Amber and Blood

Prologue

What has happened to me?

Where am I?

Who are all these beings, strange and beautiful, awful and majestic, gathered around me? Why do they point at me, and why do they shout with thunderous clamor that makes heaven tremble?

Why are they so angry?

Angry at me?

I have done nothing except give my lover a gift! Chemosh wanted the Tower of High Sorcery that lay beneath the sea and I gave it to him. And now he stares at me with amazement and shock… and loathing.

They all stare.

At me.

I am nobody. I am Mina. Chemosh once loved me. He hates me now, and I do not know why. I did nothing but what he asked of me. I am nothing but what he made me, though these others say I am… something else…

I hear their voices, yet I can make no sense of their words.

She is a god who does not know she is a god. She is a god who was tricked into thinking she is human.

I lie on the cold stone of the castle’s battlements, and I see them staring at me and shouting. The thunder hurts my ears. The light of their holiness is blinding. I turn away from the watching eyes and the clamorous voices, and I look down over the walls into the sea far below.

The ever-moving, ever-changing, ever-living sea…

The waves rush in and lap the shore, and they swirl back out and rush in again, over and over, unending. A soothing rhythm, back and forth, back and forth…

A cradle rocking… rocking me to sleep for an eternity.

I was never meant to wake.

I want to go home. I am lost and tired and afraid, and I want to go home.

These voices… the quarrelsome squawkings of sea birds.

The sea closes blessedly over me.

And I am gone.

1

A storm raged on the Blood Sea. A strange storm, of heavenly make, it swirled above a castle that stood high atop a cliff. Clouds boiled around the castle walls. Thunder crackled, and the lightning dazzled and blinded the mortal onlookers—a monk, a kender, and a dog—who were struggling to walk among the sand dunes on the shore far below. The three stood braced against the whipping wind that flung sand into their eyes. They were all three soaked from the spray of salt water, flung up by the waves that came crashing headlong onto the shore. Once there, the waves clutched at the sand with grasping fingers, trying to hold on, but were forced to let go as the motion of the world dragged them back.

Whenever the lightning flared, the monk could see a tower far out to sea. The tower had not been there yesterday. It had appeared in the night, wrenched up out of the depths of the ocean by some catastrophic force, and now it stood with water dripping from its eaves, looking lost, as though wondering, along with men and gods, how it had come to be here.

The monk, Rhys, was almost bent double, his robes plastered against him, his spare, muscular body fighting for every step against the buffeting wind. He was making headway, but just barely. Nightshade, being a kender and built slighter and smaller than his human friend, was having a more difficult time. He had been bowled over twice and was managing to remain on his feet only by hanging onto Rhys’ arm. Atta, the dog, was lower to the ground and therefore was somewhat sheltered by the dunes, but she was having difficulty as well. When the next gust nearly plucked Nightshade from Rhys’ grasp and threw Atta into a pile of driftwood, Rhys decided they should return to the grotto they’d just left.

The smallish cave was cheerless and still awash in sea water, but at least they were sheltered from the wind and deadly lightning.

Nightshade sat down beside his friend on the wet rocks and gave a great whoosh of relief. He wrung water from his topknot, then tried the same with his shirt, which was considerably worn, its color so faded from the rigors of his travels that he could no longer tell what it had been. Atta did not lie down, but paced nervously, her furry black and white body flinching whenever a loud crack of thunder shook the ground.

“Rhys,” Nightshade said, wiping sea water from his eyes, “was that Chemosh’s castle we could see up there on the top of the cliff?”

Rhys nodded.

A lightning bolt sizzled nearby and thunder came rolling down the cliff face. Atta quivered and barked at the rumbling. Nightshade huddled closer to Rhys.

“I can hear voices in the thunder,” the kender said, “but I can’t understand what the voices are saying or make out who is talking. Can you?”

Rhys shook his head. He petted Atta, trying to calm the dog.

“Rhys,” said Nightshade after a moment, “I think those must be gods up there. Chemosh is a god, after all, and maybe he’s throwing a party for his fellow gods. Though I have to say he didn’t strike me as the type to go dancing, what with him being the God of Death and all. Still, maybe he has a fun side.”

Rhys watched the dazzling light flash outside the grotto and listened to the voices and thought of the old saying, “When the gods rage, man trembles.”

“So many things are happening—so many strange things,” Nightshade emphasized, “that I’m feeling sort of muddled. I’d like to talk it over, just to make sure that you think happened what /think happened. And, to be honest, talking makes the howling wind and lightning seem not so bad. You don’t mind if I talk, do you?”

Rhys did not mind.

“I guess I’ll start with us being chained up in the cave,” said Nightshade. “No, wait. I have to say how we got chained up in the cave, so we should start with the minotaur. Except the minotaur didn’t come along until after you fought with your dead brother the Beloved and the little boy killed him—”

“Start with the minotaur,” Rhys suggested. “Unless you want to go all the way back to the time I met you in the graveyard.”

