Love And War (23 page)

A mighty wall of wind, invisible, irresistible, blast ed across the palace roof. The
emaciated alchemist, his robes filling with air like black bat's wings, was lifted off his
feet. Screeching with terror, Mukhari Ras flew backward to the edge of the roof. An upward
gust filled his skirt, lofting him. The Lord of the Sea soared into the sky, borne by the
ensorceled wind. On and on he flew, his brittle body spread flat by the torrent of air,
until he was lost in the billowing clouds and dust.

Mukhari was gone, but the danger was not yet passed. The wind blew Sturm over the table,
but he managed to thrust an arm through the funnel hole. He held on dearly as the tempest howled around him.
Retorts and alembics from the spirit still toppled over and were blown away. The Kernaffi
priests collapsed in a heap, only to be torn from each other by the brutal wind. One by
one they were swept away, the last pair clinging together even as they were carried off.

Sturm cried out in pain as the wind tore at him. He thought his arm would snap off at the
shoulder, but he was able to get a relieving grip with his free hand. The table shifted
and turned. Sturm pressed his face to the copper top. Dust scoured the roof, stinging the
boy's exposed flesh. Just when it seemed he could endure no more, the wild fury abated.

He clung fiercely to the table, the instrument of death that had preserved his life. He
heard a faint call for help. Gingerly, Sturm removed his aching arm from the funnel hole.
The arm was black and blue from wrist to elbow.

The cry came again: “Help me, help . . .” Sturm shaded his eyes and looked around. He was
alone on the roof. Everything, including Soren's body, was gone.

Radiz, his plume bent at an angle and his golden armor dented, hobbled up the steps. He
stared around. The groan for help came again. Radiz and Sturm walked converging paths to
the edge of the roof.

“At last, we are free!” he murmured.

Dangling from a rain gutter was Artavash. The gaping dragonmouth spout had snagged her
long military cape as she fell. Now she was suspended high above the housetops of Kernaf.

“Help me!” she pleaded. The cape tore a little and Artavash begged for quick assistance.

Sturm eyed Radiz. The Kernaffi blinked dazedly. “I leave it to you, boy. If you wish,
we'll bring her up. Or I can cut her free and let her fall. What do you wish?”

Her gray eyes appealed for mercy. “She killed Soren,” Sturm said.

True," said Radiz. He pulled the sword from his belt.

“No,” said Sturm. “The Measure teaches mercy, even to our enemy.”

He dropped on his stomach and reached for her cape. Radiz took hold as well. They hauled
Artavash to safety. Once securely on the roof, she rolled over on the tiles and gasped for
air. Radiz took her sword and knife away.

He jerked Artavash around on to her stomach and quickly bound her arms and legs tightly.
When she cursed too loudly, he drew a brightly colored scarf from his pocket and jammed it into her mouth.
At last he stood and faced Sturm.

“Now, what can I do to make amends, young lord?” asked Radiz.

Sturm cradled his bruised arm and frowned with concentration. “I wish to leave,” he said.
“I want a ship to take my mother, Mistress Carin, and me to Solace. It was my father's
wish that we go to Solace, so that is what we shall do.”

Radiz nodded. As they walked slowly to the steps, the commander laid a reassuring hand on
the boy's shoulder. “Whatever made you think of using the old sailor's magic string?” he
asked.

“I didn't plan it,” said Sturm, swallowing. “My only thought was to turn Mukhari's knife
away.”

“You didn't realize cutting the cord would release all the wind?”

Sturm shook his head. “I don't know anything about magic. It's not a fitting subject for
knights.”

Paladine would forgive him for bending the Measure. . .

At the top of the stairs Sturm paused. “Radiz?” “Yes, young Sturm?” "Would you have your
men search for Sergeant Soren?

He deserves an honorable burial.“ ”It shall be done." They descended the steps together.
Radiz remarked “You know, Mukhari was right about one thing; you are a noble lad.”

“I am my father's son,” said Sturm.

The voices of the boy and the Kernaffi commander echoed through the palace halls long
after the rooftop had returned to the clean air, bright sun, and nature's honest wind.

The road to exile was very long. For Sturm Brightblade, this was only the beginning.

Heart of Goldmoon Laura Hickman and Kate Novac The air of excitement was high as the Que-shu tribe milled before the ancient stone
platform that was the focus of their village. Everyone was clad in colorful festive raiment. Adding to the delight of the senses was the delectable smell of foods being
prepared for the celebration to come.

One by one, however, the exhilarated men, women, and children fell into silence as their
attention was caught by a lone young woman, climbing the granite construction before them.
Soon, all was still. No child giggled, no babe even cried. Nothing disturbed the faint
shuffling sound made by the slippered feet of the holy woman as she ascended to the
platform.

The woman was Goldmoon, princess and priestess of the Que-shu. Those who watched knew that
upon her death - in the far future - Goldmoon would become a goddess, as had her mother,
Tearsong, and all her deceased ancestors. Goldmoon was the tribe's link to their gods. Her
father, Chieftain Arrowthorn, would also achieve godhood, but, as revered as he was, the
silence and awe of the crowd was reserved for the slender woman who was his only heir.

Goldmoon's long, silken hair was brighter than the golden grasses waving in the fields
near the village. Sight of her hair still astonished the dark-haired tribesmen. “It is a
mark of her favor with the ancestors,” they said. As she reached the platform and bowed to
the crowd, the sun glinted from those golden tresses, and no one present witnessing her
grace, her beauty, or that bright crown of hair doubted Goldmoon's worth in being honoured
with this ceremony.

Goldmoon turned from the platform edge and bowed respectfully to her father, who had
previously ascended the platform. Though it was her mother's blood that decreed Goldmoon's
status as priestess, it was her father's greatness as a warrior that had won him
Tearsong's hand in marriage. Only Arrowthorn's cunning and wisdom had kept the reins of
power from being torn from their family's hands after the crushing blow of Tearsong's
early death, and had held them until she, Goldmoon, was old enough to serve as priestess
to her people.

Goldmoon moved to Arrowthorn's right side and fixed her gaze out over the plains to the
mountain on the northern horizon. She could not see it from here, but she knew that near
the summit was a vast cavern, called the Hall of the Sleeping Spirits, where the mortal
remains of Goldmoon's dead ancestors lay, behind a door opened by 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 honour, 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.