“Nervous bastard,” Caramon commented, his hand straying to his own sword.
“I can understand why,” Sturm said. “Guarding such a treasure. He is her bodyguard, by the way. I gathered from their conversation that she’s some kind of royal person in their tribe. Though I imagine from the looks they exchanged that their relationship goes a bit deeper than that.”
The woman raised her hand in a gesture of protest. “I’m sorry.” The friends had to strain to hear her low voice. “I am not a teller of tales. I have not the art.” She spoke the Common tongue, her accent thick.
The child’s eager face filled with disappointment. The old man patted him on the back, then looked directly into the woman’s eyes. “You may not be a teller of tales,” he said pleasantly, “but you are a singer of songs, aren’t you. Chieftain’s Daughter. Sing the child your song, Goldmoon. You know the one.”
From out of nowhere, apparently, a lute appeared in the old man’s hands. He gave it to the woman who stared at him in fear and astonishment.
“How … do you know me, sir?” she asked.
“That is not important.” The old man smiled gently. “Sing for us. Chieftain’s Daughter.”
The woman took the lute with hands that trembled visibly. Her companion seemed to make a whispered protest, but she did not hear him. Her eyes were held fast by the glittering black eyes of the old man. Slowly, as if in a trance, she began to strum the lute. As the melancholy chords drifted through the common room, conversations ceased. Soon, everyone was watching her, but she did not notice. Goldmoon sang for the old man alone.
The grasslands are endless,
And summer sings on,
And Goldmoon the princess
Loves a poor man’s son.
Her father the chieftain
Makes long roads between them,
The grasslands are endless, and summer sings on.
The grasslands are waving,
The sky’s rim is gray,
The chieftain sends Riverwind
East and away,
To search for strong magic
At the lip of the morning,
The grasslands are waving, the sky’s rim is gray.
O Riverwind, where have you gone?
O Riverwind, autumn comes on.
I sit by the river
And look to the sunrise,
But the sun rises over the mountains alone.
The grasslands are fading,
The summer wind dies,
He comes back, the darkness
Of stones in his eyes.
He carries a blue staff
As bright as a glacier,
The grasslands are fading, the summer wind dies.
The grasslands are fragile,
As yellow as flame,
The chieftain makes mockery
Of Riverwind’s claim.
He orders the people
To stone the young warrior,
The grasslands are fragile, as yellow as flame.
The grassland has faded,
And autumn is here.
The girl joins her lover,
The stones whistle near,
The staff flares in blue light
And both of them vanish,
The grasslands are faded, and autumn is here.
There was heavy silence in the room as her hand struck the final chord. Taking a deep breath, she handed the lute back to the old man and withdrew into the shadows once more.
“Thank you, my dear,” the old man said, smiling.
“Now can I have a story?” the little boy asked wistfully.
“Of course,” the old man answered and settled back in his chair. “Once upon a time, the great god, Paladine-”
“Paladine?” the child interrupted. “I’ve never heard of a god named Paladine.”
A snorting sound came from the High Theocrat sitting at the nearby table. Tanis looked at Hederick, whose face was flushed and scowling. The old man appeared not to notice.
“Paladine is one of the ancient gods, child. No one has worshipped him for a long time.”
“Why did he leave?” the little boy asked.
“He did not leave us,” the old man answered, and his smile grew sad. “Men left him after the dark days of the Cataclysm. They blamed the destruction of the world on the gods, instead of on themselves, as they should have done. Have you ever heard the ‘Canticle of the Dragon’?”
“Oh, yes,” the boy said eagerly. “I love stories about dragons, though papa says dragons never existed. I believe in them, though. I hope to see one someday!”