Nightshade thought that over. “No, I don’t think my voice will last long enough for going back that far. I’ll start with the minotaur. We were walking down the street, and you were really, really angry at Majere and said you were going to quit serving him or any god, when suddenly all these minotaurs came out of nowhere and took us prisoner.

“I cast a spell on one,” Nightshade added proudly. “I made him fall down and flop around on the street like a fish. The minotaur captain said I was a ‘kender with horns’. Do you remember that, Rhys?”

“I do,” Rhys returned. “The captain was right. You were very brave.”

“Then the minotaur picked me up and put me in a sack and took us both on board his ship, only it wasn’t an ordinary ship. It was a ship that belonged to the Sea Goddess, and it sailed through the air, not the water, and I told you then that you couldn’t quit a god…”

“And you were right,” said Rhys.

Thirty years old, he had been a monk dedicated to Majere for what seemed most of his life. And though not long ago he had lost faith in Majere, the god had refused to lose faith in him. This knowledge humbled Rhys and filled him with thankfulness and joy. He had stumbled and groped through the darkness, taken many wrong turns, ended up in a few blind alleys, but he had found his way back to his god, and Majere had welcomed him with loving arms.

“The minotaur ship brought us here to the other side of the continent where Chemosh built his castle. And the minotaur chained us up in the cave—see, I came to that part.”

Rhys nodded again, continuing to pet Atta, who seemed calmer, listening to the kender talk.

“Then we had lots of visitors—a lot more than you’d expect for people chained up in a cave. First Mina came.” Nightshade shivered. “That was truly awful. She walked up to you and asked you to tell her who she was. She claimed that the first time she saw you, you recognized her—”

Except I didn’t, Rhys thought, troubled. He still did not understand that part of the story.

“—and when you couldn’t tell her who she was, Mina got angry. She thought you were lying, and she said if you didn’t tell she was going to come back to the cave and kill me and Atta. We would die in torment,” Nightshade finished with relish.

“After Mina left, Zeboim popped by. You see what I mean, Rhys? We never had so much company when we were staying in Solace as we did chained up in that cave. Zeboim said for you to tell her who Mina was because all the gods were in an uproar over it, and you said you couldn’t, and then she got mad and said she would watch with pleasure while Mina killed me and Atta and we died in torment.” Nightshade paused for breath and to spit out some sea water. “And after that, you sent me and Atta off to seek help from the monks of Majere in Flotsam, except we never got that far. We only managed to reach the road up there, and that proved very difficult, due to the sand dunes, and I had a talk with your god. I was pretty harsh with him, I can tell you. I told Majere you were going to die because you were being faithful to him and why wasn’t he being faithful to you for a change. I asked him to help Atta and me save you. And then two of the Beloved saw us and decided they wanted to kill me.”

Nightshade sighed. “It was quite a night for people wanting to kill me. Anyway Atta and I ran for it, but we both have short legs, and the Beloved had long legs and even though Atta has two more legs than I do we were falling behind when I bumped into Majere. Blam. Ran right smack into him. He saw that we were in trouble and he sent grasshoppers after the Beloved and drove them off. I reminded him about you sacrificing your life for him, and he said he couldn’t help because there was this strange amber glow in the sky and he had to go do god stuff somewhere else—”

“I don’t think Majere said that” Rhys was glad the darkness hid his smile.

“Well, maybe not,” Nightshade conceded. “Only that’s what he meant. Then he gave me his blessing. Me. A kender. Who had spoken quite harshly to him. So Atta and I ran back to the cave where you were still chained up, only to find Chemosh was there. He wanted you to tell him who Mina was, and he said he was going to kill you, and he probably would have, only Atta bit him on the anklebone. And then the world shook and knocked us all down—even the god.”

Nightshade cocked an eye at Rhys. “Is that right? ’Cause it’s here that things start getting strange. Or rather—stranger. Chemosh was extremely angry. He started yelling at the other gods, wanting to know what was going on. Turns out the shaking was caused by that tower being yanked up out of the Blood Sea which caused huge waves to start rolling onto the shore, and these waves flooded the cave, and you were unconscious and chained to the wall and the water was rising up around you, and it was up to me and Atta to save you.”

Nightshade paused for breath.

“Which you did,” said Rhys, and he embraced the kender.

“I picked the lock on the manacles,” Nightshade said. “The first and only lock I ever picked in my life! My father would have been so proud. Majere helped me pick the lock, you know.”

A sudden thought struck Nightshade. “Say, do you think Majere would help me again if I wanted to pick another lock? ’Cause there’s a baker in Solace who makes these wonderful meat pies, only he closes up shop right after supper, and sometimes I’m hungry in the night and I wouldn’t want to wake him and—”

“No,” said Rhys.

“No what?” asked Nightshade.

“No, I do not think Majere would help you pick the lock on the baker’s back door.”

“Not even to keep from waking the baker up in the middle of the night?”

“No,” Rhys said firmly.

“Ah, well.” Nightshade sighed again, this time quite deeply. “I suppose you’re right. Though I’ll bet if Majere ever tasted those meat pies he might reconsider. Where was I?”

“You had just picked the lock on my manacles,” said Rhys.

