“How did you come to be out here?” Lona asked, watching him intently with bright brown eyes.
“I’ve traveled from Xak Tsaroth,” Riverwind said. “I found this staff there. Before that—” He frowned. “The details are hazy. There was a girl … a girl with dark hair.”
Lona pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “You have a high fever,” she said. “It’s no wonder your head is addled.”
Riverwind drank more broth. “How long have you been out here alone?” he asked.
“The last of the adults, a fellow named Varabo, rode off on the last cart horse, promising to return in a day if he didn’t meet up with assistance,” Lona said. “That was a week past, and we’ve been waiting here in the middle of nowhere ever since.”
“I told Varabo I should be the one to go,” Darmon said. “I knew he’d never find the way out.”
“Let me get my strength back, and I’ll guide you out of the mountains,” Riverwind said.
“You!” Darmon sneered. “I thought you were lost, too.”
“The fever has dulled my senses,” replied the plainsman. He was developing a dislike for the arrogant boy. “Once my head clears, I can show you exactly how to get to Solace, if that’s where you want to go.”
“Hmm, I suppose you’ll want to share our food.”
Lona slapped Darmon lightly on the leg. “He’s welcome to anything we have,” she insisted. Lona frowned at Riverwind’s decayed leather clothing. “I can stitch up some of Quidnin’s clothes for you, I think. You’re taller, but at least they’ll cover you.”
“Thank you.”
“Lona’s the company seamstress. She enjoys sewing and all,” Darmon sniffed.
With warmth in his belly and a dry blanket over him, Riverwind fell asleep. He dreamed of Goldmoon. She waited for him, arms outstretched. Suddenly, her face changed and she had short, dark hair. This woman he didn’t recognize, though her name seemed just out of reach.
Gray clouds torn to shreds by a fresh wind scudded across the mountain sky. Riverwind scratched under his new, uncomfortable clothes. Lona had mended a linen shirt and tight-fitting breeches for him. She rummaged through a dozen pairs of shoes before she found some wooden-soled half-boots that fit Riverwind’s feet. This eclectic ensemble was not to his taste—the shirt had faded red stripes, and the pants were much too tight—but it was better than wandering around three-quarters naked, like some savage.
Riverwind had a long argument with Darmon when he told the boy they would have to abandon the wagons. All their theatrical gear was in them, Darmon protested. But who will pull the wagons? Riverwind reminded him. In the end, sullen and silent, Darmon packed what items he wanted in a wooden carrying case and joined Riverwind and Lona on foot.
They followed the narrow wagon track down the slope of the mountain. The great forest spread out around them. Riverwind had to pause frequently to rest. During these respites he noticed how a few of the leaves on some trees were beginning to acquire their fall colors. He saw clumps of yellow starflowers, which he knew bloomed only at the end of the summer season. Finally, at a rest break, he remarked on how strange it seemed that summer was nearly over.
“Why is that strange?” asked Darmon.
Riverwind stared at the young man. “It was late summer when I left Que-Shu,” Riverwind said. “I feel I’ve been traveling for a long time and yet it is still the end of summer.”
“Perhaps you mix up the seasons?” Darmon said. “Haven’t you been paying attention?”
“Be civil!” Lona chided.
“In truth, I think I was in a place that had no seasons.” Riverwind rubbed his temples with his long fingers. “I don’t know how that can be so,” he said.
“It will all come back to you when you are well,” Lona said. She reached in a bag and brought out a handful of dried apple slices. She gave a few to Darmon and Riverwind. Riverwind nibbled absently on the fruit. He tried hard to remember. Bits and pieces floated through his mind—a murderous thing flying through the air with black wings, a kind and loving blue light—it made no sense, and it made his head hurt. He gave up for a while.
Gapped as his memory was, some things were quite clear. He knew exactly where they were: an arm of the Forsaken Mountains thrust south and east into the forest. There was a high pass into the southern range of mountains that led directly to the high plateau. The Sageway East ran along the northern edge of the plateau, and once on it, Que-Shu was an easy two days’ march away. That memory was also clear—his home was Que-Shu, and there Goldmoon awaited him.
