But even as Tanis’s lips parted in wonder, a shadow darkened the room. He and Goldmoon turned toward the door. Caramon and Sturm entered, bearing the body of Riverwind between them on the makeshift litter. Flint and Tasslehoff -the dwarf looking old and weary, the kender unusually subdued- stood on either side of the litter, an odd sort of honor guard. The somber procession moved slowly inside. Behind them came Raistlin, his hood pulled over his head, his hands folded in his robes-the spectre of death itself.
They moved across the marble floor, intent on the burden they bore, and came to a halt before Tanis and Goldmoon. Tanis, looking down at the body at Goldmoon’s feet, shut his eyes. Blood had soaked through the thick blanket, spreading in great dark splotches across the fabric.
“Remove the blanket,” Goldmoon commanded. Caramon looked at Tanis pleadingly.
“Goldmoon-” Tanis began gently.
Suddenly, before anyone could stop him, Raistlin bent down and tore the blood-stained blanket from the body.
Goldmoon gave a strangled gasp at the sight of Riverwind’s tortured body, turning so pale that Tanis reached out a steadying hand, fearing she might faint. But Goldmoon was the daughter of a strong, proud people. She swallowed, drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then she turned and walked up to the marble statue. She lifted the blue crystal staff carefully from the goddess’s hands, then she returned to kneel beside Riverwind’s body.
“Kan-tokah,” she said softly. “My beloved.” Reaching out a shaking hand, she touched the dying Plainsman’s forehead. The sightless face moved toward her as if he heard. One of the blackened hands twitched feebly, as if he would touch her. Then he gave a great shudder and lay perfectly still. Tears streamed unheeded down Goldmoon’s cheeks as she lay the staff across Riverwind’s body. Soft blue light filled the chamber. Everyone the light touched felt rested and refreshed. The pain and exhaustion from the day’s toil left their bodies. The horror of the dragon’s attack lifted from their minds, as the sun burns through fog. Then the light of the staff dimmed and faded. Night settled over the temple, lit once more only by the light emanating from the marble statue.
Tanis blinked, trying once more to reaccustom his eyes to the dark. Then he heard a deep voice.
“Kan-tokah neh sirakan.”
He heard Goldmoon cry out in joy. Tanis looked down at what should have been Riverwind’s corpse. Instead, he saw the Plainsman sit up, holding out his arms for Goldmoon. She clung to him, laughing and crying at the same time.
“And so,” Goldmoon told them, coming to the end of her story, “we must find a way down into the ruined city that lies somewhere below the temple, and we must remove the Disks from the dragon’s lair.”
They were eating a frugal dinner, sitting on the floor in the main chamber of the temple. A quick inspection of the building revealed that it was empty, although Caramon told of finding draconian tracks on the staircase, as well as the tracks of some other creature the warrior couldn’t identify.
It was not a large building. Two worship rooms were located on opposite sides of the hallway that led to the main chamber where the statue stood. Two circular rooms branched off the main chamber to the north and south. They were decorated with frescoes that were now covered with fungus and faded beyond recognition. Two sets of golden double doors led to the east. Caramon reported finding a staircase there that led down into the wrecked city below. The faint sound of surf could be heard, reminding them that they were perched on top of a great cliff, overlooking Newsea.
The companions sat, each preoccupied with his own thoughts, trying to assimilate the news Goldmoon had given them. Tasslehoff, however, continued to poke around the rooms, peering into dark corners. Finding little of interest, the kender grew bored and returned to the group, holding an old helmet in his hand. It was too big for him; kenderfolk never wore helmets anyway, considering them bothersome and restrictive. He tossed it to the dwarf.
“What’s this?” Flint asked suspiciously, holding it up to the light cast by Raistlin’s staff. It was a helm of ancient design, well crafted by a skilled metalsmith. Undoubtedly a dwarf, Flint decided, rubbing his hands over it lovingly. A long tail of animal hair decorated the top. Flint tossed the draconian helm he had been wearing to the floor. Then he put the new-found helm on his head. It fit perfectly. Smiling, he took it off, once more admiring the workmanship, Tas watched him with amusement.