“Oh, yes! The water was getting deeper and I was afraid you were going to drown. I tried to drag you out of the cave, but you were too heavy—no offense.”

“None taken,” Rhys said.

“And then six monks of Majere came running into the cave and they picked you up and carried you out. And I guess they healed the bump on your head because here you are and here I am and here’s Atta and we’re all fine. So,” Nightshade said in conclusion, “your brother the Beloved is at peace now. The story’s over and we can go home to your monastery, and Atta can guard sheep, and I’ll visit my friends in the graveyard, and we’ll live happily ever after.”

Rhys realized that this was true. The tale was told, the last chapter written.

The night was dark and the storm was wild and ferocious and strange things were happening, but the storm and the night would soon come to an end, as nights and storms always do. That was the promise of the gods. When day dawned, Rhys and Nightshade and Atta would start back home, back to his monastery. The journey would be a long one, for the monastery was located north of the city of Staughton, which was on the west coast, and they were on the east coast of the vast continent of Ansalon and would have to travel on foot. He was not concerned at the distance. Every step would be devoted to the god. He thought of the work he would do to earn his bread, of the people he would meet, of the good he would try to do along the way, and the journey did not seem long at all.

“Did you hear that?” Nightshade asked suddenly. “It sounded like a yell.”

Rhys hadn’t heard anything except roaring thunder and howling wind and crashing waves. The kender had sharp senses, however, and Rhys had learned not to discount them. He was further convinced by the fact that Atta also heard something. Her head was up, her ears pricked. The dog stared intently out into storm.

“Wait here,” said Rhys.

He walked out of the grotto and the wind smote him with such force that even standing upright was difficult.

The wind blew his long dark hair back from his face, whipped his orange robes around his thin body. The salt spray stung his eyes, the sand tore at his flesh. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered about. The lightning flashes were almost constant. He saw the black waves with their white, foaming tops and the seaweed being blow along the empty beach and that was all. He was about to return to the shelter of the grotto when he heard a cry, this time sounding behind him.

A gust of wind caught hold of Nightshade, sending him staggering backward for a few feet, then knocking him flat.

Rhys braced himself against the gale and, reaching down his hand, grabbed hold of Nightshade and hoisted the kender to his feet.

“I told you to wait inside!” Rhys shouted.

“I thought you were talking to Atta!” Nightshade yelled back. The kender turned around to the dog, whose ears were flat against her head from the force of the wind. He shook his finger at her. “Atta, stay inside!”

Rhys was hanging on to Nightshade, who was trying to stand against the wind and not having much luck, when he heard the cry.

“There it is again!” shouted Nightshade.

“Yes, but where?” Rhys returned.

He looked at Atta. She was standing at alert, her ears forward, her tail motionless. She was staring out to sea.

The cry came again, shrill and clear, cutting through the howling wind. Squinting his eyes against the spray and sand, Rhys again peered into the night.

“Blessed Majere!” he gasped. “Wait here!” he ordered Nightshade, who didn’t have much choice in the matter, since every time he stood up the wind knocked him down again.

In the last flash of lightning, Rhys had seen a child, a little girl, to judge by the two long braids whipping out in front of her, floundering waist-deep in the wind-tossed sea. He lost her momentarily in the darkness and prayed for another lightning strike. A sheet of white-purple light flared across the sky and there was the girl, waving her arms and crying out for help. She was desperately trying to make it to shore, fighting the vicious rip current trying to drag her back out to sea.

Rhys fought against the wind, wiping his eyes free of the spray, keeping his gaze fixed on the child, who continued to struggle toward the shore. She was almost there when a foaming wave crashed over the girl’s head and she vanished. Rhys stared at the boiling froth, praying for the child to emerge, but he saw nothing.

He tried to increase his speed, but the wind was blowing off the sea, driving him backward a step for every two he took forward. He struggled on, continuing to search for the child as he fought his way toward the water. He saw no one, and he began to fear the sea had claimed its victim, when suddenly he saw the girl’s body, black in the silver moonlight, lying on the shore. The child lay face down in the shallow water, her long braids floating around her.

The wind ceased to blow so suddenly that Rhys, pushing against it, overbalanced and pitched forward onto the wet sand. He looked about in wonder. The lightning had flickered and gone out. The thunder had fallen silent. The storm clouds had vanished, as though sucked in by a giant breath. The red light of dawn glimmered on the horizon. In the dark sky above him, the two moons, Lunitari and Solinari, still kept watch.

He didn’t like this sudden calm. It was like being in the eye of the hurricane. Though this storm had abated and blue sky could be seen above, it was as if the gods were waiting for the back end of the storm to slam into him.

Recovering from his fall, Rhys ran along the wet shore toward the child, who lay unmoving in the surf.

He rolled her over onto her back. Her eyes were closed. She was not breathing. Rhys remembered with vivid clarity the time he’d nearly drowned after jumping off the cliffs of Storm’s Keep. Zeboim had saved him then, and he used her technique now to try to save the child. He pumped the little girl’s arms, all the while praying to Majere. The child gave a cough and a gasp. Spewing sea water out of her mouth, she sat up, still coughing.

