she warned. 'Remember your mother.'
She backed away. Mukhari Ras loomed above him. With both hands, Mukhari clasped a long, wickedly curved dagger. Sturm's heart missed a beat. His jaw tightened, and he said the briefest prayer of his life:
'Paladine, help me.'
The dagger wavered in the frail alchemist's grasp. Artavash opened Sturm's vest and shirt. Mukhari Ras smiled down at him. 'Here, then, is your destiny,' he whispered. 'I give you to my Queen!' He closed his eyes and raised the dagger high to strike.
Down came the blade. Sturm held out the wind cord taut between his fists. The keen edge of the dagger scraped the briefest instant against the rawhide. Mukhari felt it and opened his eyes. 'What —?' was all he could say before the cord parted.
A mighty wall of wind, invisible, irresistible, blast ed across the palace roof. The emaciated alchemist, his robes filling with air like black bat's wings, was lifted off his feet. Screeching with terror, Mukhari Ras flew backward to the edge of the roof. An upward gust filled his skirt, lofting him. The Lord of the Sea soared into the sky, borne by the ensorceled wind. On and on he flew, his brittle body spread flat by the torrent of air, until he was lost in the billowing clouds and dust.
Mukhari was gone, but the danger was not yet passed. The wind blew Sturm over the table, but he managed to thrust an arm through the funnel hole. He held on dearly as the tempest howled around him. Retorts and alembics from the spirit still toppled over and were blown away. The Kernaffi priests collapsed in a heap, only to be torn from each other by the brutal wind. One by one they were swept away, the last pair clinging together even as they were carried off.
Sturm cried out in pain as the wind tore at him. He thought his arm would snap off at the shoulder, but he was able to get a relieving grip with his free hand. The table shifted and turned. Sturm pressed his face to the copper top. Dust scoured the roof, stinging the boy's exposed flesh. Just when it seemed he could endure no more, the wild fury abated.
He clung fiercely to the table, the instrument of death that had preserved his life. He heard a faint call for help. Gingerly, Sturm removed his aching arm from the funnel hole. The arm was black and blue from wrist to elbow.
The cry came again: 'Help me, help…' Sturm shaded his eyes and looked around. He was alone on the roof. Everything, including Soren's body, was gone.
Radiz, his plume bent at an angle and his golden armor dented, hobbled up the steps. He stared around. The groan for help came again. Radiz and Sturm walked converging paths to the edge of the roof.
'At last, we are free!' he murmured.
Dangling from a rain gutter was Artavash. The gaping dragonmouth spout had snagged her long military cape as she fell. Now she was suspended high above the housetops of Kernaf.
'Help me!' she pleaded. The cape tore a little and Artavash begged for quick assistance.
Sturm eyed Radiz. The Kernaffi blinked dazedly. 'I leave it to you, boy. If you wish, we'll bring her up. Or I can cut her free and let her fall. What do you wish?'
Her gray eyes appealed for mercy. 'She killed Soren,' Sturm said.
True,' said Radiz. He pulled the sword from his belt.
'No,' said Sturm. 'The Measure teaches mercy, even to our enemy.'
He dropped on his stomach and reached for her cape. Radiz took hold as well. They hauled Artavash to safety. Once securely on the roof, she rolled over on the tiles and gasped for air. Radiz took her sword and knife away.
He jerked Artavash around on to her stomach and quickly bound her arms and legs tightly. When she cursed too loudly, he drew a brightly colored scarf from his pocket and jammed it into her mouth. At last he stood and faced Sturm.
'Now, what can I do to make amends, young lord?' asked Radiz.
Sturm cradled his bruised arm and frowned with concentration. 'I wish to leave,' he said. 'I want a ship to take my mother, Mistress Carin, and me to Solace. It was my father's wish that we go to Solace, so that is what we shall do.'
Radiz nodded. As they walked slowly to the steps, the commander laid a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. 'Whatever made you think of using the old sailor's magic string?' he asked.
'I didn't plan it,' said Sturm, swallowing. 'My only thought was to turn Mukhari's knife away.'
'You didn't realize cutting the cord would release all the wind?'
Sturm shook his head. 'I don't know anything about magic. It's not a fitting subject for knights.'
Paladine would forgive him for bending the Measure…
At the top of the stairs Sturm paused. 'Radiz?'
'Yes, young Sturm?'
'Would you have your men search for Sergeant Soren? He deserves an honorable burial.'
'It shall be done.'
They descended the steps together. Radiz remarked, 'You know, Mukhari was right about one thing; you are a noble lad.'
'I am my father's son,' said Sturm.
The voices of the boy and the Kernaffi commander echoed through the palace halls long after the rooftop had returned to the clean air, bright sun, and nature's honest wind.
The road to exile was very long. For Sturm Brightblade, this was only the beginning.
Heart of Goldmoon
The air of excitement was high as the Que-shu tribe milled before the ancient stone platform that was the focus of their village. Everyone was clad in colorful festive raiment. Adding to the delight of the senses was the delectable smell of foods being prepared for the celebration to come.
One by one, however, the exhilarated men, women, and children fell into silence as their attention was caught by a lone young woman, climbing the granite construction before them. Soon, all was still. No child giggled, no babe even cried. Nothing disturbed the faint shuffling sound made by the slippered feet of the holy woman as she ascended to the platform.
The woman was Goldmoon, princess and priestess of the Que-shu. Those who watched knew that upon her death
in the far future — Goldmoon would become a goddess, as
had her mother, Tearsong, and all her deceased ancestors. Goldmoon was the tribe's link to their gods. Her father, Chieftain Arrowthorn, would also achieve godhood, but, as revered as he was, the silence and awe of the crowd was reserved for the slender woman who was his only heir.
Goldmoon's long, silken hair was brighter than the golden grasses waving in the fields near the village. Sight of her hair still astonished the dark-haired tribesmen. 'It is a mark of her favor with the ancestors,' they said. As she reached the platform and bowed to the crowd, the sun glinted from those golden tresses, and no one present witnessing her grace, her beauty, or that bright crown of hair doubted Goldmoon's worth in being honored with this ceremony.
Goldmoon turned from the platform edge and bowed respectfully to her father, who had previously ascended the platform. Though it was her mother's blood that decreed Goldmoon's status as priestess, it was her father's greatness as a warrior that had won him Tearsong's hand in marriage. Only Arrowthorn's cunning and wisdom had kept the reins of power from being torn from their family's hands after the crushing blow of Tearsong's early death, and had held them until she, Goldmoon, was old enough to serve as priestess to her people.
Goldmoon moved to Arrowthorn's right side and fixed her gaze out over the plains to the mountain on the northern horizon. She could not see it from here, but she knew that near the summit was a vast cavern, called the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits, where the mortal remains of Goldmoon's dead ancestors lay, behind a door opened by
