“Say, Lady Odila!” he said. “Do you know a Knight named Gerard uth Mondar? Because I’m looking for him.”
The Lady Knight, who had indeed been about to shout for the guard, shut her mouth on the words and stared at him.
“What did you say?”
“Gerard uth Mondar. Do you know him?” Tas asked.
“Maybe I do. Excuse me a moment, Healer. This won’t take long.”
Lady Odila squatted down in front of Tas, to look him in the eye.
“Describe him to me.”
“He has hair the color of Tika’s corn bread and a face that looks ugly at first, until you get to know him, then for some reason, it doesn’t seem all that ugly anymore, especially when he’s rescuing you from Dark Knights. He has eyes that are—”
“Blue as cornflowers,” said Lady Odila. “Corn bread and cornflowers. Yes, that pretty much describes him. How do you know him?”
“He’s a great friend,” said Tas. “We traveled to Qualinesti together—”
“Ah, so that’s where he came from.” Lady Odila regarded Tas intently, then she said, “Your friend Gerard is here in Solanthus. He is being brought up before the Knights’ Council. They suspect him of espionage.”
“Oh, dear! I’m sorry to hear he’s sick,” said Tas. “Where is he? I’m sure he’ll be glad to see me.”
“Actually such a meeting might prove extremely interesting,” the lady returned. “Bring these two along, Guard. I suppose the gnome is in on this plot, too?”
“Oh, yes,” said Tasslehoff, taking firm hold of Conundrum’s hand. “He keeps the money.”
“Don’t mention the money!” Conundrum snapped, clutching his robes.
“Obviously some sort of mix-up,” Tasslehoff whispered. “Don’t worry, Conundrum. I’ll fix everything.”
Knowing that I’ll fix everything has been emblazoned in the annals of Krynnish history as the last words many associates of kender ever hear, the gnome was not comforted.
23
Council of the Nights of Solamnia
Goldmoon was weary from her long journey, weary as if her body were the frail and elderly one that was rightfully her own, not this strange, youthful, strong body. She had come to use the body as she used the wooden staff, to take her to wherever strange destiny called. The body carried her long distances every day without tiring. It ate and drank. It was young and beautiful. People were entranced by it and were glad to help her. Farmers gave her lodging in their humble cottages and eased her weary way by providing rides in their farm carts. Noble lords and ladies took her into their castles and sent her forth on her journey in their fine carriages. Thus, because of the body, she had traveled to Solanthus far more swiftly than she had dared hope.
Goldmoon believed her beauty and youth charmed them, but in this she was wrong. The farmers and the noble lords saw first that she was beautiful, but then they looked into her eyes. They saw there a sorrow and a seeking that touched them deeply, touched the peasant who shared a loaf of bread with her and received her grateful thanks with bowed head, touched the wealthy lady who kissed her and asked for her blessing. They saw in Goldmoon’s sorrow their own fears and anxieties. They saw in her seeking their own questing for something more, something better, something in which to believe.
Lady Odila, noting Goldmoon’s pallor and her faltering steps, took her directly to the hall where the Knights’ Council convened and found her a small, comfortable room in the main chamber with a warm fire. The Knight ordered servants to bring water for washing away the stains of the road, and food and drink. After assuring herself that she could do nothing more to make Goldmoon comfortable, Lady Odila departed. She sent a runner to the Temple of the Mystics with word of Goldmoon’s arrival, while she herself saw to the disposition of her prisoners, Tasslehoff and Conundrum.
Goldmoon ate and drank without tasting the food or knowing that she had consumed it. The body demanded fuel to keep going, and she was forced to accede to its demands. She had to keep going, to follow the river of the dead, who called to her and swept her along in their chill, dread current. She sought among the ghostly faces that pressed around her for some among them that she knew: Riverwind, Tika, Caramon, her own beloved daughter . . . all the old friends who had departed this world, leaving her behind. She could not find them, but that was not surprising, for the numbers of the dead were like the drops in a river, bewildering, overwhelming.
The body was hale and strong, but she was tired, so very tired. She thought of herself as a candle flame burning inside an ornate lantern. The flame burned low, the wax had all melted, the wick was down to the last tiny portion. What she could not see was that as the flame dwindled, her light burned ever brighter.
The One God. Goldmoon did not remember having spoken of the One God. She had not said anything, but she had dreamed about the One God. Dreamed often, the same dream, over and over so that her sleep was almost as wearying as her waking hours.
In the dream, Goldmoon was once again in the Temple of the Gods in the ancient city of Xak Tsaroth. She held in her hands the blue crystal staff. Before her was the statue of the blessed Mishakal, goddess of healing. The statue’s hand was curled as if to hold a staff, yet no staff was there. As Goldmoon had done once, so long ago, she gave the magical staff to the statue. That time, the statue had accepted it, and Goldmoon had come to understand the love the gods bore their children. In the dream, though, when she tried to give the staff to the goddess, the crystal staff shattered, cutting her hands that were soon covered in blood. Her joy changed to terror.
The dream ended with Goldmoon waking, trembling and confused. She pondered the portent of this dream. First she thought it might mean one thing, then another. She dwelled on it until the images began to wheel in her mind, one chasing the other, like a snake swallowing its own tail. Shutting her eyes, she pressed her hands against them, trying to banish the wheel.
“Daughter of Goldmoon?” came a concerned voice.
She dropped her hands, startled, and looked into the kindly, anxious face of Starmaster Mikelis. She had met him before. He had studied at the Citadel of Light, where he had been an excellent student, a capable and gentle healer. A Solamnic by birth, he had returned to Solanthus and was now head of the Temple of Light in that city. Often they had spent hours talking together, and she sighed to see that he did not recognize her.
“I am sorry,” he said gently. “I did not mean to frighten you, Daughter. I would not have entered without knocking, but Lady Odila said she feared you might be unwell, and she hoped you might be sleeping. Yet I am glad to see that you have eaten and drunk with good appetite.”
He looked with some perplexity at the numerous plates and a basket that had been filled with bread. The strange body had eaten a dinner that would have fed two, and there was not a crumb left.
“Thank you, Starmaster,” Goldmoon said. “You did not frighten me. I have traveled a long distance, and I am fatigued. I am distraught over this news that the citadel was attacked. I did not know. It was the first I had heard—”
“Some were killed,” Mikelis said, taking a seat beside her. “We grieve for them and trust that their spirits wing their way from this world to the next. Daughter,” he asked in sudden alarm, “are you ill? Is there something I can do?”
Goldmoon had started at this statement about the spirits and, shuddering, glanced around. Ghosts filled the room, some watching her, some roving about restlessly, some seeking to touch her, others paying no attention to her. They never stayed long. They I were forced to keep moving, to join the river that flowed steadily north.