‘That’s horsehair,” he said, pointing to the tassel.
“No, it’s not!” the dwarf protested, frowning. He sniffed at it, wrinkling his nose. Failing to sneeze, he glanced at Tanis in triumph. “It’s hair from the mane of a griffon.”
Caramon guffawed. “Griffon!” He snorted. “There’s about as many griffons on Krynn as there are-”
“Dragons,” interjected Raistlin smoothly.
The conversation died abruptly.
Sturm cleared his throat. “We’d better get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll take first watch.”
“No one need keep watch this night,” Goldmoon said softly.
She sat close to Riverwind. The tall Plainsman had not spoken much since his brush with death. He had stared for a long time at the statue of Mishakal, recognizing the woman in blue light who had given him the staff, but he refused to answer any questions or discuss it.
“We are safe here,” Goldmoon affirmed, glancing at the statue.
Caramon raised his eyebrows. Sturm frowned and stroked his moustaches. Both men were too polite to question Goldmoon’s faith, but Tanis knew that neither warrior would feel safe if watches weren’t set. Yet there weren’t many hours left until dawn and they all needed rest. Raistlin was already asleep, wrapped in his robes in a dark corner of the chamber.
“I think Goldmoon is right,” Tasslehoff said. “Let’s trust these old gods, since it seems we have found them.”
“The elves never lost them; neither did the dwarves,” Flint protested, scowling. “I don’t understand any of this! Reorx is one of the ancient gods, presumably. We have worshipped him since before the Cataclysm.”
“Worship?” Tanis asked. “Or cry to him in despair because your people were shut out of the Kingdom under the Mountain. No, don’t get mad-” Tanis, seeing the dwarf’s face flush an ugly red, held up his hand. “The elves are no better. We cried to the gods when our homeland was laid waste. We know of the gods and we honor their memories-as one would honor the dead. The elven clerics vanished long ago, as did the dwarven clerics. I remember Mishakal the Healer. I remember hearing the stories of her when I was young. I remember hearing stories of dragons, too. Children’s tales, Raistlin would say. It seems our childhood has come back to haunt us-or save us, I don’t know which. I have seen two miracles tonight, one of evil and one of good. I must believe in both, if I am to trust the evidence of my senses. Yet . . .” The half-elf sighed. “I say we take turns on watch tonight. I am sorry, lady. I wish my faith were as strong as yours.”
Sturm took first watch. The rest wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay on the tile floor. The knight walked through the moonlit temple, checking the quiet rooms, more from force of habit than because he felt any threat. He could hear the wind blow chill and fierce outside, sweeping out from the north. But inside it was strangely warm and comfortable-too comfortable.
Sitting at the base of the statue, Sturm felt a sweet peacefulness creep over him. Startled, he sat bolt upright and realized, chagrined, that he had nearly fallen asleep on watch. That was inexcusable! Berating himself severely, the knight determined that he would walk his watch-the full two hours-as punishment. He started to rise, then stopped. He heard singing, a woman’s voice. Sturm stared around wildly, his hand on his sword. Then his hand slipped from the hilt. He recognized the voice and the song. It was his mother’s voice. Once more Sturm was with her. They were fleeing Solamnia, traveling alone except for one trusted retainer-and he would be dead before they reached Solace. The song was one of those wordless lullabies that were older than dragons. Sturm’s mother held her child close, and tried to keep her fear from him by singing this gentle, soothing song. Sturm’s eyes closed. Sleep blessed him, blessed all of the companions.
The light from Raistlin’s staff glowed brightly, keeping away the darkness.
17
The Paths of the Dead.
Raistlin’s new friends.
The sound of metal crashing against the tile floor jolted Tanis out of a deep sleep. He sat up, alarmed, his hand fumbling for his sword.