Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

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 morning.

Shivering, Caramon let his gaze drift from the black bier, over to the white one on the room’s other side. The second bier bore no carvings. It was a simple block of white marble, veined with blue. It was heaped with white roses, just as Steel’s was covered with lilies. In the midst of the roses lay the body of Tanis Half-Elven.

Caramon looked upon his friend’s face, at the odd smile that twisted his gray beard. After a moment, though, he bowed his head, grimacing. The pain of seeing Tanis, quiet and still upon the slab, had not lessened with the passage of years. It still made him feel terribly alone.

He wasn’t alone this time, though. At the bier’s foot knelt a tall man clad in buckskins and furs. A many-feathered headdress-doffed out of respect for the dead-rested on the floor by his side. Long hair, once black but now mostly white, spilled loose over his shoulders. The firelight came from a torch in the man’s left hand. He chanted softly, then stopped suddenly, raising his head.

“My friend,” the man said. “I am glad you’ve come.”

“Riverwind?” Caramon asked.

The man nodded, but still he did not turn. He raised a muscular arm, deeply tanned from years spent in the wilderness. “Please, Caramon,” he beckoned. “Come see what we have brought, my daughters and I.”

Caramon stepped forward. As he did, he glimpsed something on the bier, beside Tanis’s body. It was a long, slender staff with a plain shaft and an ornately carved head. The torchlight caught it, and it flashed with bright blue light.

Slowly, stiffly, Riverwind rose. He turned to look at Caramon. His face was as it had always been-more weathered and wrinkled, perhaps, but the strength and kindness were still there. His dark eyes shone.

“Goldmoon felt it would be fitting,” he said.

Caramon gazed upon the staff that lay beside his friend’s body, and words would not come. It had been more than thirty years since he had seen it, but it was just as he remembered: hewn of blue crystal, a single sapphire shaped with craftsmanship beyond the ken of man. So much had begun with that staff.

“Is it real?” he asked, his voice faint with wonder.

Riverwind nodded. “When the war with Chaos ended, Goldmoon and I went east again, on a pilgrimage to Xak Tsaroth. I had found proof of the old gods there before. We hoped to find it again.” He was silent a moment, frowning, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “We did not. When we reached the temple, the statue of Mishakal there had fallen and shattered upon the floor. We found the staff amid the rubble and took it with us. It is not a holy relic any more, Caramon. It has no magic. But when we learned of this tomb, we knew it belonged here. Tanis would understand.”

Caramon blinked back tears. “I’m sure he does.”

Neither man said anything for a long while. The torch crackled and popped.

“Where are the girls?” Caramon asked.

“I asked them to leave me here,” Riverwind replied. “They went, I think, to visit Usha.”

“Tika told me they’ve been to the graves.”

The Plainsman nodded solemnly. “They wanted dearly to see them and begged to come with me. I am sorry we couldn’t visit sooner, my friend. Things have been difficult for our people, these past two years.”

“So I’ve heard,” Caramon said. “Are you still having trouble keeping the alliance between the tribes?”

“From time to time,” Riverwind answered. “But that is no great worry. When the Dark Knights left these lands, though, they left their Brutes behind. Several clans have settled in the Eastwall Mountains. My son is seldom home these days, there is so much fighting.”

Caramon nodded. “But Wanderer is well?”

“As well as one might expect,” Riverwind said grimly.

Caramon hesitated. “And Goldmoon?”

“She fares well,” Riverwind assured him. “The loss of the goddess weighs on her, of course, but she has always been strong. She wanted to come, but with Wanderer away she couldn’t afford to leave Que-Shu.”

“That’s a shame,” Caramon said earnestly. “I’m sure she’d want to see-” He stopped abruptly, his hand waving feebly at the green-cloaked body upon the bier. Together they stared down at Tanis’s remains.

“Do you know,” Riverwind said sadly, “the last time I saw him was ten years ago? He and Laurana came to visit us on the plains. I wanted to return the favor, to go to Solanthus, but-” He spread his hands. “I always thought there would be time for such things later. I was sure he’d outlive us all.”