“This isn’t the first time I’ve been ill, my friend,” Riverwind said. “Five years ago, I woke one morning with a terrible pain inside me. It felt as though someone had set a hot stone in my belly. At first I thought it was nothing but food that disagreed with me-my stomach’s not as hardy as it once was-so I ignored it, waited for it to go away.
“It got worse, though, and I began to fear I had been poisoned. There were some, then, who might have done so. There still are. A man makes enemies doing what I have done-not everyone believes it is best that the tribes should unite as one. It was then that I first began to fear for my life, though for the wrong reasons.
“I hadn’t told Goldmoon about it yet. You may have noticed,” he added, with a wry smile, “I can be a bit stubborn at times. By the time I finally confided in her, the pain was such that I could no longer eat-not even plain corn porridge. When I told Goldmoon how sick I was, she was so angry she didn’t speak to me for a week.
“She tended me, though, and prayed to Mishakal. There was a foulness inside me, and it had grown so large I could feel it when I touched my belly. It was hard and sore, but the worst part was knowing it didn’t belong. I wanted to cut myself open, to pull it out and cast it into the fire. I might even have tried it, too, in my fever madness, but I lacked the strength.
“I lay in bed for nearly a month. Goldmoon acted as chieftain in my absence, keeping the Que-Teh and Que- Kiri tribes from slitting each other’s throats. My daughters fed me broth-the only thing I could keep down-and Goldmoon gave me medicine and chanted by my bedside. In time, the goddess blessed me. The pain subsided, and the corruption that had been growing inside me went away. I had never known such relief, my friend. My father died of such an illness when I was a child. It is a bad end.”
They reached the edge of the meadow, where the grasses gave way to the vallenwoods. Riverwind took a deep breath, then bent down and picked up a brown vallenwood leaf. He twirled it between his fingers, lost in thought. “A month ago, I woke with the pain again,” he said quietly. “Only now, Mishakal is not around to hear Goldmoon’s prayers. The foulness is growing within me again, and there is no stopping it. Before long, it will kill me.”
He released the leaf, and the wind sent it spinning away into the shadows. Caramon watched it go, then looked up at his friend. They regarded each other silently. Then Caramon gripped Riverwind’s muscular arm with his own massive hand. The Plainsman regarded him silently.
“Thank you for coming,” Caramon said. “It must have been a hard thing, convincing Goldmoon to let you travel.”
Riverwind shook his head, the feathers of his headdress rustling. “She does not know.”
“What?” Caramon’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I haven’t told her I’m sick again,” Riverwind answered. “And I’m not going to. Neither do I mean to tell my daughters. I have told Wanderer, Tika, and now you, but no one else must hear of it… least of all Goldmoon.”
“But,” Caramon sputtered, “she’s your wife, Riverwind.”
The Plainsman nodded sternly. “I know, my friend. She is my wife, and I love her more than anything in this world. I would spare her this pain. You didn’t see her face five years ago, when she learned I was ill. It… crumpled. She has lived through this before. When I was gone on my Courting Quest, Arrowthorn, her father, was stricken. When I left Que-Shu, he was a strong man, a hunter and a warrior. By the time I returned, he was wasted and old, babbling and drooling. Goldmoon had to feed him, wash him, see to his every need. She watched him wither like grain after a frost, and there was nothing she could do about it.”
“And you don’t want to put her through that again,” Caramon said.
“I do not.” Riverwind sighed wearily. “How could I tell her, Caramon? At least before, she had her faith to draw upon. Mishakal gave her strength. Even if I had died, she would have known it was the goddess’s will. Whose will is it now, when the gods have gone?”
Caramon bowed his head, blinking back tears. When the Chaos War ended, the loss of the gods had struck everyone hard, but none had suffered more than those who had devoted their lives to their faith. All across Ansalon, priests had succumbed to madness or taken their lives in despair. In Tarsis, it was said, a monk of Majere had gone to the marketplace one day and killed six people before the guards could stop him. In Neraka, priests of Takhisis had doused themselves in oil and set themselves ablaze.
