The shaft fell just short of the riders, which was what he’d meant it to do. Swiftraven knew, as any good archer did, that a good warning shot could tell a man much about a foe. Cowards would balk or flee, cunning opponents would seek cover, and the brave or stupid would charge. As he notched a second shaft, he noticed that the riders did none of these; they reined in, stopping where he could make a clear shot. That meant something else entirely.
The tallest of the horsemen leaned forward in his saddle, peering toward where the arrow had fallen. Swiftraven saw one of the pony riders reach for something across his back, but the tall rider raised a hand, stopping him. The young Plainsman held his breath, sighting down his arrow as the wind whipped his long, brown hair behind him.
A sound rose then, above the clamor of the storm. A whistle, loud and piercing, rose and fell in a regular pattern. It was a language, though few, even among the Plainsfolk, knew how to speak it. Swiftraven, who had trained as a scout, was versed in whistlespeak, as were others who sometimes needed to signal long distances across the grasslands, such as hunters and shepherds.
Put down your bow, the whistler spoke. Would you feather your chieftain?
Starting, Swiftraven lowered his bow so swiftly he nearly dropped it. Without pause he wheeled his horse about and dug his heels into her flanks. He galloped east toward Que-Shu, riding before the storm to herald the return of Riverwind and his daughters.
The drizzle — was just turning into rain when Swiftraven drew up to the gates. The guards, who held their spears ready until they saw who the rider was, exchanged a few quick words with him, then parted to let him pass.
“What’s the name of this place again?” asked Kronn, looking up at the village walls as they drew near. They were whitewashed and painted with abstract patterns of red and blue, but they were also stout and sturdy, their tops lined with wicked iron spikes.
Riverwind glanced over his shoulder. “Que-Shu.”
“Bless you!” Kronn exclaimed, giggling.
“Kronn!” Catt said.
The Plainsman shook his head. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve heard that joke many times before. You’re not the first kender to visit the Plains.”
The guards at the gate lowered their spears, kneeling, as the-party drew near. Seeing this, Riverwind quickly crossed his arms in salute. “Get up,” he told them kindly. “Your wives have enough to do, I’m sure, without having to wash the mud from your trousers.”
Rising, the sentries returned his salute, then stood aside. They eyed the kender warily. Lightning raged in the inky sky as Riverwind came home for the last time.
Word of the chieftain’s return had spread swiftly after Swiftraven’s arrival. The thunder of drums called the villagers out of their homes, into the worsening rain. They lined the road, shouting and waving their hands as Riverwind’s party rode past the rows of painted skin tents and mud-brick huts, toward the arena at the center of town. In spite of Riverwind’s protestations, men knelt to him and women threw autumn flowers in his path. Children laughed and ran about, jumping in puddles with shrieks of delight.
“Quite the welcome,” Catt noted, impressed.
“It’s better when the weather’s nice,” Brightdawn remarked. “There are pipers and dancers, and everyone sings the Chant of the Ancestors.”
They reached the arena, where a row of grim-faced men, resplendent in beaded jackets and feathered headdresses, stood in their way. As one, the men held up their hands, and the riders reined in. Riverwind climbed down from his horse and handed the reins to a young boy; his daughters and the kender followed suit. As the boy led the animals away, Riverwind bowed to the row of men and crossed his arms again. The men returned the gesture as one.
“Who are those people?” Kronn asked, unabashedly staring.
“The Honored Ones,” Moonsong replied. “Chieftains of other tribes, and the elders of Que-Shu.”
“See the young one on the end?” Brightdawn said, pointing to a lean, swarthy man of thirty summers, whose bare chest was marked with a tattoo of a coiled serpent. Riverwind walked up to the man and clasped his arms in greeting. “That’s Graywinter. He just became chief of the Que-Kiri this spring, after his father died.”
“He means to court Brightdawn,” Moonsong added. Brightdawn shot her a scathing look.
“I thought you said you were going to marry Swiftraven,” Catt said innocently.
“I’m not going to marry anyone,” Brightdawn said, blossoms of red blooming on her cheeks. “Not until I’m ready.”
Kronn yawned, finding this talk of marriage boring. “Who’s that big one next to him?”
“That’s Nightshade,” Brightdawn replied, glad for the change of subject. Riverwind was speaking now with a grey-haired warrior with a jagged scar that ran from his nose his jawline. “He’s chieftain of the Que-Teh. Swiftraven and Stagheart are his sons.”
“There’s Swiftraven!” said Moonsong, pointing.
The young warrior had not had time to change out of his plain hunting skins before taking his place beside his father. He stared at his leather moccasins, still ashamed at having fired an arrow-even a warning shot-at his chieftain. Riverwind paused before him for a moment, then clapped Swiftraven on the shoulder. The young warrior relaxed, beaming, as Riverwind moved on down the line.
Catt looked around, her brow furrowing. “What about Stagheart? Isn’t he here?.”
“No,” Moonsong said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. “He must still be on his Courting Quest.”
“So we don’t get to see any griffon’s head?” Kronn asked, crestfallen.
“I saw a griffon once,” Catt stated proudly. “Of course I saw its head too. But the elf she belonged to wouldn’t let me ride her. Although I asked really nicely and everything.”
“Who’s that, Brightdawn?” Kronn pressed as Riverwind approached a fat, kind-faced old man. “Brightdawn? Hey, quit mooning at Swiftraven and pay attention!”
Brightdawn, who had indeed been staring longingly at Nightshade’s younger son, started guiltily and stammered.
Moonsong laughed at her sister’s embarrassment. “The next few are the elders,” she said. She nodded toward the fat man. “Hartbow there used to be one of Mother’s suitors, for a time. Briar,”-she indicated a short, wiry man whose hair was still charcoal-black, though he was plainly Riverwind’s age-“watched over our people when they were exiled in Thorbardin during the war. The man to his right, leaning on the crutch, is Hobblestep. He used to be one of the Que-Shu’s best warriors, but he lost his foot to a draconian soldier.”
Riverwind went down the line of elders quickly, then stopped at a gaunt, stooped man, who clutched a thick-bound book to his chest. “Good heavens,” Catt exclaimed, regarding the man’s bald head, wizened face, and sparkling black eyes. “I think that’s the oldest human I’ve ever seen.”
“He looks like a dried-apple doll,” Kronn chirped, his eyes wide. “AU shriveled and brown.”
“That’s Far-Runner,” Moonsong said. “He is old-more than a hundred, though no one knows his exact age.”
Many of the Que-Shu found it strange that their chieftain and lorekeeper should be friends, given the history they shared. Forty years ago, Far-Runner had been a warrior and a member of the council of elders under Goldmoon’s father, Arrowthorn. He had been present when Riverwind, a low-born heretic, had petitioned Arrowthorn for his daughter’s hand. He had assented to the Courting Quest that Arrowthorn had imposed upon the young shepherd. He had seen that young shepherd return from the impossible quest, bearing a staff of blue crystal. And he had been present when Arrowthorn condemned Riverwind to death by stoning as a blasphemer. By all rights, the chieftain of the Que-Shu had reason to resent the old man.
But Riverwind had watched the council carefully all those years ago, even in the face of death. Not all the elders had agreed with Arrowthorn, and Far-Runner had spoken out both before and after the Courting Quest, asking the chieftain to show mercy for Riverwind. In the end, though, his words had not been enough, and he’d had no choice but to abide by the council’s decision. Still, Far-Runner had protested the sentence: of all the elders in Que-Shu, he had refused to go to the Grieving Wall to witness the young warrior’s execution. For this reason, the Plainsfolk whispered, the gods had seen to it that Far-Runner survived the War of the Lance, while the rest of the
