Goldmoon, daughter of Arrowthorn, sat in the chieftain's chair, her head perched on a clenched fist. Though she was bored to death, outwardly she maintained an air of intelligent interest. Two Que-Shu men stood before her, in front of the chieftain's home, disputing the ownership of a cow, and were just as loud about their respective rights now as when the trial had begun, over an hour ago.
A disturbance arose on the other side of the empty village arena. Goldmoon raised her head when she heard the shouts and saw the dust churned up from the dry path by many Que-Shu feet. “Be silent a moment,” she said to the quarreling men. The two reluctantly ceased their disputation. The noise grew louder, and the outer fringe of a large crowd began to spill around the edges of the sunken arena.
Goldmoon stood. Her attendants likewise rose. She said, “Fetch my father.” Two brawny men nodded and entered the chieftain's house. They returned shortly carrying a litter in which the bent form of Arrowthorn sat. Fate had dealt the chieftain a bitter blow. Ten months after he'd sent Riverwind on his Courting Quest, a mysterious illness had laid the chieftain low, leaving him unable to walk or talk intelligibly. His eyes told the true story, though; the mind of Arrowthorn still dwelled within the ruined body, a helpless prisoner of his own flesh.
The crowd flowed into the arena, down the stone seat-steps and up the other side. Children pranced among the adults with growing excitement. Goldmoon strained to see around the Temple of the Ancestors, which blocked her view. It would not do for chieftain's daughter to wade into the crowd like a common person. She had to remain cool and detached, though she ached with curiosity.
The Que-Shu folk thinned at what was the center of the disturbance. A lone figure walked slowly in the eye of this human tempest; a tall figure, head above the crowd, who leaned on a dark wooden staff as he walked.
A single tear stung Goldmoon's eye. It could not be- after so long!
The tall man skirted the arena, choosing a course near the village hall. The afternoon sun broke over that building, throwing a cloak of shadow over him.
Arrowthorn made a low, gurgling sound. Goldmoon reached over to his litter and grasped his hand.
The murmur of the crowd resolved into a steady chant. There was no doubt any longer, for what the Que-Shu people repeated over and over was a name: Riverwind.
Goldmoon couldn't bear it any longer. She slipped free of her father's feeble grasp and moved. But she moved slowly and with the dignity of her position. The people parted, making a path for her directly to Riverwind. He was between the village hall and the Temple of the Ancestors when he saw her, and stopped. Goldmoon halted, too. He was thin, and sunburn painted his face. Riverwind lifted a hand in greeting.
“Goldmoon,” he said hoarsely. “I remember.”
She spoke his name, then, to her horror, he collapsed. The crowd closed in on the fallen man, but Goldmoon cried, “Get back!”
She hurried to his side, ignoring her spotless white hem trailing in the dirt. Goldmoon fell on her knees and turned Riverwind's face to the sky.
“My beloved,” he said.
“Yes, yes, I'm here,” she replied softly. To the assembled crowd, she said, “Fetch a healer! He is roasting with fever!”
Goldmoon stroked his blistered face. “My love,” she whispered, “I prayed to all the true gods you would return to me. They have answered my prayers.” Riverwind slowly brought the staff up to her face. “What is it?” she asked.
“Proof. This is the Staff of Mishakal. Our quest is over.” She tried to take the staff, but his fingers were locked on it. Not until the healer had come and administered a soothing herbal potion did Riverwind's hand relax enough for her to pry the staff away.
At Goldmoon's command, strong men lifted Riverwind. She ordered him to be taken to the chieftain's house. The men looked at each other wonderingly, but they obeyed. Goldmoon had been chieftain in all but name since her father's illness, and she had led her people well.
She strode ahead of the litter that held the young plainsman. The crowd parted respectfully. When she reached the spot where she'd left her father, she saw Loreman was there. He was one of the few who resisted her rule. The scheming old man was speaking into Arrowthorn's ear, and he stiffened when he saw Goldmoon staring at him.
“Take my father and Riverwind inside. Healer, attend to the son of Wanderer.” The litter bearers, their burdens, and the healer went into the house. Loreman cleared his throat, halting Goldmoon before she could follow.
“What?” she asked coldly.
“Riverwind has returned. Does he admit defeat in his quest?” said Loreman.
“Not at all. He has triumphed.”
“Where then is the proof of the old, dead gods?”
She thrust the staff out at him. “Here! Riverwind brings this, the sacred staff of the goddess Mishakal.”
Loreman smiled. “An impressive piece of wood,” he said sarcastically.
“I will speak with Riverwind and learn more,” Goldmoon said. “You need not concern yourself.”
“Heresy always concerns me.”
“Enough! I am needed within.” She swept past Loreman, attempting to hide her loathing.
She went to Riverwind's side. A screen of hides had been hung around his bed for privacy. Goldmoon slipped in and dismissed the healer. When they were alone, she kissed him.
His face was wet.
“Are those your tears or mine?” she said, sniffing.
“Ours,” he said, his voice like a sigh.
“Loreman asked if you had failed in your quest. I said you hadn't. How can we prove it, beloved?”
Riverwind coughed raggedly. Goldmoon lit a stick of curative incense by his bed. The aromatic smoke drifted over the room. There was something about the smoke that struck a chord in him, a place he'd seen, a person he'd known. Gold-moon looked down at him tenderly. He put a hardened hand to her soft cheek. “The staff is a sliver from the throne of the goddess,” he explained. “Made of sapphire. It is disguised as wood, but will show its true nature when needed. The goddess herself gave it to me. She said I was to give it to you.”
Goldmoon's eyes widened and she gasped. “To me? Why? What shall I do with it?”
“Heal the sick. Repel evil. Perhaps even raise the dead.”
Goldmoon regarded the crude wooden stave with awe. So much power-could she wield it justly?
Even as the thought crossed her mind, the handworn wood began to glow. In a heartbeat, the rod lying across Goldmoon's lap became a fiercely glowing scepter. The chieftain's daughter felt the presence of the goddess, knew the Tightness of her holding the crystal staff. Riverwind grasped the staff also, and the sky-blue aura passed up his arm to envelop him.
“I don't remember much of what happened to me,” Riverwind said. “There was great hardship and an evil place where death rode on black wings. I know that people died, good people, like the old soothsayer, Catchstar. There was a girl-a woman, I think-who saved my life. It's all so blurred and confused.” He looked into her eyes. “But throughout my trials, the one truth I held firm was you. Your love always broke through the veils cast around me. It saved more than my life. It saved my soul.”
Goldmoon couldn't speak through her tears, but her hand on Riverwind's face was soft and warm.
The divine glow penetrated and healed Riverwind's fever-plagued body. When it finally dimmed and receded, he lifted his arms and embraced the woman he loved.