worthiness, then neither should you. And your fortunes might change."

"And the gods?" Riverwind asked.

"They will show us a way."

"Whose?"

"Yours, mine, both — it makes no difference. My mother used to say that hope is a gift from the gods we must never lose."

"My mother has said that, too," Riverwind replied. "Well, we must find some way out of here, or it will truly make no difference to our corpses!"

Goldmoon felt him take her hand in his and together they edged their way along the wall. They reached the passageway without trouble.

Wondering if her eyes were playing tricks, Goldmoon asked, "Is that a light ahead?"

"I think so." They moved more quickly along the corridor toward the light. Soon it grew bright enough that they could see all about them. Looking for the source of the illumination, Goldmoon saw movement on the smooth cut rock. Looking closer, she realized that the light came from brightly glowing red spots on the insects' backs.

"I think they're fire beetles," Riverwind said.

"Those are only in children's stories."

"I think we are in a children's story," Riverwind said, able to chuckle a little in relief. "Let me have your crystal globe. These little light legends may not live in other passages, so we will need to take them with us."

Goldmoon unfastened the crystal globe from her belt and surrendered it. The other two globes still lay on the grass outside. Riverwind gently scraped several of the beetles into the sphere.

"Here's the lid," she offered.

"I'm afraid they might suffocate."

"Air will get in. There are tiny holes in the lid," the priestess explained. "I've often wondered why. Do you suppose these globes were originally made for this purpose?" she asked.

"This one functions well as a lamp. That is all that is important." Riverwind held the globe up by its straps, and they made their way safely into the crypts of the Que-shu royalty.

The crypt cavern was so huge that their little light did not illuminate the ceiling or the walls beyond. At the edge of the darkness they could make out the shape of the tombs. The very first they came to bore the inscription, "Tearsong — beloved of Arrowthorn." Goldmoon slid her hand along the words and then snatched it back. The rock was cold. "Cold as death," she thought, shuddering slightly. She moved hurriedly past the memorial to her mother.

The floor sloped down as they passed the remains of three centuries of the princess's ancestors. At the bottom of the slope, Goldmoon could make out a stone altar, carved with the forever sign of her amulet. Realizing that she shouldn't be able to see the carving in the darkness, she became aware that the light around the altar was blue, not red, and that it came from the altar.

The priestess knew that the moment she had awaited had come. She knelt in front of the altar and sang: