“I can't stand,” Riverwind said weakly, lifting his head an inch.

“It's only paint,” Wanderer said. His figure grew more distinct. “Stand. Be a man.”

“He's no Que-Shu,” Hollow-sky said. “He's a worthless unbeliever, like his father.”

“Rise, my son! She who awaits you commands it!” Bright light surrounded Wanderer.

“Goldmoon?” said Riverwind. He glanced down and saw that the widening pool of blood was in fact only a few drops of paint. Paint covered his hands, too.

“Stand, Riverwind!”

“Father,” he said, shaking off the cold lethargy that had gripped him. Putting his hands on the floor, he pushed. He rose unsteadily to his feet. The image of Wanderer shone brightly in the dim lodge. The men around the brilliant figure paid no heed to the apparition.

“It's too late.” Hollow-sky sneered. “You've failed!”

“Begone,” said the spirit of Wanderer. “Go back to your unquiet grave.” With a parting sneer, the phantom son of Loreman faded from sight.

“Father, how is it I can see and speak to you in this way?” asked Riverwind.

“The oil you bathed in contains roots and herbs that have the power of heightening the senses. For centuries our people used these magic herbs to communicate with the dead. After a time, the people confused these spirits with the true gods. The worship of ancestors, the making of our dead leaders into gods, came from this confusion.”

Riverwind stepped to the edge of the dais. “Then the old gods truly Iive?”

“As they always have, my son.”

“Why do they not make themselves known?”

The glowing form of Wanderer flickered. “I do not know the mind of the Most High,” he said. His voice had dwindled to a whisper. “But their time is almost here again. You will have signs, my son…”

“What signs, Father? What signs?” But the interlude was over. Wanderer vanished.