Epilogue

A cool breeze blew through Solace Vale, soughing through the branches of the vallenwoods and rustling their blue-green leaves. It was late summer, with a fortnight still to go before the Harvest Come festival, and the weather had begun to slide toward autumn. The front door of the Inn of the Last Home stood wide open, as did its stained glass windows, allowing the gentle wind to blow the taproom.

This afternoon, the tavern was more or less empty. It was market day in Solace, and the Inn’s patrons had gone down to the town square to shop, gossip, and enjoy the pleasant weather. Tika and her daughters were also at the market, buying food to stock the Inn’s larders.

Thus it was that—with the exception of Clemen, Borlos and Osler, who sat where they always sat, playing cards and swearing at one another—Caramon found himself left alone for a while. He took the opportunity to drag an armchair over to a spot where the breeze was particularly pleasant, sit down, and take a long, leisurely nap. He did not sleep alone, however; in his arms, he held Ulin, his grandson.

Usha’s child had arrived right on time, not quite a year ago. He had been born strong and healthy, and no one—not even Palin, who’d been beside himself with joy—had been quite as proud as Caramon. In the best grandfatherly tradition, he’d spent the past year fawning over Ulin, much to Palin and Usha’s chagrin. Tika often quipped that Caramon spent more time with the baby than he did with his own wife, but she was no one to talk. She spoiled Ulin rotten too.

Today, as with all market days, Caramon had volunteered to take care of the child, giving his mother and father an afternoon to themselves. And today being a particularly lazy day, both Caramon and Ulin were content to snooze quietly, listening to the orchestra of muttering leaves and twittering birds outside the Inn. They were both sound asleep, then, when the tromp of feet sounded on the stairs far below.

As the footsteps drew nearer, Clemen, Borlos and Osler set down their cards and glanced across the tavern. “Hey, big guy!” Clemen shouted across the room. “Company coming!”

Caramon answered with a cavernous snore. In his arms, Ulin made burbling sounds but didn’t wake. The footsteps were close now, nearing the balcony that surrounded the Inn.

“Whose turn is it this time?” Osler asked.

“Bor’s,” said Clemen.

Borlos groaned, then set his cards face down on the table. He rose and walked over to Caramon, then reached out and tapped the innkeeper on the shoulder. “Wake up, you old lummox,” he said, not unkindly.

Caramon’s eyes blinked open, and he peered up at Borlos. “You’re lucky I’ve got the kid here,” he grumbled, nodding at the baby in his arms. “What have I told you about waking me up?”

Just to be safe, Borlos took a quick step back from the chair. “Don’t matter what you’d do to me,” he replied. “Tika said she’d do worse if we let you sleep when guests showed up.”

Caramon’s brow furrowed. “What’d she do, threaten to take away your cards?”

“Well, uh,” Borlos answered, flushing with embarrassment, “actually, yeah.”

Caramon snorted with mock disgust, then shook his head groggily, clearing out the cobwebs. “You said something about guests?”

“Outside,” Osler called from their table. “You can hear them, can’t you, big guy? Haven’t up and gone deaf in your old age, have you?”

Scowling sourly, Caramon strained to listen. Hearing the footsteps—they were on the balcony now—he heaved himself to his feet, Ulin in his arms. Before he could move any farther, though, a shadow stepped into the doorway. Caramon stepped back, fighting to focus against the glaring sunlight that streamed through the door. The visitor was a young woman, clad in a Plainsfolk dress. She walked with a limp, favoring her right leg. Her face…

Caramon caught his breath as he finally made out the woman’s features. She had been truly beautiful, once. On the right side she still was, her strong face framed by long, golden hair shot with strands of silver. The left side, however, was a horror. From forehead to chin, and on down her neck, her skin was red and puckered—a large, glistening scar. Her left eye was seared shut, her left ear a gnarled stub. The golden hair had been scorched away on that side, laying bare her burn-ravaged scalp.

Behind him, Borlos swore softly and hurried back to join the other card players. Caramon took no notice; for a time, he could do little but stare.

“Moonsong?” he breathed.

The right side of her mouth curled into a smile. “Caramon.” She nodded at Ulin. “Your grandson?”

“What?” he asked, stunned. “Oh. Yes.” He continued to look at her, not believing what he saw. “Moonsong… what happened?”

“In good time,” she replied. “We will tell you.”

Caramon’s brow lowered. “We?”

A second woman stepped into the Inn, leaning on a plain staff. She was older, but her face still retained the beauty that once had been Moonsong’s. Caramon recognized her immediately, a sharp ache in his heart.

“Goldmoon,” he said.

The older woman regarded him kindly. “My friend,” she said. “It is good to see you.”

