The others looked at Riverwind. He thought on this, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Kronn trudged along like a wounded man, his head bowed in grief. Catt walked beside him, her hand on his shoulder, but she was too stricken herself to give her brother much comfort. In her other hand she held the reins of their horses, who followed nervously, eyes rolling and nostrils flaring at the strange sights and smells that surrounded them.
Swiftraven stalked ahead of the party an arrow nocked on his bowstring, alertly watching for signs of movement among the blasted trees. Riverwind brought up the rear, also ready to loose a shaft, should anything choose to loom at them from behind. It was Brightdawn, though, who first heard the sound.
It was soft, almost too quiet to discern, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering if she had heard it at all. Then it rose again and she held up a hand, hissing through clenched teeth.
The others stopped immediately, Swiftraven pulling back his bowstring as he hurried to Brightdawn’s side. “What is it?” Catt asked.
With a sharp gesture, Brightdawn waved her silent. She cocked an ear, concentrating. The sound grew momentarily louder, so everyone could hear it-a low, tired whimper.
“What is it?” Swiftraven whispered. “A wounded animal?”
“No,” Brightdawn replied. “It’s a child crying.”
“A child?” Catt asked. “Out here?”
The Plainswoman didn’t bother to answer; she started walking. Swiftraven jogged to catch up with her.
“Brightdawn!” Riverwind hissed. “Wait! It could be a trap!”
Ignoring her father’s call, Brightdawn continued to move, pausing only to listen a moment and make sure she was still headed toward the sound. They were nearly a league north of Weavewillow, and the ground here was rocky. Great boulders dotted with charred moss loomed among the blasted trees. Swiftly, Brightdawn made her way toward a cleft between two such rocks.
Swiftraven eyed the gap, which was dark, wide and deep. He trained his arrow on it. “I think maybe we should wait for your father, Brightdawn,” he whispered. “There could be anything in there.”
Stubbornly, Brightdawn shook her head. “No,” she answered, and started toward the cleft. Swiftraven quickly relaxed his pull on his bowstring and caught her arm.
“At least let me go first,” he said.
Seeing the pleading look in his eyes, Brightdawn nodded. “Watch what you shoot at,” she told him.
Moving slowly, arrow ready, Swiftraven stepped into the gap. For a moment he couldn’t see anything, but then his eyes adjusted to the shadows, and he discerned the walls of the cleft. He continued to creep forward, Brightdawn right behind him. The whimpering was much louder here, ringing weirdly off the stones.
Then, suddenly, he stopped, staring at something on the ground. Slowly, he relaxed his pull on his bow. “Merciful goddess,” he swore.
“What?” Brightdawn asked. “What is it? Let me through.” She pushed past him, following his gaze, and stopped.
There, huddled in the bottom of the cleft, weeping uncontrollably as she hugged her knees to her chest, was a little kender girl. She looked up, her eyes wide, and drew back from the Plainsfolk.
“It’s all right,” Brightdawn said. She crouched low, moving forward slowly to keep from startling the child. “Hush, now. I’m going to help you.”
The girl was tiny. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old. Brightdawn crept toward her, making soothing sounds. At last, the child stopped sobbing and stared up at the Plainsfolk, her bottom lip quivering.
“That’s better,” Brightdawn said, smiling. “What’s your name, little one?”
The girl hiccupped a few times, trying to find her voice. “B-Billee,” she stammered. “Billee Juniper.”
“Hello, Billee,” Brightdawn said, stopping in front of the child. She crouched down and held out her hand. “I’m Brightdawn. That man there is Swiftraven. Don’t worry, he’s here to protect you, not to hurt you. Where are your parents?”
For a moment, Billee didn’t answer. Then she started to cry again.
“All right, shhh,” Brightdawn said, fighting back sudden tears herself. “We’re going to take you out of here to someplace safe. Would you like that?”
The little kender stared up at her, eyes gleaming. Then she clasped her own tiny hand around one of Brightdawn’s fingers. Gently, the Plainswoman gathered the child to her chest. Billee wrapped her twig-thin arms around Brightdawn’s neck and held tight, trembling, as the Plainsfolk turned and moved back out of the cleft.
