the rays of Lunitari, the red moon, only once every ten years. On the morrow, Goldmoon would journey to that cavern for the first time to speak with her ancestors, her gods. She found herself excited and perhaps a little anxious.
First, however, must come the games that would decide who her escorts were to be. Only those two warriors who proved to be the best would accompany and protect her on the journey. Twenty young Plainsmen, lean and muscled, all eager for the honor, filed onto a lower tier of the platform and formed a semicircle before their princess. Goldmoon, seemingly transfixed by the heat thermals shimmering in the air before her, appeared not to notice the men.
When the last man took his place, however, Goldmoon turned her gaze to the historian seated on the platform behind her father, writing on a parchment with deliberate strokes. She heard Arrowthorn let out a breath that might have been a subdued snort of annoyance at Loreman. The historian's painstaking slowness was an obvious ploy to demonstrate to the tribe the importance of his own position. Loreman finished writing the names of the contestants with a flourish, then looked up and nodded to the princess.
Goldmoon had already performed hundreds of religious ceremonies. Since her mother's death she had carried all the burdens of priestess — praying for her people, their crops and livestock and weaponry, tending the sick and injured, settling disputes, burying the dead. But because of the infrequency with which the door to the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits opened, she had not been able to perform this most important ceremony, during which she would dedicate her life to her people. Now, this day had arrived. These men seated below her would fight for the privilege of escorting her, and undoubtedly one of them would eventually court her, as her father had courted her mother.
'One of you had better be worthy,' she said silently to the men.
Goldmoon unfurled her personal banner; the gold crescent moon emblazoned on the dark cloth shone in the sun as brightly as her hair. She called out, 'May the blessings of the Ancient Dead give courage, endurance, and strength to the greatest among you.'
Cheering in reply, the Plainsmen held the banners of their individual houses aloft.
Leaning down, the priestess drew a crystal dagger from her boot scabbard. Cunningly fashioned and hollow within, the dagger doubled as a vial containing a handful of sacred sand. With a twist, Goldmoon slipped the handle from the blade and poured some of the fine, warm, dry contents into her palm. Turning with a flourish, Goldmoon sprinkled the golden powder over the men before her, taking care that no head should escape at least a little dusting.
Resisting the impulse to brush the remaining grains from her palm, the priestess began to touch each head With her fingertips in blessing. Each warrior, as she stood before him, knelt and gazed up at her with admiration and devotion. All but the last one.
He wore well-cared-for but well-dented armor, and his clothing showed equal signs of wear and repair. His was not a familiar face, but Goldmoon recognized his banner as belonging to a poor family that lived in a hut at the edge of the grazing lands the Que-shu shared with bordering tribes. The warrior's name was Riverwind, and there was something about him that Arrowthorn, Goldmoon's father, spoke about with other men, but it was a subject always dropped when she entered the room.
Goldmoon moved into position before Riverwind, wondering idly what emotion she would see in his eyes, but he stepped back with a feline grace. Startled, and annoyed at the break in the smoothness of the ceremony, Goldmoon managed not to show her surprise. Believing the young peasant too simple to understand the ritual, she said softly, 'We are not quite finished. If you will kneel before me, I will bless you.'
'I need no blessing to pass this day's test, and I will not kneel to you or any other mortal creature,' Riverwind replied. He spoke quietly, but his deep voice sounded across the platform.
Goldmoon stiffened with repressed anger. She would not be embarrassed before the tribe, her holiness denied. She gestured for the guards to come from the side of the platform. They stood behind the infidel, prepared to haul him away at her command.
Before she could motion for them to remove Riverwind from her sight, however, Arrowthorn was by her side interceding. 'If it please, your grace,' he whispered to her, 'this one' — he glared icily at Riverwind — 'intends no disrespect; he simply does not believe as we do.'
The chieftain spoke up so the crowd could hear, 'Riverwind, grandson of Wanderer, why are you here at this ceremony? It is not required for you to attend.'
Riverwind shifted his eyes from the daughter to the father. Goldmoon's breath caught in her throat at his daring and pride. Yet the warrior's blue eyes showed not a hint of nervousness. Calmly, but with enough volume to carry to the tribe below, he replied, 'I am a warrior, and my swordarm will be a strength to my people. Although I do not worship as you do, you have my loyalty. I, too, desire a safe journey for my Chieftain's Daughter. Today's games will prove my worth.'
Riverwind glanced away from Arrowthorn, capturing Goldmoon's own reluctant gaze. He smiled ever so slightly. Goldmoon quickly shifted her focus out across the plains. What she had seen in those eyes in that brief instant caused her to shiver despite the golden heat of the sun. It was the look of a hunter stalking his prey.
'Well said,' Arrowthorn stated, then he turned to the waiting crowd. 'Let the games begin.'
Goldmoon stood stunned, not seeing the men before her or the plains spread out around her. She could not believe what she had just heard. How could her father give his approval to this arrogant, rebellious peasant? And how dare he circumvent her will? He might be her father, but SHE was the priestess!
The warriors filed from the altar, Riverwind at the end of the line. Goldmoon followed behind him stiffly. She took each step down the stairs firmly, as though she were trodding on this Riverwind's head.
The chieftain followed his daughter, appearing completely calm. Loreman remained up above, still scratching away at the parchment with his quill, relating his version of the events which had just passed.
Goldmoon entered her lodge, closing the door behind her father. Then she whirled about, free to vent her anger and confusion. 'I do not understand how you could allow — »
'Silence!' Arrowthorn said.
Goldmoon bit back her words.
The chieftain surveyed his daughter critically. She wore a formal robe that Tearsong, his dead wife, had also worn, and was, but for her hair, the image of her mother. She performed all the duties of Chieftain's Daughter without trouble or complaint. Goldmoon was, in fact, nearly flawless, yet Arrowthorn could never bring himself to tell her so. Godhood was not earned by the careless.
He suppressed his pride and snapped, 'Your circlet is crooked.'
Goldmoon felt her face flush crimson as her hands rose to straighten the slender silver band on her head.
'How are young men supposed to see a goddess in you if you do not take better care of your appearance? That won't do. Take it off. Have your women comb your hair again before you replace it.'
She was a full-grown woman of power, yet her sub jects would be astonished to see how she shook before her father's words.
Still, it was not easy for Arrowthorn to watch his only child tremble with shame. He put his hand on her shoulder and lifted her chin to bring her eyes up to his own. 'It would hardly matter in Riverwind's case. His whole family is cursed thus.'
'What do you mean?' she asked.
Arrowthorn drew in a long breath. 'Wanderer, grandfather of Riverwind, learned too much in his wanderings. He broke pact with our gods and taught his family to do the same.'
'Is that why they are so poor?' Goldmoon asked, remembering their shabby hut out on the plains.
'That is not important. Suffice it to say that I do not question their loyalty, despite their peculiar beliefs.'
'But, how can you not when they deny us?'
'You remember once we spoke together of those among us who say their faith is strong, or their loyalty is great, and yet the truth is another matter?'
Goldmoon nodded. The priesthood of the Que-shu passed from mother to eldest daughter, but — peculiar among the tribes of the Plains — the position of chieftain went to the man who won the hand of the priestess. Such a man's worthiness was judged both by the priestess herself and the current chieftain, her father. It was a tradition stemming from antiquity, a tradition that had kept the royalty of the Que-shu strong. Yet there were men, especially