Rhys pounded her on the back. More sea water came up. The girl caught her breath.

“Thanks, mister,” she gasped, then she fainted.

“Rhys!” Nightshade was yelling, running across the sand, with Atta racing ahead of him. “Did you save her? Is she dead? I hope not. Wasn’t that funny the way the storm stopped—”

Nightshade came dashing up to Rhys’ side, just as the sun cleared the horizon and shone full on the little girl’s face. The kender gave a strangled gasp and skidded to a halt. He stood, staring.

“Rhys, do you know who—” he began.

“No time for talking, Nightshade!” Rhys said sharply.

The girl’s lips were blue. Her breathing was ragged. She was wearing nothing except a plain cotton shift, no shoes or stockings. Rhys had to find some means to warm her or she would die of exposure. He rose to his feet, the limp child in his arms.

“I’ll take her back to the cave. I need to build a fire to warm her. You might find some dry wood behind the dunes—”

“But, Rhys, listen—”

“I will in a minute,” Rhys said, striving to be patient. “Right now, you need to find dry wood. I have to warm her—”

“Rhys, look at her!” Nightshade said, floundering along behind him. “Don’t you recognize her? It’s her! Mina!”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“I’m not,” Nightshade said solemnly. “Believe me, I wish I was. I know this must sound crazy, since the last time we saw Mina she was a grown-up and now she’s grown down, but I’m pretty sure it’s her. I know because I feel the same way when I look at this little girl that I felt when I first saw Mina. I feel sad.”

“Nightshade,” said Rhys wearily, “firewood.”

“If you don’t believe me,” Nightshade added, “look at Atta. She knows her, too.”

Rhys had to admit that Atta was acting strangely. Ordinarily, the dog would have come leaping to him, eager to help, ready to lick the child’s cold cheek or nudge her limp hand—healing remedies known and trusted by all dogs. But Atta was keeping her distance. She stood braced on stiff legs, her hackles raised, her upper lip curled back over her teeth. Her brown eyes, fixed on the girl, were not friendly. She growled, low in her throat.

“Atta! Stop that!” Rhys reprimanded.

Atta quit growling, but she did not relax her defensive stance. She gazed at Rhys with a hurt and exasperated expression; hurt that he didn’t trust her and exasperated, as though she’d like to nip some sense into him.

Rhys looked down at the child he held in his arms, took a good, long look at her. She was a girl of about six years of age. A pretty child with long red braids that dangled down over his arm. Her face was pale, and she had a light smattering of freckles over her nose. Thus far, he had no reason to think either the dog or the kender were right. And then she stirred and moaned in his arms. Her eyes, which had been closed, partially opened, and he could see, beneath the half-closed lids, glints of amber.

A cold qualm shook Rhys, and he gasped softly.

“Told you so,” Nightshade said. “Didn’t we, Atta?”

The dog growled again.

“If want my advice, you’ll dump her back into the ocean,” Nightshade said. “Only last night she was going to torture you because you wouldn’t tell her who she was when you told her you didn’t know the answer and she was going to make me and Atta die in torment. Remember?”

Rhys recovered from his initial shock. “I’m not going to dump her in the ocean. A lot of people have red hair.” He continued toward the grotto.

Nightshade sighed. “I didn’t think he’d listen. I’ll go find firewood. C’mon, Atta.”

The kender set off, not very enthusiastically. Atta cast a worried glance at Rhys, then trotted along after the kender.

Rhys carried the child inside the grotto, which wasn’t very comfortable and certainly not very dry; the rock-strewn floor was still wet, and there were puddles here and there. But at least they were out of the wind. A blazing fire would soon warm the chill cavern.

The girl stirred and moaned again. Rhys chaffed her cold hands and smoothed back her wet, auburn hair.

“Child,” he said gently. “Don’t be frightened. You are safe.”

The girl opened her eyes, amber eyes, clear amber, like honey, golden and pure. The same eyes as Mina’s, except no trapped souls, as he had seen in Mina’s eyes.

“I’m cold,” the girl complained, shivering.

“My friend has gone to get wood for a fire. You’ll soon be warm.”

The girl stared at him, at his orange robes. “You’re a monk.” She frowned, as though trying to remember something. “Monks go around helping people, don’t they? Will you help me?”

“Gladly, child,” Rhys said. “What do you want of me?”

The girl’s face grew pinched. She was now fully awake and shivering so that her teeth chattered. Her grip on his hand tightened.

“I’m lost,” she said. Her lower lip quivered. Her eyes filled with tears. “I ran away from home and now I can’t find my way back.”

Rhys was relieved. Nightshade was wrong. The girl was likely some fisherman’s child who’d been caught out in the storm, been swept out to sea. She could not have walked far. Her village must close by. He pitied her parents. They must be frantic with worry.

“Once you are warm, I will take you, child,” Rhys promised. “Where do you live?”

The girl curled up in a shivering ball. Her eyes closed and she yawned. “You’ve probably never heard of it,” she said sleepily. “It’s a place called…”

Rhys had to lean close to her hear her drowsy whisper.

