Dragons of Autumn Twilight - By Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman Page 0,12

have created the effect of this woman's silver-gold hair shining in the firelight.

One other person listened to the old man. This was a man dressed in the rich brown and golden robes of a Seeker. He sat at a small round table, drinking mulled wine. Several mugs stood empty before him and, even as the kender watched, he called sourly for another.

"That's Hederick," Tika whispered as she passed the companions' table. "The High Theocrat."

The man called out again, glaring at Tika. She bustled quickly over to help him. He snarled at her, mentioning poor service. She seemed to start to answer sharply, then bit her lip and kept silent. The old man came to an end of his tale. The boy sighed. "Are all your stories of the ancient gods true. Old One?" he aske curiously.

Tasslehoff saw Hederick frown. The kender hoped he wouldn't bother the old man. Tas touched Tanis's arm to catch his attention, nodding his head toward the Seeker with a look that meant there might be trouble.

The friends turned. All were immediately overwhelmed by the beauty of the Plainswoman. They stared in silence.

The old man's voice carried clearly over the drone of the other conversation in the common room. "Indeed, my stories are true, child." The old man looked directly at the woman and her tall escort. "Ask these two. They carry such stories in their hearts."

"Do you?" The boy turned to the woman eagerly. "Can you tell me a story?"

The woman shrank back into the shadows, her face filled with alarm as she noticed Tanis and his friends staring at her. The man drew near her protectively, his hand reaching for his weapon. He glowered at the group, especially the heavily armed warrior, Caramon.

"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