So she had come to be beautiful, but only after they had both gone through many trials and travails together, only after they had confronted death fearlessly, clasped in each other’s arms. She had been given the blue crystal staff. She had been given the power of bringing the healing love of the gods back into the world.
Children were born to Goldmoon and Riverwind. They worked to unite the contentious tribes of the Plains people. They were happy in their lives and in their children and their friends, the companions of their journeying. They had looked forward to growing old together, to taking their final rest together, to leaving together this plane of existence and moving on to the next, whatever that might be. They were not afraid, for they would be together.
It had not happened that way.
When the gods left following the Chaos War, Goldmoon mourned their absence. She was not one who railed against them.
She understood their sacrifice, or thought she did. The gods had left so that Chaos would leave, the world would be at peace. She did not understand, but she had faith in the gods, and so she did what she could to argue against the anger and bitterness that poisoned so many.
She believed in her heart that someday the gods would return.
That belief dwindled with the coming of the monstrous dragons, who brought terror and death to Ansalon. Her belief vanished altogether when word came that her beloved Riverwind and one of her daughters had both been slain by the heinous dragon Malys.
Goldmoon had longed to die herself. She had fully intended to end her life, but then Riverwind’s spirit had come to her.
She must stay, he told her. She must continue her fight to keep hope alive in the world. If she left the world, the darkness would win.
She had not wanted to heed his words, but she had given way.
She had been rewarded. She had been given the gift of healing a second time. Not a blessing from the gods, but a mystical power of the heart which even she did not understand. She brought this gift to others and they had banded together to build the Citadel of Light in order to teach all people how to use the power.
Goldmoon had grown old in the Citadel. She had seen the spirit of her husband as a handsome youth once again. Though he curbed his impatience, she knew he was eager to be gone and that he waited only for her to complete her journey.
Goldmoon lifted the mirror and looked at her face.
Lines of age were gone. Her skin was smooth. Her once sunken cheeks were now plump, the pale skin rose colored. Her eyes had always been bright, shining with the indomitable courage and hope that had made her seem young to her devoted followers. Her lips, thin and gray, were full, tinged with coral.
Her hair had remained her one vanity. Though her hair had turned silver white, it remained thick and luxuriant. She reached her hand to touch her hair, a hand that was young and smooth and strong again, and the fingers touched gold and silver strands.
But her hair had an odd feel to it. Coarser than she remembered, not as fine.
She knew suddenly why she hated this unasked for, unlooked for, unwanted gift. The face in the mirror was not her face. The face was a memory of her face, and the memory was not her own.
The memory was another’s. The face was someone’s idea of her face. This face was perfect, and her face had not been perfect.
The same was true of her body. Youthful, vigorous, strong, slender waist, full breasts, this body was not the body she remembered. This body was perfect. No aches, no pains, not so much as a tom nail or a blister on her heel.
Her old soul did not fit into this new young flesh. Her old soul had been light and airy, ready to take wing and soar into eternity.
That soul had been content to leave behind mundane cares and woes. Now her soul was caged in a prison of flesh and bone and blood, a prison that was making its own demands on her. She did not understand how or why. She could not give reasons. All she knew was that the face in the mirror terrified her.
She laid the mirror down, facedown on the dressing table, and, sighing deeply, prepared to leave the one prison she could leave, desperately wishing all the while that she could leave the other.
Wonder and amazement greeted Goldmoon’s appearance in the hall of the Grand Lyceum that night. As she had feared, her transformation was taken for a miracle, a good miracle, a blessed miracle.
“Wait until word spreads!” her pupils whispered. “Wait until the people hear! Goldmoon has conquered age. She has vanquished death! The people will come flocking to our cause now!”
Pupils and masters clustered around her and reached out to touch her. They fell to their knees and kissed her hand. They begged her to grant them her blessing, and they rose to their feet exalted. Only a few looked closely at Goldmoon to see the pain and anguish on the youthful, beautiful face, a face they recognized more by the light in her eyes than by any resemblance to the face of contentment and wisdom they had come to know and revere. Even that light seemed unhealthy, a luster that was the luster of a fever.
The evening was a trial to Goldmoon. They held a banquet in her honor, forced her to sit in a place of honor at the head of the hall. She felt everyone was looking at her, and she was right. Few seemed able to take their eyes off her, and they stared at her until it occurred to them that they were being rude, then they shifted their gazes pointedly in another direction. Goldmoon couldn’t decide which was worse. She ate well, much better than usual.
Her strange body demanded large quantities of food, but she did not taste any of it. She was doing nothing more than fueling a fire, a fire she feared must consume her.
“In a few days, they will be used to me,” she said to herself drearily. “They will cease to notice that I am so terribly altered. I will know, however. If I could just understand why this has been done to me.”
Palin sat at her right hand, but he was grim and cheerless. He picked at his food and finally pushed most of the meal away uneaten. He paid no attention to conversation but was wrapped in his own thoughts. He was, she guessed, making that journey back through time over and over again in his mind, searching for some clue to its strange conclusion.
Tasslehoff was also out of spirits. The kender sat beside Palin, who kept close watch on him. He kicked the chair rungs and occasionally heaved a doleful sigh. Most of his eating utensils, a salt cellar, and a pepper pot made their way into his pockets, but the borrowing was halfhearted at best, a reflexive action. He was clearly not enjoying himself.
“Will you help me map the hedge maze tomorrow?” asked his neighbor, the gnome. “I have come up with a scientific solution to my problem. My solution requires another person, however, and a pair of socks.”
“Tomorrow?” said Tas.
“Yes, tomorrow,” repeated the gnome.
Tas looked at Palin. The mage looked at Tas.
“I’ll be glad to help,” Tas said. He slid off his chair. “Come on, Conundrum. You were going to show me your ship.”
“Ah, yes, my ship.” The gnome tucked some bread into his pocket for later. “The Indestructible XVIII. It’s tied up at the dock. At least it was. I’ll never forget the surprise I had when I went to board its predecessor, the Indestructible XVII, only to discover that it had been woefully misnamed. The committee made sweeping changes to the design, however, and I am quite confident—”
Palin watched Tasslehoff walk away.
“You must talk to him, Goldmoon,” the mage said in a low voice. “Convince him he has to go back.”
“Go back to his death? How can I ask that of Tas? How could I ask that of anyone?”
“I know,” Palin said, sighing and rubbing his temples as if they ached. “Believe me, First Master, I wish there were some other way. All I know is that he’s supposed to be dead, and he’s not, and the world has gone awry.” .