“Godshome.”

2

The gods had watched in astonishment and alarm as a mortal, Mina, reached down to the bottom of the Blood Sea, seized hold of the newly restored Tower of High Sorcery, and dragged it up from beneath the waves to present as a gift to her lover, Chemosh.

Obviously, Mina was not mortal. The most powerful wizards who had ever lived could not have accomplished such a feat, nor could the most powerful clerics. Only a god could have done that, and now all the gods were thrown into turmoil and consternation, trying to determine what was going on.

“Who is this new god?” the other gods clamored. “Where does she come from?”

Their fear was, of course, that she was some alien god, some interloper who, striding across the heavens, had come upon their world.

Their fears were allayed. She was one of theirs.

Majere held the answers.

“How long have you known?” Gilean demanded of the Monk God.

Gilean was the leader of the Gods of Gray, the neutral gods, who moderated between light and darkness. The neutral gods were strongest now, their numbers increased due to the self-imposed exile of Paladine, leader of the Gods of Light, and the banishment of Queen Takhisis, leader of the Gods of Darkness. Gilean wore the aspect of a scholarly sage, a middle-aged man of keen intellect and cool, discompassionate eyes.

“Many, many eons, God of the Book,” Majere replied.

The God of Wisdom, Majere wore orange robes and carried no weapon. His aspect was generally mild and serene, though now it was fraught with sorrow and regret.

“Why keep this secret?” Gilean asked.

“It was not mine to reveal,” Majere replied. “I gave my solemn oath.”

“To whom?”

“To one who is no longer among us.”

The gods were silent.

“I assume you mean Paladine,” Gilean stated. “But there is another god who is no longer with us. Does this have something to do with her?”

“Takhisis?” Majere spoke sharply. His voice hardened. “Yes, she was responsible for this.”

Chemosh spoke. “Takhisis’ last words, before the High God came to take her, were these: ‘You are making a mistake! What I have done cannot be undone. The curse is among you. Destroy me and you destroy yourselves.’”

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” Gilean asked, glowering at the Lord of Bones.

Chemosh was a vain and handsome god, with long flowing black hair and dark eyes, empty and cold as the graves of the accursed dead over which he presided.

“The Dark Queen was always making threats.” Chemosh shrugged. “Why was this one any different?”

Gilean had no answer. He fell silent and the other gods were also silent, waiting.

“The fault is mine,” Majere said at last. “I acted for the best. Or so I believed.”

Mina lay so cold and still on the battlements. Chemosh wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he dared not. Not with all of them watching him. He said to Majere, “Is she dead?”

“She is not dead, because she cannot die.” Majere looked at each of them, each and every one. “We have been blind. But now you see the truth.”

“We see, but we do not understand.”

“You do,” said Majere. He folded his hands and gazed out into the firmament. “You don’t want to.”

He did not see the stars. He saw the stars’ first light.

“It began at the beginning of time,” he said. “And it began in joy.” He sighed deeply. “And now, because I did not speak, it could end in bitter sorrow.”

“Explain yourself, Majere!” growled Reorx, smoothing his long beard. The God of the Forge, whose aspect was that of a dwarf, in honor of his favorite race, was not known for his patience. “We have no time for your blathering!”

Majere shifted his gaze from the time’s beginning to the present. He looked down at Mina.

“She is a god who does not know she is a god. She is a god who was duped into thinking she is human.”

Majere paused, as if to gain control of himself. When he spoke, his voice soft with anger, “She is a god of Light, tricked by Takhisis into serving Darkness.”

Majere fell silent. The other gods shouted questions, demanded answers. All the while, Mina lay unconscious on the battlements of Chemosh’s castle as the storm of anger and bafflement, accusations and recriminations raged around her. Such was the turmoil that when Mina woke, no one noticed. She stared at the beautiful, radiant, dark and awful beings stalking the heavens, flinging bolts of lightning and shaking the ground with their fury. She heard them shouting her name, but all she understood was that this was her fault.

A memory, a dim memory, from a time long, long passed, stirred in Mina and brought one terrible understanding.

I was never meant to wake.

Mina leapt to her feet and before any one could stop her, she jumped from the battlement and plunged silently, without a cry, into the crashing sea.

Zeboim screamed and ran to the edge of the wall to look into the waves. Storm winds tore at the sea-foam hair of the sea goddess and swirled her green gown about her. She watched the foaming water, but saw no sign of Mina. Turning, she cast a scathing glance and pointed an accusing finger at Chemosh.

“She’s dead and it is your fault!” She gestured into the storm-lashed water. “You rejected her love. Men are such beasts!”

“Spare us the drama, Sea Witch,” Chemosh muttered. “Mina’s not dead. She can’t die. She’s a god.”

“She may not be able to die. But she can still be wounded,” said Mishakal softly.

The storm winds ceased. The lightning bolts sizzled and went out. The thunder rolled over the waves and was silenced.