Kronn and Catt were waiting where they’d left them; Riverwind was with them, his expression sick with worry A look of immense relief settled over his face when his daughter returned.
“You should have waited,” he told her.
At the sound of his stern voice, Billee started to cry again. Shooting her father a reproachful look, Brightdawn stroked the child’s long, black hair, clucking her tongue soothingly. “It’s all right,” she cooed. “It’s going to be all right, Billee. Don’t be afraid.”
Kronn looked up at her, startled. “What did you say?”
“I’m just trying to calm her down,” Brightdawn answered tersely.
Catt, however, had the same strange look on her face as her brother.
“Let me see her,” Catt said. “Please.”
Her skin growing cold, the Plainswoman knelt down. Catt reached out, hesitantly, and touched Billee’s shoulder.
“Trapspringer’s ghost,” she gasped. “She’s shaking. She is afraid.”
“I don’t understand,” Swiftraven said. “I thought you people weren’t supposed to be able to feel fear.”
Catt looked up at the Plainsfolk, her eyes wide and confused. “That’s what I thought, too.”
The light of the waning moon streamed through the window of Moonsong’s bedchamber, falling across her body as she writhed among the blankets. She moaned in anguish, fighting against the throes of a terrible nightmare.
“No,” she mumbled. “Bodies… fire…”
The sound of her despairing voice woke Stagheart from his own slumber. Blearily, he wiped his eyes and rolled over to look at her. “Moonsong,” he whispered. His strong hand reached for her, brushed the smooth curve of her shoulder. “You’re dreaming, love.”
She cried out, her voice slashing the stillness like a razor. “No!”
“Moonsong!” Stagheart sat up quickly, then bent over her and shook her gently. “Wake up!”
For a moment she resisted, beating at him with her fists, but he held her fast until her eyes fluttered open. She looked at him blankly, seeming to stare through him. “Where…“ she began, her voice trailing away.
“It’s all right,” Stagheart said. “You’re in Que-Shu. I’m here.”
“Stagheart?” She blinked. “You came back.”
He nodded, folding his arms about her. His face, however, was troubled. He had returned to Que-Shu more than a week ago, bearing the head of the griffon that had been troubling the herdsmen to the south. He had brought the grisly trophy into the Lodge of Brothers at the center of the village and laid it at the feet of Moonsong’s mother. Goldmoon, in return, had declared that, with his Courting Quest completed, he was free to marry her daughter.
Moonsong, however, appeared to remember none of this, even though they had spoken of the wedding earlier in the night as they lay flushed and breathless in each other’s arms. They had agreed the day would come as soon as possible. “But not until Brightdawn returns,” Moonsong had said, kissing him. “Your brother, too.”
Now, she barely seemed to recognize him at all. Stagheart held her, running his fingers through her long, golden hair. She trembled like a newborn foal, her skin rising in gooseflesh, and clutched at him in return.
“Oh, Stagheart,” she moaned.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Was it Brightdawn?”
She nodded, sucking a shuddering breath through her teeth. In the moonlight, her tann
ed skin looked pale and wan, and she glistened with cold sweat.
“Moonsong, you have to tell me. Was she in danger?”
She shook her head. “No. Not yet… but-”
Suddenly, the door swung open. Orange light spilled through the entrance, falling across the bed. Standing in the doorway was Goldmoon, clad in a sky-blue robe and cupping a tallow candle in her hands. The dim light flickered as she stepped into her daughter’s bedchamber.
“Mother!” Moonsong gasped, her mouth dropping open.
Goldmoon said nothing, only stared at the two of them as they clung to each other. There was an odd look in her eyes, an incongruous mixture of disapproval and grudging empathy.
“My chief,” Stagheart said, letting Moonsong go. He scrambled out of the bed to kneel before her, grabbing a blanket as he did so to conceal his nakedness.
“You know the custom, both of you,” Goldmoon said sharply. “You should not share a bedchamber until you are married. This is an ancient tradition, not to be taken lightly, Stagheart of Que-Teh.”