He explained the route to Darmon and Lona, and they agreed to go that way. As they walked, Lona told Riverwind how she and Darmon came to be with the Royal Theatre Company.
“We’re orphans, Darmon and I,” she began. “My mother worked as a seamstress and cook for the company. She died a year ago of the flux, and I inherited her duties.”
“I’m sorry,” Riverwind said sincerely.
“Oh, she had a better life than most, and she didn’t suffer much in the end. But, Darmon, he ran away from home to be an actor.” She arched her dark eyebrows and assumed a lofty air.
“My aristocratic family didn’t approve of a son acting in plays,” Darmon said. He turned his face into the crosswind and let the air stir his loose blond hair. “They didn’t understand I was born to be an artist.”
What rot, Riverwind thought. He said, “What will the two of you do when you reach Solace?”
“If the stars are with us, we should find Quidnin or some of the company there,” Lona said.
“And if you don’t?”
“We’ll start our own company,” Darmon said firmly.
Riverwind did not voice his own belief that all the actors were dead—starved or murdered—in the vast loneliness of the mountains. Kind Arlona and arrogant Darmon would most likely have nothing waiting for them in Solace. Nothing but a dead end.
Riverwind had a bad attack of the chills that night, in spite of the jar of hot water Lona gave him to hold against his chest. His teeth chattered so loudly he asked Darmon to whittle a white wood twig for him to bite down on. When sleep finally claimed him, he dreamed again. This time the images were more muddled than before.
He stood in a black space. Something flew overhead, a black, winged creature that had haunted his sleep the night before. Out of the dark, a woman’s voice called his name.
Her voice was familiar. She walked out of the darkness toward him. Her hair was long and golden, and her beautiful face was sad. As she passed by him, Riverwind saw tears on her smooth cheeks. She moved on, still calling his name, until the darkness had once more swallowed her.
With a low cry, Riverwind came awake. He lay shivering and clutching the jar to his chest. Who was she? he wondered. Who was that woman? He should know. She was very important. The questions pounded his brain until, finally, sleep washed over him.
They reached the pass before noon of the next day. A few hours’ climb up the steep path, and the trio stood on the high plateau. A remnant of the Cataclysm, the plateau had been formed when a great splash of rock and mud filled in a valley in the mountains. Among the Que-Shu it was said that if you dug into the brown soil of the plateau, you would find houses, animals … and people, all buried exactly where they stood at the time of the Cataclysm.
As it was, the plateau was a pleasant, grassy interval in the rugged, stony ocean of peaks. Bighorn sheep and mountain goats ran in herds on the plateau, and Riverwind fervently wished to hunt them. But, alas, he had no bow, nor even a decent javelin to hurl.
Darmon was quiet as they stood on the plateau. He seemed intimidated by the presence of the taller, older man, though Riverwind was probably no more than a handful of years his senior. Darmon kept as far away from the plainsman as was convenient. Leaning on his wooden staff, Riverwind sat down on a large rock to rest. Lona settled on the ground near him and searched through her bag for a midday snack. Darmon remained standing, several yards away, surveying the way they had come.
“Raisins?” Lona offered Riverwind a handful of the fruit.
He laid the staff on the ground by his left foot and took the proffered fruit. Lona began to eat her own handful slowly. “You certainly don’t let that staff out of your sight,” the young woman said.
Riverwind looked down at the homely staff. “It is very important.”
“It’s only a stick of wood,” Darmon said, moving in to get a share of raisins.
“Darmon,” Lona chided. “It’s important to Riverwind.”
The boy shook his head and went back to his study of their position.
“Why is it important?” Lona asked.
Riverwind picked up the wooden rod. He ran his hands over it and frowned. “It’s not just wood,” he said softly. “It’s really …” The effort of concentration made his head hurt. He gripped the staff so tightly his knuckles whitened. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. Have I never told you?”
Lona shook her head sadly. “No, Riverwind. You haven’t mentioned it at all. I thought you’d carved it yourself.”