Mishakal, Goddess of Healing, the White Lady, as she was now known on Krynn, for her pure white gown and long white hair, walked over to Majere. She extended her hands to him. Majere took hold of her hands and gazed sorrowfully into her eyes.

“I know you keep your vow to protect one who is now gone,” said Mishakal. “You have my permission to speak.”

“I knew it!” Sargonnas snarled. The God of Vengeance and Leader of the Darkness strode forward. His aspect had the head of a bull and the body of a man after the minotaur, his chosen race. “This is a conspiracy among the Do-Gooders! We will have the truth and have it now!”

“Sargonnas is right. The time for silence is ended,” said Gilean.

“I will speak,” said Majere, “since Mishakal has given me leave.”

Yet he did not say anything, not immediately. He stood gazing down at the water that had closed over Mina’s head. Sargonnas growled impatiently, but Gilean silenced him.

“You said: ‘She is a god who does not know she is a god. She is a god who was tricked into thinking she is human.’”

“That is true,” Majere answered.

“And you said also, ‘She is a god of Light, tricked by Takhisis into serving Darkness.’”

“And that is also true.” Majere looked at Mishakal, and he smiled a rare smile.

“Mina’s story begins in the Age of Starbirth with the creation of the world. At that time—the first and last and only time in the history of the world—all of us came together to use our power to create a wonder and a marvel—this world.”

The other gods were silent, remembering.

“In that one single moment of creation, we watched Reorx take hold of Chaos and forge out of it a great globe, separating the light from the darkness, the land from the sea, the heavens from the earth and in that moment we were one. We all of us knew joy. That moment of creation gave birth to a being—a child of light.”

“We knew nothing of this!” Sargonnas growled, astonished and angered.

“Only three of us knew,” said Majere. “Paladine, his consort, Mishakal, and myself. The girl appeared in our midst, a radiant being, more beautiful than the stars.”

“You should have informed me at least,” Gilean said, frowning at Mishakal.

She smiled sadly. “There was no need to tell anyone. We knew what we had to do. The Gods of Darkness would have never permitted this new, young god of light to exist, for she would have upset the balance. Just the knowledge that she had been born would have caused an uproar, threatened to destroy what we had so lovingly created.”

“True,” said Zeboim coldly. “Very true. I would have strangled the whelp.”

“Paladine and Mishakal gave the child-god into my hands,” Majere continued. “They bid me cast her into a deep sleep and then hide her away, so that she might never be found.”

“How could you bear to lose her?” asked gentle Chislev, Goddess of Nature, shuddering. Her aspect was that of a young woman, lovely and delicate, with the soft eyes of the fawn and the sharp claws of the tiger.

“Our sorrow was deep as the vastness of time,” Mishakal admitted, “but we had no choice.”

“I took the child,” Majere resumed his tale, “and I carried her into the sea. I carried her to the depths of the ocean, to those parts that have never known the sunlight, and there I kissed her and rocked her gently to sleep. And there I left her, sweetly slumbering, with never a dream to disturb her rest. And there she would have remained at peace until time’s end, but Takhisis, Queen of All Colors and of None, stole away the world and with it—the child.”

“And Takhisis found her,” said Reorx. “But how, if she was hidden as you claim, Majere?”

“When Takhisis stole the world, she thought smugly that she was the only god-force in this part of the universe. I do not know for certain how she came to learn of the child’s existence, but I think I can hazard a guess based on my knowledge of the Dark Queen. When she first stole the world, she was left dangerously weak. She hid herself away, biding her time, restoring her strength, making her plans. And when she was well-rested and strong again, she left her hiding place. She came out warily, cautiously, probing and feeling about her to make certain she was alone in this part of the universe.”

“And she found out she was not,” said Morgion, God of Disease, with an unpleasant smile.

Majere nodded. “She felt the force of another god. I can only imagine her shock, her fury. She could not rest until she had found this god and determined what sort of threat the god posed to her. Since god-force within the child shone like a beacon, I doubt if Takhisis had much difficulty in her search. She found the god, and she must have been astonished.

“For she did not find another god who would challenge her. She found a child-god, innocent, unknowing, a god of light. And that gave her an idea…”

“Stupid bitch!” Chemosh swore bitterly. “Stupid, stupid woman! She should have foreseen what would happen!”

“Bah!” said Sargonnas. “The Dark Queen was never one to look past her own snout. She would have seen only that this child-god could be of use to her. She would keep Mina under her thumb and use her for her own ends.”

“And avenge herself one last time on the gods she had always hated,” said Kiri-Jolith, God of Just War. His aspect was that of a knight clad in shining silver armor.

“Takhisis very nearly succeeded,” Majere admitted. “She made one mistake and that grew out of her cruel desire for revenge. She decided to give this child-god to her enemy, to the mortal woman Takhisis had always blamed for her downfall during the War of the Lance—Gold-moon. The Dark Queen caused the child-god to be cast up on the shores of the Citadel of Light.

“Formerly a cleric of Mishakal, Goldmoon had brought the healing power of mysticism to Krynn. Now an old woman, she took the child-god, who had the aspect of a nine-year-old girl, to her heart. Goldmoon named her Mina. And Takhisis laughed.