Stagheart dropped even lower, prostrating himself before her. The rushes on the floor pressed against his face. “Forgive me, my chief,” he pleaded.
She paid him little attention, however; her concentration focused on her daughter. “Child,” she murmured. “Have you dreamt of your sister again?”
Moonsong looked up at her mother, her eyes dark, and nodded wordlessly.
Goldmoon’s stern expression softened. She and Stagheart exchanged a knowing look. Moonsong and Brightdawn had shared dreams since they’d been babies.
“Moonsong,” Goldmoon said. “Tell me. Where is she? What has happened?”
“Near Kendermore,” Moonsong answered, her voice faint and wavering. “She is well-and so are Father and Swiftraven. Their journey shall end tomorrow. But-the Kenderwood has burned, and ogres lurk among the ashes. And the kender are-” She stopped abruptly, her gaze drifting. “The kender are in terrible danger,” she said.
Goldmoon, lost in thought, regarded her daughter.
“You want to go to her, don’t you?” she said.
“Yes.”
Goldmoon sighed heavily. Her shoulders slumped, and a weary look settled over her. “There’s little to say, then,” she said. “Go. Take Stagheart with you.”
Stagheart looked from mother to daughter, saw the conviction in both women’s eyes, and knew it would be little use to argue.
Moonsong, however, regarded Goldmoon with an expression of worry and guilt. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “We’re all leaving you. I can wait until Wanderer returns to Que-Shu-”
“No.” Goldmoon shook her head firmly. “I will not hold you here. Go to Kendermore, child. Find your sister.” Her eyes shining, she started to turn away-then stopped, her hand on the door. “Take my blessing with you.”
Then she was gone. Moonsong stared at the door as it eased shut, then slumped back among the blankets with a quiet sob. Stagheart climbed back into bed beside her, gathered her in his arms again, and held her close, whispering softly as, outside, the moon slid slowly among the clouds.
Chapter 14
The day dawned gray, the sun reluctantly shedding its dim glow through the haze of drifting smoke. The companions rose slowly, their bodies and hearts heavy. None of them had found much solace in sleep, their dreams haunted by memories of what they had seen yesterday and thoughts of what might yet lie ahead. Little Billee Juniper whimpered softly, cradled in Brightdawn’s arms as the others broke camp.
“How far is it to Kendermore?” Riverwind asked, taking, a long pull from his water skin. When he’d finished drinking, he poured another measure over his face and tried to scrub away the soot that darkened his skin. He was haggard underneath the black smudges, hollow-eyed and ague-cheeked.
Kronn glanced around, studying the blasted forest. The Plainsfolk marveled that the kender could pick out any landmarks at all amid the ruined woodland. “A few leagues, I think,” he judged. “It’s only about three hours’ walk from the Wendle River to town.” They had crossed the river last night, shortly before darkness cloaked the Kenderwood. It had been like the rest of the woods: black and foul, choked with ash.
“We’ll be there by midday, then,” Riverwind judged. He shouldered his pack and went to unhobble the horses. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s put an end to this at last.”
An hour up the road to Kendermore, they reached another firebreak. The companions stopped, staring back and forth along its charred breadth. On the far side the forest was whole, untouched by the flames that had ravaged the land around Weavewillow. The sight of green leaves came as a shock. They had been walking through ashes for nearly a day and had seen little color in all that time. Even Kronn and Catt’s bright clothing was smudged with black and gray. The vibrancy of nature before them seemed alien.
“This one’s even wider than the one we saw yesterday,” Riverwind remarked, studying the firebreak.
“They must have made this to protect Kendermore,” Kronn surmised. “They didn’t have time to save Weavewillow, but here they managed to stop it. I recognize those trees on the far side there.” He pointed across the blackened clearing with his chapak, which he’d had in his hand since they’d set out that morning. Slender-limbed trees grew in even rows. “Erryl Locklift’s orchard-well, half of it, anyway. Looks like they made the firebreak right through the middle of it.”
