Suddenly, William stopped laughing. “Zeboim’s twenty teats,” he blurted, staring at Riverwind. “Ye’re serious?”
The old Plainsman nodded slowly, his lips pressed firmly together.
“Kendermore?” asked Nine-Finger Pete, his voice rising with disbelief. “Why in the Abyss would you want to go there?”
Riverwind leveled a piercing glare at the ancient seaman. “Because,” he said simply, “they need our help.”
The old sailor snorted derisively, turning back to his grog. “Bloody idiot,” he muttered softly-but not soft enough.
“Shut yer hole, you mangy cur!” William barked toward the bar. “Talk that way about my friends again, and ye’re barred from my place. I mean it.” He turned to Riverwind and smiled. “I’m sorry. Pete’s been pickling in that slop he drinks for so long, he ain’t got half a brain left. Eat. Drink. There’s more where that came from, too. It’s on the house! Ye’re my guests, all o’ ye.”
That said, William bowed-a valiant feat, given his girth-and waddled back to the bar. Neither the Plainsman nor his companions missed the look in his eyes, however, as he turned away from the table. Though he would never say so, William clearly thought little more of Riverwind’s quest than did Nine-Finger Pete.
The candles on the Pig and Whistle’s bar had melted to misshapen stumps when Riverwind rose from his chair. He wobbled slightly as he did so-Arnsley Black was a potent brew, and the companions had put away a healthy dose of it-but he quickly steadied himself and waved to William.
The innkeeper leaned on the bar, which creaked ominously beneath his weight. “What can I get for ye?” he asked.
“Nothing, thanks,” the Plainsman answered. He reached into his pouch, producing an old, worn flute. “For old time’s sake?”
William grinned. “I’d be a damn fool to say no.” He raised his voice to a bellow that made Erewan and Pete wince and cover their ears. “Quiet, the lot o’ ye!”
The tavern’s patrons swiftly fell still. Riverwind walked to a corner by the hearth-the same corner where, more than thirty years before, he and Goldmoon had once played. With quiet dignity he sat cross-legged upon the sawdust-covered floor, then looked back at the table where his companions sat. “Will you join me, Kronn?” he asked.
The kender jumped up from his chair and hurried over to join the old Plainsman. He busily dismantled his chapak, setting its various pieces in a pile at his feet, then set his mouth to the end of the haft. “Ready,” he said.
Nodding, Riverwind looked out over his audience. “I played this song for the first time in this very tavern,” he said, his sonorous voice filling the room. “It tells of the ancient gods… and how they wait to return to the world.”
A murmur rippled through the room. No one was sure what to make of this. Didn’t the doddering Plainsman know the gods had left again, this time for good? What was the meaning of playing such a song now, when the pale moon shone above Balifor Bay?
Riverwind didn’t bother to answer those muttered questions. Instead, he raised his flute to his lips, and its plaintive sound filled the room. He played alone for a moment, then Kronn picked up the simple tune, weaving his own melody in harmony with Riverwind’s.
As the Plainsman and the kender played, the patrons of the Pig and Whistle discovered something remarkable. Even now, after so much change had visited the world, the song still spoke to them of hope.
Three days later, as the companions rode past the farmlands and windmills of Balifor, the low, green line of the Kenderwood at last appeared upon the horizon. It was still a long way off-three leagues, maybe four-but Kronn and Catt leaned forward in their saddles, eagerness on their faces. Seeing this, Brightdawn couldn’t help but smile.
“It must be exciting,” she remarked. “Coming home, I mean, after being so long away.”
“Sure is,” Catt agreed enthusiastically.
“I thought you people were born wanderers,” Swiftraven said. “I’ve seen enough of you on the Plains, anyway, always on your way somewhere.”
Kronn shook his head at the young warrior. “Just because I love the road, that doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see my homeland,” he replied. “Besides, my wanderlust ended years ago.”
“It’s not just that,” Catt said. “We’re worried about the ogres… and the dragon. Sometimes, when we were far from home, I worried that when we finally got back, there’d be nothing left. Kendermore would be gone, and Paxina.
“Not to mention Giff,” Kronn added, grinning slyly. Catt glared at him, flushing with embarrassment.
“Who’s Giff?” Brightdawn asked.
“Giffel Birdwhistle,” Kronn answered before Catt could intervene. “A friend of ours, from when we were children. He’s a warrior now-he came to Kendermore after Woodsedge burned, and Pax put him in charge of part of the town guard. He and Catt are sweet on each other.”
“Kronn!” Catt objected, but he only laughed.
“Father, have you ever been to Kendermore?” Brightdawn asked. “Is there anyone you’re returning to?”
The old Plainsman sat astride his horse, a faraway look in his eyes. His face was drawn, his skin sallow. To the others, he seemed to have aged ten years or more since they’d broken camp. They all looked at him worriedly now as he continued to stare down the road, not even glancing at Brightdawn in reply.
“My chief…?” Swiftraven asked.
“Father?” Brightdawn said at the same time, her voice low with concern. “Are you well?”
He started, blinking, then looked at the others as if seeing them for the first time. “I–I’m sorry.” he said, spots of color blossoming in his cheeks. “I wasn’t listening.”
“You’ve been quiet all day,” Kronn noted solemnly.
Riverwind looked away, momentarily unable to meet the others’ questioning looks. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Only a feeling I haven’t had… since I set out on my Courting Quest, I suppose. I’m leaving everything behind-every place I’ve ever seen, everyone I’ve ever met-except the four of you, of course. Back then, though, it was exciting. Now…“ He pursed his lips, shrugging. “I guess I’m older now.”
“Well,” Catt said, “what about Brightdawn’s question? You’ve never been to Kendermore, Riverwind?”
The old Plainsman shook his head, his gaze still abstracted.
“You’re in for a treat, then,” Catt promised. “Just wait till we’re in the Kenderwood. The bloodberries should be ripe about now, for one thing… or maybe not. It’s a bit warm for this time of year, to be sure.”
“I was thinking that myself,” Kronn agreed. “We’re well into fall. Last year we’d had our first frost by this time, but now it feels like summer just plain forgot to leave.” He pondered this thought grimly. “You don’t think it has anything to do with Malys, do you?”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the party. Brightdawn and Swiftraven exchanged troubled glances, then looked away, toward the still-distant Kenderwood. Catt and Kronn swallowed, their brows furrowed. Only Riverwind dared to speak, and only softly, as if he feared being overheard. “No,” he told the kender. “I’m sure it’s just a warm spell.”
The others could tell, from the tone of his voice, that he didn’t fully believe the words either.
Unlike the sylvan homes of the elves, the Kenderwood was not an ancient forest. In fact, as the lives of woodlands are measured, it was quite young. Before the Cataclysm, the lands surrounding what was now Kendermore had been part of the empire of Istar, a place of fertile farmlands, isolated abbeys, and a few human towns. They had even been home to one of the fabled Towers of High Sorcery, although the wizards themselves had destroyed that august edifice during the Lost Battles rather than let it fall into the Kingpriest’s hands.
When the fiery mountain sundered Istar, however, the humans had fled, leaving their monasteries and cities to ruin. Some had gone west to found such cities as Flotsam and Port Balifor; others traveled east to the Dairly Plains and became barbarians. By the time the kender arrived, traveling north from the ruins of their ancient land of Balifor, central Goodlund was abandoned-a place of ghosts, if the rumors were to be believed.
