Paul Thompson - Riverwind

“He has the bearing of a warrior,” the girl observed. “But he looks quite ill.”

“We can't take in every starving robber who passes.”

“Well, we certainly can't leave him out here in the rain!” the girl declared. Riverwind wanted to applaud her good manners, but he was too weak to even make a sound.

The girl tried to lift him by an arm, but wasn't strong enough. The boy watched for a moment, then joined in. The two of them half-carried, half-dragged Riverwind to the wagons. With much straining and complaining, they hoisted him into one wagon.

The canvas flap fell, and the boy removed his hat. He had a high forehead and lots of freckles. His gray eyes were bloodshot. The girl slipped back her hood. She had a pleasant, plump face, a button nose, and curly black hair.

“Hand me a cloth, Darmon,” said the girl. The boy plucked a rag from the bow frame of the roof and gave it to her. She blotted Riverwind's face and neck, wrung out the rag, and dried his hands and arms.

“Thank you,” the plainsman managed to say.

“What's your name?” asked the girl gently.

“Riverwind.”

The boy, Darmon, snorted. “A barbarian name!” he declared. The girl shushed him.

“Don't take him too seriously,” she advised the young plainsman. “Darmon likes to think he has noble blood, and that allows him to look down on other people.”

“I do have noble blood, Lona! My uncle is Lord Bedric of-”

“So you've told me. And told me.” The girl wrung her cloth again. “My name is Arlona. Lona for short. What happened to you, Riverwind, that put you in such a state?”

He blinked his burning eyes and marshaled his thoughts. “I'm trying to get home,” he said. “To Que-Shu. My beloved is there, waiting for me. I have to give this staff to Goldmoon.” It lay beside him on the pallet of blankets.

“That thing?” Darmon said, pointing at the staff with one toe. “What's so special about that old stick?”

“The Staff of Mishakal. It fulfills my quest,” Riverwind said feverishly.

The boy rolled his eyes and shook his head, muttering, “Barbarians.”

Lona made some hot soup, and while it simmered she told Riverwind how she and Darmon came to be out here in the middle of nowhere.

“Darmon and I are the last survivors of Quidnin's Royal Theatre Company,” Lona said, stirring the broth. “We'd been on the road from the New Ports for Solace when Master Quidnin had a falling out with the wagon leader over the best route to take. Quidnin won out, unfortunately, and we went east.” The dark-haired girl stared into the pot. “It seems we should have gone west. We ended up in the mountains. The drovers were furious with Quidnin for getting us lost. There was a terrible argument, and the drovers abandoned us. Quidnin was still certain that we couldn't be too far off. He sent scouts one by one to search for help, for food, for water. None of the scouts ever came back. Of the eleven people in the theatre company when we set out from the New Ports, only Darmon and I remain.”

“Actors?” Riverwind said. He sipped the mug of weak but hot broth Lona had given him, and felt better. He reached out and fingered the end of the blade Darmon had presented to him in the rain. It bent easily under his thumb. The sword was a prop, made of tin.

“Hey!” Darmon protested. “You'll ruin it! Stop!” He shifted to the other side of the wagon, out of Riverwind's reach. The plainsman chuckled at the realization that he'd been threatened by a boy with a toy sword.

“How did you come to be out here?” Lona asked, watching him intently with bright brown eyes.

“I've traveled from Xak Tsaroth,” Riverwind said. “I found this staff there. Before that-” He frowned. “The details are hazy. There was a girl… a girl with dark hair.”

Lona pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “You have a high fever,” she said. “It's no wonder your head is addled.”

Riverwind drank more broth. “How long have you been out here alone?” he asked.

“The last of the adults, a fellow named Varabo, rode off on the last cart horse, promising to return in a day if he didn't meet up with assistance,” Lona said. “That was a week past, and we've been waiting here in the middle of nowhere ever since.”

“I told Varabo I should be the one to go,” Darmon said. “I knew he'd never find the way out.”

“Let me get my strength back, and I'll guide you out of the mountains,” Riverwind said.

“You!” Darmon sneered. “I thought you were lost, too.”

“The fever has dulled my senses,” replied the plainsman. He was developing a dislike for the arrogant boy. “Once my head clears, I can show you exactly how to get to Solace, if that's where you want to go.”

“Hmm, I suppose you'll want to share our food.”

Lona slapped Darmon lightly on the leg. “He's welcome to anything we have,” she insisted. Lona frowned at River-wind's decayed leather clothing. “I can stitch up some of Quidnin's clothes for you, I think. You're taller, but at least they'll cover you.”

“Thank you.”

“Lona's the company seamstress. She enjoys sewing and all,” Darmon sniffed.

With warmth in his belly and a dry blanket over him, Riverwind fell asleep. He dreamed of Goldmoon. She waited for him, arms outstretched. Suddenly, her face changed and she had short, dark hair. This woman he didn't recognize, though her name seemed just out of reach.

Gray clouds torn to shreds by a fresh wind scudded across the mountain sky. Riverwind scratched under his new, uncomfortable clothes. Lona had mended a linen shirt and tight-fitting breeches for him. She rummaged through a dozen pairs of shoes before she found some wooden-soled half-boots that fit Riverwind's feet. This eclectic ensemble was not to his taste-the shirt had faded red stripes, and the pants were much too tight-but it was better than wandering around three-quarters naked, like some savage.

Riverwind had a long argument with Darmon when he told the boy they would have to abandon the wagons. All their theatrical gear was in them, Darmon protested. But who will pull the wagons? Riverwind reminded him. In the end, sullen and silent, Darmon packed what items he wanted in a wooden carrying case and joined Riverwind and Lona on foot.

They followed the narrow wagon track down the slope of the mountain. The great forest spread out around them. Riverwind had to pause frequently to rest. During these respites he noticed how a few of the leaves on some trees were beginning to acquire their fall colors. He saw clumps of yellow starflowers, which he knew bloomed only at the end of the summer season. Finally, at a rest break, he remarked on how strange it seemed that summer was nearly over.

“Why is that strange?” asked Darmon.

Riverwind stared at the young man. “It was late summer when I left Que-Shu,” Riverwind said. “I feel I've been traveling for a long time and yet it is still the end of summer.”

“Perhaps you mix up the seasons?” Darmon said. “Haven't you been paying attention?”

“Be civil!” Lona chided.

“In truth, I think I was in a place that had no seasons.” Riverwind rubbed his temples with his long fingers. “I don't know how that can be so,” he said.

“It will all come back to you when you are well,” Lona said. She reached in a bag and brought out a handful of dried apple slices. She gave a few to Darmon and Riverwind. Riverwind nibbled absently on the fruit. He tried hard to remember. Bits and pieces floated through his mind-a murderous thing flying through the air with black wings, a kind and loving blue light-it made no sense, and it made his head hurt. He gave up for a while.

Gapped as his memory was, some things were quite clear. He knew exactly where they were: an arm of the Forsaken Mountains thrust south and east into the forest. There was a high pass into the southern range of mountains that led directly to the high plateau. The Sageway East ran along the northern edge of the plateau, and once on it, Que-Shu was an easy two days' march away. That memory was also clear-his home was Que-Shu, and there Goldmoon awaited him.