“No. No, I didn’t,” Riverwind leaned his face against the wood. “At least, I don’t think I did. I think I’m supposed to give it to someone.”
“Who?” asked Darmon and popped his last raisin in his mouth.
“I can’t remember.” The words were barely audible.
“Well, don’t fret over it,” Lona said cheerily. “I’m sure everything will be clear again once you’re well.” She hoisted her gear and said, “We should be moving now.”
She and Darmon were quickly ready, but Riverwind sat on his rock, staring at the staff.
“Come on, barbarian,” Darmon said. “We’re ready to go.”
Riverwind finally sighed deeply and stood, shouldering his pack. The staff swung out and swept past Darmon. He jumped back quickly.
“Watch it!” he cried. “Keep that dirty stick off my clothes.”
Riverwind apologized and took a firmer grip on the staff.
“It’s only a piece of wood, Darmon,” Lona said. “It won’t bite you.”
The three of them moved on across the plateau. Riverwind’s face showed his anxiety. His memory was so dark. There were so many gaps. But he was on his way home. No matter what else was unclear, that was certain. He was on the road home.
When they camped that night, Lona made hot broth for him again. She boiled what looked like an ox-bone in some water and added a sprinkling of powder from a tiny drawstring bag that she wore around her neck. Riverwind asked her what was in the bag.
“Spice,” she said. “Our poor soup bone is practically glass smooth from boiling, so the broth needs something extra to flavor it.” Riverwind peered at the old bone and nodded. The broth was still nearly tasteless.
That night—the third since meeting the two young people—Riverwind had no troubling dreams. The indistinct face of the woman with golden hair floated in and out of his mind, but there was no pain attached to this. He awoke rested and refreshed, and felt stronger than he had in days. He breathed in the warm air and touched the staff lying on the ground.
He would take it to Que-Shu. Once it was there, someone would surely know what to do with it. He worried a bit over the gaps in his memory, but he felt so much better physically that he was certain his memory would return, too.
That morning, Lona brought him his broth. Riverwind stared at the nearly clear liquid in the mug. It was really quite bad, but he didn’t want to hurt Lona’s feeling. After all, she was sharing what little they had. So, when neither of the others was looking, Riverwind poured the broth out on the ground. He would try to find some game for them today. This would help ease the strain on their meager food supply.
Later that morning, the Sageway appeared in the distance. Riverwind felt great relief. His memory of directions was still sound.
“Does the road run all the way to Solace?” Darmon asked as they took in the vista of the ancient road, green grass sprouting between its bricks.
“Yes, though it branches at different points,” Riverwind noted.
“Do many travelers use it?” asked Lona.
“Many do, though there isn’t much trade going west and east. Most traders ply the routes north and south, from Qualinesti up to Solace and across the sea to Solamnia.”
Darmon shouldered the strap he’d tacked to his case and said, “Let’s go, I’m eager to get to Solace.”
Riverwind caught his toe on a hummock of grass. He stumbled and threw out his arms to keep his balance. The staff, in his right hand, swung out and hit Lona on the shoulder. With a low cry, she leaped sideways.
“Are you all right?” Darmon asked, coming quickly to her side.
Riverwind apologized. “It was an accident, Lona. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
Lona took her hand from her left shoulder and smiled thinly. “I’m fine. Do you think that silly stick could hurt me?” She picked up her knapsack with her right hand, but she held her left arm rather stiffly.
Riverwind stood unmoving. Lona’s words echoed in his mind. Do you think that silly stick could hurt me?
He felt very strange. He’d heard those words before. Someone had said them to him not so very long ago. Who?
Do you think that silly stick could hurt me?
Lona still hadn’t moved, and Darmon was fussing over her shoulder. “No, it couldn’t have hurt you,” Riverwind said, frowning. “It barely touched you.” He stared at the young woman for so long that she shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Darmon. He put a hand to his forehead. “I’ve heard those words before,” Riverwind muttered. He strained to remember, the throbbing in his head growing worse.
“What words?” Darmon asked. When no answer was forthcoming, the boy rolled his eyes. “Ignorant barbarian.”
