Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

The moons were gone now, though, replaced by a single orb that hung, pale and strange, in the night sky. It seemed the old proverbs no longer applied, either. Since the Summer of Chaos, Caramon had found time to dine with the Inn’s patrons three days out of four. That was because there were few patrons to dine with anymore.

For such a big man, Caramon ate little nowadays, and what there was on his plate, he picked at listlessly. He took sips of tea between mouthfuls of marjoram-rubbed rabbit and spiced potatoes, but most of the time, he just stared around the tavern.

There had been a time, just a few years ago, when the Inn had been packed at this hour. The tables and booths had been full, people had lined the bar shoulder-to-shoulder, and the air had rung with talk and laughter and cries for ale. Caramon had wished, on more than one occasion, that business would cool off so he could have some rest. Now he looked back on those days and wondered if, maybe, he hadn’t wished too hard.

Tonight, he could count the folk in the tavern without taking off his boots, as Tika was wont to quip. In the back sat two hooded elves, probably refugees from the ongoing troubles in Qualinesti. Clemen, Osler and Borlos-regulars who’d hang in till either the Inn closed for good or someone dragged them out feet-first-were drinking mulled wine and playing a game of cards over by the kitchen door, cursing and laughing loudly. A weary-looking tinker, who had found less work in Solace than he’d hoped and would surely move on soon, hunched over a bottle of dwarf spirits. And that was it.

Things just hadn’t been the same since that terrible summer. True, the Knights of Takhisis no longer ruled this part of Ansalon, but their absence was a double-edged sword. They’d been hard masters, and Caramon had hated every moment he’d lived under their sway, but at least they’d kept the bandits and goblins from running rampant. Now the road were more dangerous than they’d been in many years, and no one seemed to travel much anymore. On top of that, the world seemed to have slowed down since the Second Cataclysm. At first, folk had been preoccupied with rebuilding the damage wrought by the Dark Knights and the armies of Chaos. Now, though, 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.