Loreman was about to protest further when Riverwind wordlessly poured the contents of his baskets on the dais. There were only five eggs in each, and beneath them, five smooth, river-washed stones painted white. To demonstrate their hardness, Riverwind lifted one of the stones and let it drop. It landed with a loud, accusing thud. The Que-Shu men muttered angrily among themselves at the trick played on Riverwind. Soon all eyes turned to Loreman. Even Arrowthorn gave his elder a suspicious glance, but forestalled any accusations by saying, “One irregularity cancels out another. The test stands. Riverwind has won the right to continue.” No one raised his voice after that.
The chieftain sat, flinging his cape back to free his arms. “There remains one final reckoning,” he said. “He who would be chieftain must be free of fear. Will you take the final anointing, Riverwind?”
“I will.”
Arrowthorn gestured to Stonebreaker, another elder. Stonebreaker had been famed in his youth for his strength. He'd gotten his manhood name because he could cleave stones in two with his sword. Now old and bent, Stonebreaker hobbled to the dais and placed a tall pot before Riverwind.
“This is the Oil of the Quester,” Arrowthorn said. The lodge fell deathly quiet. “Take it, and rub it on your skin. But be warned: there is great magic in the oil, and dire phantoms will come to you once you have put it on.”
“I am not afraid,” Riverwind declared, though he was.
He lifted the pot lid. The oil was dark brown and odorless. Riverwind smeared the ointment across his chest and neck. It was warm, and after his hand passed away, his skin grew wanner still as the oil soaked in. The drummers began a slow cadence. Working down his legs, Riverwind rubbed his oily hands over his knees and calves.
The pulse of the drums reverberated in his head. Someone in the room was chanting. Riverwind straightened. His head swam. He staggered back a few steps, nearly tumbling off the dais. Men were chanting, but not the men in the lodge. Riverwind whirled, but no Que-Shu man present was making a sound.
He recognized the chant. It was the lament uttered at funerals. Who was dead? Riverwind looked down at himself. Rivulets of red ran down his chest and legs. It looked like blood.
“I am wounded!” Riverwind cried. He tried to stanch the flow of blood. The drumbeat thundered at him, keeping time with his thudding heart.
He felt weak. His knees sagged, and Riverwind folded down into a kneeling crouch. Blood pooled around him. His life, his strength, was flowing unchecked from his veins. He couldn't stop it.
“Goldmoon… Goldmoon…” Calling her name did not help. He heard laughter. Raising his head, Riverwind saw Hollow- sky standing by the lodge door. Hands planted on hips, Hollow-sky grinned arrogantly at him.
“Hollow-sky, you're dead,” Riverwind protested.
“So are you!” the phantom retorted. “You're too weak, Unbeliever. How could a soft fool like you ever imagine he could lead the Que-Shu?” The dead man laughed again. “Or capture Goldmoon's heart?” Riverwind's own heart constricted in his chest. No one else seemed to notice the ghost. Loreman didn't cry out at the sight of his lost son.
“Lie down and die,” Hollow-sky urged. “Stop fighting. It's easy being dead.”
“No. You died. I did not.”
“You cannot resist death, Unbeliever.”
The drums-or was it his heart? — beat slower and slower. Riverwind's head bowed to the floor. He was weak and so very, very tired. All he had to do was lie down. His eyes fluttered closed. Sleep and rest were what he craved. So easy. Painless. The beautiful face of Goldmoon faded from his eyes.
“My son! Is this as a warrior should act?”
Riverwind's eyes opened. Beside the grinning Hollow-sky was another ghost, dimmer and smaller, but definitely there. It was Wanderer, Riverwind's long dead father.
“I can't stand,” Riverwind said weakly, lifting his head an inch.
“It's only paint,” Wanderer said. His figure grew more distinct. “Stand. Be a man.”
“He's no Que-Shu,” Hollow-sky said. “He's a worthless unbeliever, like his father.”
“Rise, my son! She who awaits you commands it!” Bright light surrounded Wanderer.
“Goldmoon?” said Riverwind. He glanced down and saw that the widening pool of blood was in fact only a few drops of paint. Paint covered his hands, too.
“Stand, Riverwind!”
“Father,” he said, shaking off the cold lethargy that had gripped him. Putting his hands on the floor, he pushed. He rose unsteadily to his feet. The image of Wanderer shone brightly in the dim lodge. The men around the brilliant figure paid no heed to the apparition.
“It's too late.” Hollow-sky sneered. “You've failed!”
“Begone,” said the spirit of Wanderer. “Go back to your unquiet grave.” With a parting sneer, the phantom son of Loreman faded from sight.
“Father, how is it I can see and speak to you in this way?” asked Riverwind.
“The oil you bathed in contains roots and herbs that have the power of heightening the senses. For centuries our people used these magic herbs to communicate with the dead. After a time, the people confused these spirits with the true gods. The worship of ancestors, the making of our dead leaders into gods, came from this confusion.”
Riverwind stepped to the edge of the dais. “Then the old gods truly Iive?”
“As they always have, my son.”
“Why do they not make themselves known?”
The glowing form of Wanderer flickered. “I do not know the mind of the Most High,” he said. His voice had dwindled to a whisper. “But their time is almost here again. You will have signs, my son…”
“What signs, Father? What signs?” But the interlude was over. Wanderer vanished.
The lodge was filled with smoke. The men of the tribe were gone. Doors, barred and guarded earlier, stood open. It was dusk. Riverwind felt a breeze blow through the dark house. It chilled his sweaty skin.
Suddenly, Arrowthorn and the elders were with him. Riverwind wiped his forehead and mouth with the back of one hand and stepped off the dais. He was exhausted.
“What has happened?” he asked his chieftain.
“You have passed your Anointing,” Arrowthorn said.
“How long have I been here?”
“All day. The elders and I have been discussing your problem.”
Riverwind wanted only a cool drink of water. His throat was puckered with the stale remnants of the berry juice. But he asked, “What problem?”
“You mastered your fear of death, but while you were conversing with the gods, our ancestors, you spoke many blasphemies.”
Riverwind sat up and squared his shoulders. “What blasphemy?”
“You denied our gods, the forefathers who made us. I have long known that you share your father's heresy; sons cannot help but bear their fathers' notions, no matter how false. But I never thought to hear Wanderer's heresy spouted during a solemn rite,” Arrowthorn said.
“The punishment for blasphemy is death,” Loreman added. His hands were clenched into fists. He had heard Riverwind talk to his dead son. “The law says the guilty must be stoned at the Grieving Wall.”
“You go too far,” Far-runner said. “Riverwind was not of his own mind when he said what he did. His father's spirit influenced him, Loreman.” Stonebreaker and the others echoed Far-runner's sentiments.
“What is to be done?” Riverwind asked.
All through the elders' wrangle, Arrowthorn had been silent, deep in thought. He had little liking for Riverwind as husband to his beloved daughter, but he had to admire the young man's performance this day. He couldn't dismiss Riverwind's right to quest for Goldmoon's hand, but perhaps he might teach him a salutary lesson.
“You shall have your Courting Quest,” Arrowthorn said. “And, in the process, I hope to cure you of your heresy.”
The disputing elders ringed their chieftain and Riverwind. Far-runner regarded Arrowthorn curiously. “How?” he asked.
“With no more than a single day's provision in his bag, Riverwind shall go forth to find proof that the old gods
