with the scars of that summer at last starting to heal, few people wanted to do anything but stay at home. Nobody seemed to hunger for adventure any more. There had been enough excitement of late to last a hundred lifetimes.
When Caramon finished his tea and grew tired of pushing cold food about his plate, he decided he could afford to have another sleep. If anyone tried to cause trouble, Clemen, Osler and Borlos would give them a knock on the head for interrupting their card game. “Yes,” Caramon muttered, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back, “another nap sounds just fine.”
He was just shy of slumber when the door opened and closed again. The chatter of the card game stopped.
“Look sharp, big guy,” called Osler. “You’re about to get yourself thumped.”
Caramon looked up in time to see Tika, who was moving quickly across the tavern, toward him. Her eyes were blazing, and the look on her face could have frozen Crystalmir Lake, though there was still a week left of summer. Caramon rose quickly, nearly knocking over his chair, and stepped between his loving wife and the iron platter on the tabletop. Judging by the way Tika looked, Caramon didn’t much want her within reach of anything that looked good for bashing heads.
“You’re home early,” he said, trying to sound as if the world were made of sunshine and blooming roses. “How’s Usha?”
Pregnant was what Usha was, of course. Over the past few months, Tika had taken to going to Palin and Usha’s house, fussing over her daughter-in-law incessantly. Palin, having inherited some of his father’s wits, knew enough to let his mother have her way, and to make himself scarce in the meantime. He was at Wayreth now, searching the libraries vainly for some inkling of how to reawaken magic. He’d be coming home soon, though. The child was almost due. Usha was as huge around as a well-fed ogress, and Tika was anxious over the impending arrival of her first grandchild. Caramon was looking forward to the birth too, of course. Life was lonely, even with his daughters to help out around the inn.
“Usha’s fine,” Tika snapped, drawing up so close that he fell back a pace. “I left Laura and Dezra at her place. The child will come before the moon’s full.”
“That’s good,” Caramon said, smiling.
Tika didn’t say anything. She glared at him, her silver-shot red hair gleaming in the firelight. She’d had more than fifty years to perfect her accusing look.
“Rhea’s got supper on,” Caramon offered. “I’ll go get you some, and a glass of that Ergothian wine you like-”
“You don’t have any idea what’s on my mind, do you?” Caramon met his wife’s fiery gaze for a moment, then looked away. “Nope,” he said sheepishly.
Clemen, Borlos and Osler continued their card game quietly, being very careful not to draw attention to themselves.
Tika took a long, slow breath. “On my way back here, I stopped at Tanin and Sturm’s graves.”
Caramon nodded. Though his wife was excited by the prospect of a new baby, no grandchild would ever take the place of her two lost sons. She spent a great deal of time at their graves, often leaving behind wildflowers or toys they’d played with as boys. She always returned from the graves in a grim mood, but today it was different. Grief for her sons wasn’t the only thing bothering her.
“What is it, Tika?” Caramon asked.
“You honestly don’t know?”
“No. I don’t.” Worry was beginning to fray his patience. “For the last time, Tika, what’s the matter?”
She relaxed a little, the anger in her eyes giving way to sorrow. “Riverwind’s come to Solace.”
Caramon hurried down the stairs that led from the tavern to the ground. He was confused, and Tika hadn’t helped much. Riverwind’s arrival in Solace should have been a joyous occasion-he was a friend, after all, and they hadn’t seen him in years-but Tika had been on the verge of tears when she’d spoken his name.
His first guess had been that something awful had happened on the Plains. “Has something happened to Goldmoon?” he’d demanded. “To Wanderer? The girls?”
“No,” Tika had said. “Riverwind said Goldmoon and Wanderer are well, and the girls came here with him. They… wanted to see the graves.”