For a moment, Caramon couldn’t think of anything to say. “Why—why are you here?” he asked lamely.

“We come bearing news you should hear,” Goldmoon replied. “My husband is dead—and Brightdawn, Swiftraven, and thousands of brave kender with him.”

Folk who came to the tavern at the Inn of the Last Home that night found it dark and locked. Handpainted signs were posted at the front door and at the bottom of the long flight of stairs that wound around the vallenwood tree.

Inside, the taproom was almost empty Clemen, Borlos and Osler had gone home shortly after Tika and her daughters returned. Little Ulin had started to cry when he woke and saw Moonsong’s scarred face, and Laura and Dezra had offered to take him home. The girls stayed at Palin and Usha’s house that night, knowing their parents would want to be alone.

A few lonely candles glowed in the tavern, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Caramon and Tika sat at a table by the darkened fireplace, across from Goldmoon and Moonsong. The old Plainswoman sat quietly, her eyes shining in the flickering light, as her daughter told of Riverwind’s last quest and the fall of Kendermore. As she spoke, Caramon bowed his head sorrowfully. Tears crawled down Tika’s cheeks.

“When the house collapsed on top of me, Stagheart pulled me from the rubble. We escaped into the tunnels,” Moonsong said. She paused, taking a sip from a glass of wine Caramon had poured for her. “The fire left me as you see me now. I would surely have died, but the kender saw to my wounds and carried me away through the forest. I remember nothing of that journey, save the kender’s cries when they saw Malystryx on the wing. They were terrified. But she turned back when she was nearly upon us, and I knew Father had succeeded.

“The next thing I remember, I awoke in Balifor, in the kender camp. We had made it safely out of the Kenderwood. Stagheart was with me—he had stayed at my bedside for days, waiting for me to wake. Later, Catt came to visit me. I didn’t understand her pity when she looked at me… not until I asked her to bring me a mirror, and I saw what I had become…

Moonsong’s voice broke, the right side of her face creasing with bitterness. She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. Goldmoon rested a gentle hand on her arm. For a time, the Inn was silent, then Moonsong shook her head, angry with herself, and lowered her anguished gaze back to Caramon and Tika.

“Stagheart didn’t look at me that way, though,” she said softly. “Looking in his eyes, I could almost believe I was whole again—at least in my body. Nothing can make me forget the hole inside me where Brightdawn used to be.

“We stayed in the camp for two weeks. I must have been visited by a dozen healers. They treated me with poultices and salves, herbal draughts and vapors. Slowly I recovered, but I knew it would still be some time before I was well enough to walk.

“Then one day I heard shouting outside my tent. At first, I thought the dragon had returned—we were not far from the Kenderwood, and I feared she would fall upon us and burn us for spite. But I soon realized the kender were crying out not in fear or panic, but with joy. I asked Stagheart to go find out what was happening. I thought, maybe, that somehow Father had survived, and had finally caught up with us.

“It wasn’t Father, though; it was Kronn, and he was alone. He came to visit me in my tent and told me what had happened at Blood Watch. We had won, and Father and Brightdawn had bought our victory with their lives.

“The kender threw a party that night. They danced and sang until dawn. I didn’t feel like celebrating, though. Then, in the morning, I had visitors: Kronn, Catt, and Giffel. They thanked us for what we had done—not just Stagheart and I, but Brightdawn and Swiftraven. Then they gave me this.”

Moonsong reached into her pack, which rested under the table. After a moment, she pulled a smooth, white object from it and set it on the table. It was a small bust, carved from bleached wood in Riverwind’s likeness. It captured the old Plainsman’s stem face and kind eyes perfectly. Caramon felt a rush of hot tears as he looked upon the sculpture.

“Kronn crafted this from one of the Kenderwood’s dead trees,” Moonsong stated, her voice thick with tears. “Mother and I would like to take it to the Last Heroes’ Tomb.”

“Of course,” Caramon said. “We can do it tonight when we’re done here. I’ll take you there.”

Moonsong tried to smile, then lapsed into silence, staring at the bust. It stared back at her, proud and serious.

After a while, Tika cleared her throat. “What happened after that?” she asked. “What became of the kender?”

The young Plainswoman blinked, startled out of her reverie, then nodded and went on. “They did what kender do,” she said. “After Kronn returned, they didn’t stay put much longer. Before another week passed, most of them packed and set out on the road. Most, but not all—Kronn stayed behind, with a thousand of the kender who had fought at Kendermore. Catt pleaded with him to come along, but he refused. ‘The ogres took many of our people as slaves,’ he said. ‘We’re going to try to free them. And then there’s Malys—she’s beaten for now, but she won’t be stopped. Someone needs to keep an eye on her, though, and make sure she doesn’t make too much of a nuisance of herself. And maybe, one day, someone will defeat her for good. When that happens, I want to be here.’