They crossed the firebreak. The welcoming embrace of the forest folded around them when they reached the other side. For the first time since they’d entered the Kenderwood, the air did not reek of burning, though the smell of smoke still clung to their skin and clothes. The rustling of the leaves soothed their beleaguered spirits. Even little Billee Juniper, who rode upon Swiftraven’s shoulders, stopped trembling as they left the devastation behind.
As they made their way between the orchard’s orderly rows, Catt reached up and plucked a green apple from an overhanging branch. She eyed it critically, then took a crunching bite. An instant later, she spat it out again. “Phooey!” she blurted, her mouth puckering. “Branchala’s boots, that’s awful!”
“They’re probably not ripe yet,” Kronn told her. “It’s like the bloodberries-the apples still think it’s midsummer. This crazy weather’s messed all the crops up.”
“That isn’t it,” his sister replied, her lip curling with disgust as she regarded the rest of the apple. “I mean, yes, it’s sour, but there’s something else.”
“What is it, Catt?”
She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again, shaking her head in frustration. “I don’t know. Here.” She tossed the apple to her brother. Kronn caught it easily, looked at it, then bit into the fruit’s hard flesh. Immediately, his face contorted into an astringent grimace, and he also spat out his mouthful.
“Ack,” he declared, wincing as he smacked his lips. “It tastes like… I don’t know. Rotten eggs.” He sniffed the half-eaten apple, wrinkled his nose, and threw it away. It disappeared into the bushes with a rattle of branches.
“Could all that smoke have poisoned the apples somehow?” Brightdawn asked, glancing warily at the fruit-laden boughs that spread above their heads.
Riverwind shook his head. “Even if it could, the wind’s blowing south. The smoke would have gone the other way. Something else is at work here.”
It wasn’t just the apples. When the party left the orchard, returning to the wilder expanses of the Kenderwood, Riverwind stepped from the path and examined an old, moss-dappled elm tree. Its bark was brittle, and flaked away at his touch like old parchment. Beneath, the living wood was gray and riddled with cracks. Drawing his knife, he carefully carved a piece out of the tree and held it to his nose. It, too, smelled of brimstone.
“This whole forest is dying,” the old Plainsman declared, crouching to look at a hawthorn bush. The plant’s leaves were curled and brown at the edges.
“I don’t believe it!” Catt exclaimed. “What could be causing this?”
“I don’t know,” Riverwind answered helplessly. “The signs point to drought, but that doesn’t explain the smell.”
“It’s magic,” Brightdawn interrupted.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at her, astonished. “Brightdawn,” Swiftraven said, “there’s no such thing as magic any more-not since the moons disappeared. You know that.”
“Even so,” she answered, “there’s some kind of magic at work here. It’s in the air, all around us. It’s what’s making the weather so warm. Something’s cast a spell over this whole land. Can’t any of you feel it?”
They stood still, concentrating, and each of them sensed it too. It was faint, but there was no mistaking the feeling that hung about them: pain, as if the earth itself were in torment They shuddered.
“It’s horrible,” said Kronn. “I’ve never felt anything like it before.”
“I have,” Riverwind said. He shut his eyes against a sudden rush of memory. “Once, many years ago, in Silvanesti. It was stronger there than it is here, but…”
“Silvanesti,” Brightdawn echoed dully. “Oh, no.”
“What happened in Silvanesti?” Swiftraven asked.
The old Plainsman heaved a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. He opened his eyes again. They were like open wounds. “I died,” he answered. “In Lorac’s nightmare.”
No one spoke. There was no need-all of them had heard the tales. During the War of the Lance, Lorac, the elven Speaker of the Stars, had tried to use a dragon orb to drive the dragonarmies from his realm. Instead, it had ensnared him, trapping him in an unbreakable dream. Drawn by the orb’s power, the green dragon Cyan Bloodbane had come and whispered nightmares into Lorac’s ear. The elven king’s dark dreams, given form by the orb’s magic, had broken the land and driven his people into exile. Riverwind and his companions had entered the nightmare, winning their way to the Speaker’s throne room so that Lorac’s daughter Alhana could end his torment, but the wounds inflicted upon the land had remained. It had taken the elves more than three decades to heal those wounds and reclaim the forest.
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