Moonsong and Brightdawn, Riverwind’s twin daughters, had been fond of Tanin and Sturm. They had played together as children, and both Caramon and Riverwind had watched with amusement as their children developed their first adolescent crushes on each other. Of course, that had come to nothing-the twins would marry men of the Plains when the time came, and the Majere boys had fallen in love, or something like love, with other women-but they’d remained friends up until the day Tanin and Sturm died. The twins hadn’t come to Solace since then, but Caramon had known that one day they would. Their father, evidently, had come with them.
“Why is Riverwind here?” Caramon had asked his wife.
“You know where to find him,” was all she would say in reply.
It was to the Last Heroes’ Tomb, then, that Caramon hastened. It stood outside the town proper, in the peaceful field where the gods-and Raistlin with them-had bidden the world farewell. Low and square, it might have been mistaken by a careless traveler for just another barrow in a world where tombs had grown all too common. There were few travelers in Ansalon, however, who were so ignorant. The tomb was a sacred place, regarded with awe and reverence by everyone-human and elf, dwarf and kender. Even the goblins dared not disturb it.
The sun was setting in the west, the pale moon rising full in the east, when Caramon arrived at the tomb. He hastened through the sheltering ring of trees the elves had planted-saplings two years ago, they grew quickly, spreading their slender limbs toward the pewter-colored sky-and jogged toward the tomb itself. It was crafted of marble and obsidian, white stone and black woven together by dwarven hands in memory of the alliance between Good and Evil that had brought down Chaos. Its gold and silver doors, one etched with the Solamnic symbol of the rose, the other marked by the lily worn by the Knights of Takhisis, stood open. Torchlight glowed within, and Caramon could hear a faint voice chanting in a language he didn’t understand but had heard before. It was the language of the Plainsmen.
Caramon paused at the doors, just for a moment, and glanced at the name carved on the lintel. No one could prove that Tasslehoff Burrfoot was indeed dead, for there was no body to be found, but Palin and Usha both had sworn they’d seen him crushed beneath Chaos’s heel. That was enough for Caramon, whose heart ached whenever he saw the kender’s name, and the hoopak graven beneath it.
There were, thankfully, no kender here tonight. They had been turning up in greater and greater numbers lately, making pilgrimages to the tomb from every part of Ansalon. The kender were the only people who could be counted on the travel in these dread times; unfortunately, much to the townsfolk’s horror, they could also be counted on to continue being kender. The Inn of the Last Home was missing several dozen mugs, half its silverware, and-Caramon had never been able to explain it-a couch. Similar losses had been reported all around Solace, and all fingers pointed at the light-fingered kender. The captain of the town guard was prone these days to uncontrollable facial tics.
Caramon stepped into the tomb, and for a moment was blinded by darkness. When his eyes adjusted, he descended the stairs that led down into its depths, following the ever-brightening light and the soft, familiar voice. He hastened along a long tunnel, passing vaults containing the bodies of knights slain in battle with Chaos, until finally he reached the innermost sepulcher. Swallowing, he ducked through the doorway and beheld the biers.
On his left stood a slab of black marble, graven with skulls and thorns and other fearsome things. Despite the gruesome carvings, though, there was an aura of peace about the bier. The sigils were those of the Knights of Takhisis, but they held a certain beauty, just as the lily the knights venerated smelled sweet when it bloomed.
Upon it, undisturbed by the passage of time, lay the body of Steel Brightblade. He wore black armor, grimly etched, and in his hands he clasped an ancient sword. The blade had been handed down through the Brightblade family from ancient times and had been buried with Steel’s father, Sturm, in the Tower of the High Clerist. Caramon had been in Sturm’s tomb when the dead knight’s ghost had risen and passed the sword on to his son. Steel had fought with the blade in the battle that had killed him.
All around Steel’s body, the bier was strewn with black lilies. Caramon raised his eyebrows at this. No one but the Dark Knights would leave such tokens for their slain hero, but there had been no word of members of that brotherhood around Solace for months. Yet the lilies were fresh, as though they had bloomed this very
