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."
Cheering in reply, the Plainsmen held the banners of their
individual houses aloft.
Leaning down, the priestess drew a crystal dagger from
her boot scabbard. Cunningly fashioned and hollow within,
the dagger doubled as a vial containing a handful of sacred
sand. With a twist, Goldmoon slipped the handle from the
blade and poured some of the fine, warm, dry contents into
her palm. Turning with a flourish, Goldmoon sprinkled the
golden powder over the men before her, taking care that no
head should escape at least a little dusting.
Resisting the impulse to brush the remaining grains
from her palm, the priestess began to touch each head With
her fingertips in blessing. Each warrior, as she stood before
him, knelt and gazed up at her with admiration and
devotion. All but the last one.
He wore well-cared-for but well-dented armor, and his
clothing showed equal signs of wear and repair. His was not
a familiar face, but Goldmoon recognized his banner as
belonging to a poor family that lived in a hut at the edge of
the grazing lands the Que-shu shared with bordering tribes.
The warrior's name was Riverwind, and there was
something about him that Arrowthorn, Goldmoon's father,
spoke about with other men, but it was a subject always
dropped when she entered the room
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