Riverwind’s head came up, and he stared at Darmon. “What did you say?” he asked. Darmon glanced at Arlona. Riverwind pointed the staff at the boy.
“What’re you doing?” he snapped. “Get that filthy stick away from me. What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s only a silly stick,” Riverwind said. He turned to Lona. “The two of you are acting very strangely.” Do you think that silly stick could hurt me? “There is something wrong here.”
Lona pulled Darmon back a few steps. She smiled at Riverwind. “Nonsense. You’re only imagining things,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with us.”
“Who are you? Who are you really?” Riverwind demanded. Though he had sensed something odd about the two, he really had no clear idea just what the matter was. He quickly found out.
Before Riverwind’s astonished eyes, the two young people began to change. Darmon’s hair flew away on the wind like dandelion seed, and his freckled skin seemed to melt in strips. Riverwind cried out in horror. Darmon’s gray eyes became yellow slits, and his green, scaly body elongated, a pair of wings rising and flexing behind him. His beaked face opened in a wide, hissing grin. Riverwind saw him in his true form and a name he’d forgotten popped into his mind.
“Shanz,” Riverwind croaked, his voice hoarse with shock. “You’re Shanz.”
“And me, little man? Do you remember me?” The voice was not Lona’s. She was no more. Her dull peasant clothes were a mere heap of rags on the ground. In her place, coiled tightly and wings furled, was a black dragon.
“Khisanth.” Riverwind breathed the name. She had said those familiar words to him back in Xak Tsaroth when he’d first faced her with the staff. “I remember.” Riverwind backed up several steps, holding the Staff of Mishakal—for he knew that that’s what it was—before him.
“I commend you, Shanz,” said the dragon. “You said the human might survive the Cursed Lands, and you were right.”
“The warrior who bested Thouriss was not likely to succumb to mud and fever,” Shanz replied. “And your illusions, mistress, were an excellent touch.” His sword was out. Riverwind looked quickly from dragon to draconian to see who would move against him first.
“Why did you pla
y this game with me?” the plainsman asked bitterly. “Why pretend to be Darmon and Arlona? You found me; you could have killed me any time.”
“I still can,” rumbled the dragon. “When it suits me. But—” She lowered her horned head, canting it sideways in a darkly thoughtful gesture. “I wanted to retrieve the staff you carry. It contains much power, power that I want for myself. If you had died in the swamp, it might’ve fallen into other hands.”
“It’s useless to you,” Riverwind declared. He had his eye on something on the ground. Among the rough clothing was the small drawstring bag with the “spice” in it. “You may want this staff, but neither you nor Shanz can touch it. You need me to carry it for you. That’s why you were giving me the ‘spice.’ You wanted to destroy my memory, and then my will.”
“Nonsense! I can take that little twig any time I wish,” said Khisanth.
Riverwind poked at the dragon’s face. A blue spark arced from the staff’s tip to the beast’s cheek. Khisanth hissed loudly and jerked her head back.
“Nothing evil can bear the touch of this staff,” Riverwind told her coldly.
Khisanth opened her mouth in a terrifying snarl. Razor-sharp fangs and acid saliva were only a few feet from Riverwind. He gripped the staff with both hands.
The draconian brought his sword down. Riverwind blocked it with the staff. Holding Mishakal’s sacred rod like a quarterstaff, he took all of Shanz’s attacks and delivered a few of his own. The advantage Riverwind had was he didn’t have to strike Shanz hard; merely touching him delivered a violent shock. Armor didn’t protect him.
Within a minute of the battle’s start, Riverwind planted the end of the staff hard into Shanz’s pointed chin. The draconian’s jawbone shattered, and the full magical force of Mishakal’s staff coursed through his frame like lightning. Shanz uttered a protracted groan and fell to the ground. His body twitched and then was still.
Khisanth froze. Instead of attacking Riverwind immediately, she moved to Shanz’s body. Her head snaked down, and she sniffed at the corpse, her eyes never leaving the plainsman’s face. Her expression was hideous. No more illusions and trickery, she decided. It’s time to kill this impudent mortal.
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