diving for it. But when he tugged, she had a firm grip and
tugged back with equal ferocity.
He looked just a little surprised, which made her smile,
and if she could have seen herself, she would have
recognized the tigress in her eyes. She spun about him,
pulling hard, watching his muscles strain to hold onto the
sash. Then she twirled herself into his arms. Bound, sitting
on his knee with his arms about her, she realized that he was
as much a prisoner as she, hardly able to dump his princess
on the ground before the whole tribe. The tigress had won.
Placing her arms around Riverwind’s neck, Goldmoon
pulled his head toward her and pressed her soft lips against
his, just as she’d seen the others do but as she’d never done
herself.
Riverwind’s arms tightened about her, and he kissed her
back with a passion that sent an unexpected thrill of
pleasure through her body. His mouth tasted of the sweet
fruit they’d eaten at dinner, and his bare arms were warm
against her sweat-cooled flesh. Suddenly he pulled his head
away from hers, as though he had just realized he was
kissing Chieftain’s Daughter before the entire tribe. His face
flushed darkly as he heard murmurs and giggles.
Goldmoon, breathing hard, spun out of his sash without
his help. She turned abruptly and walked from the dance
ground, leaving her partner behind as the music diminished.
Her father, standing at the edge of the crowd, watched
her approach. But before he could begin to chide her,
Goldmoon raised her chin and announced, “I go now to my
lodge to pray for a safe journey to the resting place of my
ancestors. Good night, my chieftain.” She kissed him gently
on his cheek and walked past him. Suddenly he didn’t seem
so very much larger than Riverwind. For that matter,
Riverwind did not seem quite so overpowering either.
Arrowthorn came to Goldmoon’s lodge before dawn,
before even the night owls ceased their hunting. He sat
beside her on the edge of her cot. “We must speak.”
Goldmoon sat up with a yawn. She thought the lecture
on dancing was coming. But when she looked at
Arrowthorn, she knew something much more serious was
wrong. Her father looked tired, as though he had not slept.
“It’s about Riverwind, isn’t it?” She sighed.
Arrowthorn snorted derisively. “Among other things,”
he answered. “Since he is still the least of our worries, we
will start with him. You know you can never marry him?”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because our tribe has enough trouble remaining stable
without you adding the killing blow. Riverwind is an
unbeliever. The man you marry will become chieftain when
I die, and the chieftain cannot be an unbeliever. If a
chieftain denies your authority, he denies his own, leaving a
wedge for another power to drive into the tribe, destroying
it.”
Goldmoon shrugged. “Riverwind is taking me to the
Hall of the Sleeping Spirits. There, when I speak with the
gods, he will learn his error.”
“More likely the gods will speak with you and not allow
their words to be heard by the heretic,” Arrowthorn argued.
“But for his disbelief, he would make a good chieftain,”
Goldmoon countered. “Even you were Impressed with him –
I could tell. I will beg the gods to give him a sign. Surely
Mother will not deny me that.”
At the mention of Tearsong, Arrowthorn’s warrior’s
frame shuddered. The years since his wife had died of fever
and slipped into godhood had been too long and too lonely.
He had carried all the responsibility for raising their
daughter, ruling and protecting the tribe, and keeping the
likes of Loreman from tearing it apart. But the joy that
should have been his reward – lying beside Tearsong every
night – was denied him. His leadership and strength had
suffered from her absence, and he knew it better than any
other. Whenever he let Loreman get his way without an
argument, whenever he wasted entire evenings gambling,
whenever some battle scar ached or a coughing fit seized
him (as they did more and more often these days),
Arrowthorn was full of self-loathing. He cursed his