“As Takhisis knew she would, Goldmoon taught Mina about the old gods, for Goldmoon grieved for the loss of the gods. Takhisis came to Mina, who loved Goldmoon dearly, and told her that she would give her the power to seek out the gods and restore them to the world. We all know what happened after that. Mina ran away from Goldmoon and ‘found’ Takhisis, who was waiting for her. What terrible tortures and torment Mina suffered at the hands of the Dark Queen—all in the name of ‘proving her loyalty’—I dare not speculate.

“When Mina was finally returned to the world, she had been shaped and molded in the image of the Dark Queen. Takhisis expected Mina to win victories in her name. All the miracles Mina performed she would think came from Takhisis. Too late, Takhisis realized her mistake. She saw her folly. As do others who tried the same.”

The other gods all looked accusingly at Chemosh.

“I did not know she was a god!” the Lord of Bones cried savagely. “Takhisis knew. Witness her final words: ‘The curse is among you. Destroy me and you destroy yourselves.’”

“Destroy us!” Sargonnas’ laughter boomed raucously through the heavens. “How does a chit of a girl-god pose a threat to us?”

“How does she not?” Mishakal asked sharply. The White Lady flamed, her beauty and her power daunting. “Even now, you are scheming how to win Mina to your side, to shift the balance in your favor.”

“And what about you, Mistress Sanctimonious?” Zeboim flared. “You are thinking the very same thing.”

Kiri-Jolith said coldly, “This god is lost to us. She is now a creature of darkness.”

Mishakal cast him a sorrowful glance. “There is such a thing as forgiveness . . . redemption.”

Kiri-Jolith looked stern and unrelenting. He said nothing, but he shook his head decisively.

“If she is so dangerous, what is to be done about her?” asked Chislev.

The gods looked to Gilean for judgment.

“She has free will,” he determined at last. “Her fate is in her own hands. She must decide on her destiny herself. She will be given time to think and consider. And during this time,” he added with cold emphasis, “she is not to be influenced by either Darkness or Light.”

Which wise judgment, of course, pleased no one.

3

The gods began talking at once. Kiri-Jolith insisted Mina should be banished as Takhisis had been banished. Zeboim protested that this was not fair to the poor child. She offered to take her to her home beneath the sea, an offer no one trusted. She urged Chemosh to support her, but he refused.

He wanted nothing more to do with Mina. Chemosh was sorry he’d ever seen her, sorry he’d fallen in love with her and taken her as his lover, sorry he’d used her to help him create new followers, the undead Beloved, who had been a sad disappointment, ending up being loyal to Mina, not to him. He held himself disdainfully aloof from the argument raging among the pantheon. Thus he was the only one who noticed the three gods of magic, who had heretofore kept silent, now conferring in low voices among themselves.

Solinari, the child of Paladine and Mishakal, was god of the Silver Moon, magic of light. Lunitari, child of Gilean, was goddess of the Red Moon, magic of neutrality, and their cousin, Nuitari, son of Takhisis and Sargonnas, was god of the Black Moon, god of the magic of darkness. Despite their different ideologies, the cousins were close, united in their love of the magic. Together, they often defied their parents and worked toward their own ends, which is what they were undoubtedly doing now. Chemosh drew closer, hoping to overhear what they were saying.

“So it was Mina who raised the tower from the bottom of the Blood Sea!” Lunitari was saying. “But why?”

Lunitari wore the red robes of those dedicated to her service. Her aspect was that of a human woman with inquisitive, always seeking, eyes.

“She planned to give it to the Lord of Bones,” said Nuitari. “A love token.”

He wore black robes; his face was that of a round moon. His eyes kept his secrets.

“And what of all the valuable artifacts inside it?” Solinari asked in a low voice. “What of the Solio Febalas?”

Clad in white robes, Solinari was watchful and careful, walked and spoke quietly, his eyes gray as smoke from the smoldering fire of his being.

“How should I know what has happened to it?” Nuitari demanded testily. “I was summoned to attend. My absence would have been noted. But once this meeting has ended—”

Chemosh did not hear the rest. So that was why Mina had given him the tower! He cared nothing for some old monument to magic. He desired what lay beneath the tower—the Solio Febalas.

Long ago, before the Cataclysm, the Kingpriest of Istar had raided the holy temples and shrines dedicated to the gods of Krynn, removing holy artifacts he deemed were dangerous. At first, he took only those from the Gods of Darkness, but then, as his paranoia grew, he ordered his troops into the temples of the neutral gods, as well. Finally, having determined he would challenge the gods for godhood himself, he sent his soldiers to raid all the temples of the Gods of Light.

The stolen artifacts were taken to the old Tower of High Sorcery in Istar, now under his control. He placed the artifacts in what he termed the “Hall of Sacrilege”.

Angered at the challenge from the Kingpriest, the gods cast a fiery mountain onto the world, breaking it asunder. Istar sank to the bottom of the sea. If any remembered the Hall of Sacrilege, the survivors assumed it had been destroyed.