“So we left him there and set out on the road. The morning we left, Catt and Giffel were married. They led the Kender Flight north, and Stagheart and I went with them. I still wasn’t well enough to walk, so they carried me along with the other wounded.”

Moonsong paused, sighing. “It wasn’t an easy journey. You can imagine what people’s reactions were, when they saw thousands of kender headed for their villages. We were driven out, even attacked. We went on up the coast, but everywhere it was the same.

“Along the way, of course, our numbers dwindled.

“Then, when we were traveling through a mountain pass just beyond the Great Moors, we heard what sounded like an army coming the other way. The kender were afraid, thinking someone had sent soldiers to stop us from going on. Giffel went to scout ahead so he could sound an alarm in case of trouble.

“It wasn’t trouble at all, though; in fact, it was just the opposite. One of the messengers Father had sent out before the Flight began—a young kender named Blister Nimblefingers—had made it to the Knights of Solamnia. The Knights had sent a brigade to escort the Flight to Coastlund, where there were ships waiting to ferry them across the straits to Hylo, the kender homeland in Northern Ergoth.

“Stagheart and I remained with the Flight until we reached Estwilde,” Moonsong concluded. “By then, my wounds had healed enough for me to walk, so we left the kender and headed south through the hills, then across the New Sea. We returned to Qué-Shu in the springtime, bearing word of what had happened.”

“But I already knew,” Goldmoon said softly.

Caramon and Tika looked at her, surprised. “How?” Tika asked.

The old Plainswoman reached into the neck of her pale blue tunic and pulled out a small, silver-steel medallion shaped in the form of two teardrops, joined end to end. “I gave this to Riverwind the day he left our village for Kendermore,” she said. “On the day after Mark Year—the day he died—a sudden impulse drew me to the Temple of Mishakal. I went inside and found this upon the altar.”

Caramon and Tika stared at the Forever Charm in mute wonder. A silence settled over the tavern. After a while, the old Plainswoman tucked the medallion back beneath her tunic.

“We would have come to Solace sooner,” she said apologetically, “but there was much to do. Among my people, the time of mourning for a chieftain lasts a full month. There were feasts, ritual hunts, funeral games to oversee. And there was also the wedding of my daughter and Stagheart of Qué-Teh.”

“Wedding?” Caramon blurted, astonished.

Moonsong nodded. “We were married on the first day of summer.”

“Where’s your husband, then?” Tika asked.

“He remains in Qué-Shu, leading the tribes while Mother is away,” Moonsong answered. “He is also war leader now. Wanderer has left Qué-Shu. When he learned that Father and Brightdawn were dead, he took Cloudhawk, his boy, and rode out of our village. I do not think they will return soon.”

“And so I have lost two children, and my husband as well,” Goldmoon said quietly. For the first time since she had entered the Inn, a glimmer of sadness disturbed the serenity of her eyes. “But the strange thing is, that is not the heaviest burden to bear. What causes me the most grief is that Riverwind told no one he was dying until the end was near.”

Something inside Caramon gave way. He broke down, sobbing raggedly and covering his face with his shaking hands. “Oh, gods,” he groaned, his voice raw with pain. He cried quietly for a moment, then looked at the old Plainswoman with sore, red eyes. “Goldmoon,” he murmured. “He told us just before he left.”

She turned very pale, staring at him. Unable to meet her stricken gaze any longer, Caramon rose suddenly and walked out of the tavern, into the depths of the Inn.

Tika’s face was damp with tears. She reached across the table and took the old Plainswoman’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Do not be,” Goldmoon answered. “If I were to blame someone, it would be Riverwind, not you—but I cannot do that either. In my heart, I know why he didn’t tell me. He was protecting me, as he had tried to do all his life.”

Soon after, Caramon returned. He moved slowly, wearily, as he crossed to the table where his wife and the Plainswomen were. He did not sit; instead, he held something out to Goldmoon. It was a small, silver scrolltube.

“Riverwind gave this to me before he left Solace,” Caramon said softly. “He wanted me to give it to you after… after he was gone.”

Goldmoon looked at the scroll tube, then took it from his hand. “Thank you, my friend,” she said.

Grimacing, Caramon turned and brushed Tika’s shoulder. She touched Goldmoon’s arm, then stood and walked with her husband out of the room. A moment later Moonsong rose and followed them, leaving her mother alone in the tavern.

Goldmoon held the tube silently, watching the candlelight gleam brightly on its surface. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened it and pulled out the scroll within. She unrolled the parchment gently, her hands trembling. The writing upon it was spare, precise.

Kan-tokah, it read. Forgive me. I will wait for you.

She stared at the words long into the night.