Goldmoon had always been strong-willed, however, even for a cleric. Caramon had taken comfort in the knowledge that her strength would not falter. It would take something truly awful to break her. Something like her husband slowly dying, of a sickness she no longer had the power to cure.
“Won’t she find out?” Caramon asked. “You said yourself-the first illness left you bedridden, unable to eat. How can you hide that from her?”
“I cannot.” Riverwind stared fiercely at Caramon. “This time, I will not let it come to that.”
Caramon blew a long, slow breath through his lips. “Are you sure it’s what you want?” he asked.
Riverwind nodded. “It will be better, for both of us. Goldmoon will not have to bear watching me waste away, like she did Arrowthorn. And as for me-” He broke off, then shook his head, chuckling grimly. “You know I am no coward, Caramon. But I know what lies ahead for me, and I am afraid. I am sixty-five years old. I have led a life I am proud of. I do not want to end it like that, in pain, waiting for the final hour to come.”
They stood together in silence, beneath the pale moon, listening as the cold wind ruffled the leaves. Then Caramon clasped his friend’s arms, letting the gesture convey what words could not.
“Come on,” he said, clapping the Plainsman on the back. “I’ll get you some spiced potatoes.”
Riverwind smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The tavern at the Inn was almost empty. The elves had gone, presumably upstairs to their room. The tinker was lost to the world, his head on the table beside the empty bottle of dwarf spirits. He mumbled incoherently in his sleep. Caramon shook his head in pity, knowing well enough the signs of a lifelong drunk.
Of course Clemen, Borlos, and Osler were where he’d left them, playing cards by the kitchen. The game had switched to Bounty Hunter, and from the looks of things-the heap of steel coins in front of him, and Borlos and Osler’s glum faces-Clemen was laying waste to the other two. They were just ending a hand as Caramon and Riverwind came in, and Clemen grinned as he turned up his last card: the Dragon of Waves. Evidently Waves were trump, because Borlos cursed under his breath as Clemen raked the pot-which included two silver rings and a small opal-over to his side of the table.
“Evenin’, big guy,” Clemen said jovially as Caramon crossed the tavern. His eyes flicked to Riverwind. “And bigger guy, too. We can deal the two o’ ye in next hand if ye’re feeling game.”
“Save yourself,” Osler muttered grimly. “You’d have better luck in a head-butting contest with a minotaur tonight. I swear, this bugger’s put a hex on the cards.”
Caramon chuckled, glancing at Riverwind, but the Plainsman shook his head. “The only games I know are wrestling and pole sparring,” Riverwind said.
“Pole sparring, eh?” drawled Borlos. “Well, maybe we can arrange something. Caramon, get Clem a broom.”
“All right,” Caramon said. He started toward a nearby closet.
Clemen’s face turned white as a cleric’s robes. The others held their straight faces for a moment, but it was a losing battle, and soon Osler and Borlos were howling with laughter, pounding the table. Caramon chuckled along with them, and even Riverwind cracked a smile.
“Had ye goin’ there, didn’t we?” roared Borlos, slapping Clemen on the shoulder. “Thought ye’d be gettin’ yer head clonked by a genuine Hero of the Lance, eh?”
Riverwind glanced at Caramon, surprised. “They know who I am?”
“Oh, great gods, yeah,” said Osler.
“Don’t believe them, Riverwind,” said Tika. She emerged from the kitchen, the smell of spices wafting behind her. “They heard me tell Caramon you were in town.”
Osler reddened. “Well, aye, but I reckon I’d’a known ye the moment I saw ye, Plainsman. Not many o’ yer kind taller than Caramon, here. He’s told us all about the whole lot o’ ye.”
“And told us, and told us….“ droned Clemen. Suddenly everyone-Tika included-was laughing again, at Caramon’s expense.
“Pull up a seat,” offered Osler, gesturing at an empty chair. “You can tell us the truth about the War of the Lance. It’d be nice to hear something other than Caramon’s tall tales for a change.”
