The brew was made from nepta berries, fruit so vile not even goblins would eat it. Riverwind's jaw locked, and his stomach threatened to rebel. Still, he swallowed the noxious juice and gave the empty vessel back to Arrowthorn. He kept his teeth firmly together and breathed quickly through his nose. Sickness gnawed at his empty belly, but Riverwind mastered it and kept the bitter brew down.

“A chieftain must be evenhanded and balanced in his judgment,” Arrowthorn said gravely. “If necessary, he must suffer for his choice. Are you prepared to suffer for the sake of justice?”

Riverwind inclined his head curtly. It was a good thing he wasn't supposed to talk; he wasn't sure he could speak with the sour berry juice constricting his throat. An elder lifted the heavy cape from Arrowthorn's shoulders. Another man placed two pairs of baskets on the floor, one set for the chieftain, the other for Riverwind. They were deep reed baskets, the kind women used to gather eggs. Snowy white eggs filled them now. Arrowthorn took up his baskets and held them out at arm's length. Riverwind lifted his. He was surprised by their weight. Each basket held only ten eggs. Why were they so heavy?

Loreman was smiling. Riverwind wondered briefly at that sly, knowing smile, then concentrated on his test. He had to hold his baskets up just as long as Arrowthorn held his. If he weakened, if he lowered his arms or wavered enough to break an egg, his test was over. There would be no second chance.

Arrowthorn was thirty years older than Riverwind, but his shoulders were straight and his arms taut with good muscle. Time grew long in the lodge. The Que-Shu men, ever solemn, became restless. There were coughs and uncertain shiftings on the hard wooden benches. Arrowthorn's arms were as straight as iron and as unwavering as the smooth waters of Crystalmir Lake.