As the centuries passed, mortals forgot about the Hall of Sacrilege. Chemosh did not forget, however. He had always fumed over the loss of his artifacts. He could feel power emanating from the relics and he knew they had not been lost. He wanted them back. He was tempted to go in search of them during the Fourth Age, but he was involved at the time in a secret plot with Queen Takhisis, a plot to overthrow the Gods of the Light, and he dared not do anything that might draw attention to himself.

He’d never had a chance to seek them. First he was caught up in the War of the Lance, and then Chaos had gone on a rampage, and later Takhisis had stolen the world. The artifacts of the gods remained lost until Nuitari had decided to secretly rebuild the ruined Tower of High Sorcery that lay at the bottom of the ocean. He had found the Solio Febalas, much to Chemosh’s jealous ire.

Chemosh had asked Mina to enter the Hall of Sacrilege and bring out his artifacts. But she had failed him and caused the first rupture between them.

Do not be angry with me, my dearest lord…. The Solio Febalas is holy. Sanctified. The power and majesty of the gods—all the gods—are in the chamber. I could not touch anything. I did not dare! I could do nothing but fall to my knees in worship….

He had been furious with her. He had accused her of stealing the artifacts for herself. Now he knew better. The power of the gods had acted like a mirror, reflecting back to her the divine power she felt burn inside her. How confused she must have been, confused and terrified, and overwhelmed. She had lifted the tower from bottom of the Blood Sea to give to him. A gift.

Thus, by rights, the tower was his. And just now, no one was standing guard. Everyone was yammering about what to do with Mina. Chemosh left the raging argument and sped across the Blood Sea to the rock-bound island on which stood the newly-raised tower.

The Hall of Sacrilege had been located at the very bottom of the tower. Was it still there, or had it been left behind on the sea floor?

Chemosh dove to the bottom of the ocean. An enormous chasm marked where the tower had once stood. The ocean floor had been hauled up with the tower and formed the island on which it now stood. The water was so dark that even immortal eyes could not plumb its depths. Chemosh felt no sense of his own power emanating from the chasm.

The artifacts were still inside the tower. He was certain of it.

The Tower of High Sorcery that had once been beneath the Blood Sea, but which now overlooked it, resembled the original tower. Nuitari had reconstructed it with loving care. The walls were made of smooth, wetly glistening crystal. Water drained from a dome of black marble and ran down the slick walls as the waves hurled themselves in a sullen, petulant manner against the shores of the new-made island. Atop the dome a circlet made of burnished red-gold twined with silver shone in the light of the twin moons it represented. The center of the circlet was jet black in honor of Nuitari. No sunlight could be seen through the hole.

Chemosh eyed the tower narrowly. Two of Nuitari’s Black Robes lived inside. Chemosh wondered what had happened to them. If they were still alive, they must have had a wild and terrifying ride. He circled the tower until he came to the door—the formal entryway.

When the tower had been in Istar and after that, at the bottom of the sea, the wizards and Nuitari alone possessed the secret to gaining access. Only those who were invited could enter and this included gods. But now the tower had been wrenched from Nuitari’s grasp, stolen from him while his back was turned. Perhaps his magic had been broken.

Chemosh did not bother with the door. He could glide through the crystal walls as though they were water. He started to walk through the walls of shining black but, surprisingly, he found his way blocked.

Frustrated, Chemosh tried pushing open the massive front doors. They did not budge. Chemosh lost his temper and kicked the door with his foot and smote it with his hand. The god could have battered down a castle’s walls with the flick of his finger, but he had no effect on the tower. The door shuddered at the blows, but remained intact.

“It’s no use. You won’t get in. She has the key.”

Chemosh turned to see Nuitari come walking around the side of the building.

“Who has the key?” Chemosh demanded. “Your sister? Zeboim?”

“Mina, you dolt,” Nuitari told him. “And she’s sending her Beloved to guard it.”

The god of Dark Magic pointed across the sea to the city of Flotsam. Chemosh saw with his immortal vision hordes of people jumping from the docks, plunging into the sea, and either sinking or swimming through the waves which glowed eerily with a faint amber light. These were the Beloved. They looked and acted, walked and talked, ate and drank, like ordinary people with one small difference.

They were dead.

Being dead, they felt no fear, they never tired, they needed no sleep, they had boundless energy. Strike them down and they rose back up.

Cut off their heads and they picked them up and put them back on. Chemosh had been quite fond of them until he had found out they were really Mina’s creation, not his. Now he loathed the very sight of them.

“Mina’s army,” Nuitari stated in bitter tones. “Coming to occupy her fortress. And you thought she was going to give it you!”

“They won’t get in,” said Chemosh.

Nuitari chuckled. “As our friend Reorx is so fond of saying, ‘Wanna bet?’” He gestured. “Once she comes to open the doors and let her Beloved inside, my poor Black Robes will be under siege in their own laboratory. The tower will be crawling with her fiends.”

As Chemosh watched, several of the undead creatures dragged themselves up out of the water and headed toward the massive double doors.

“Aren’t you the fool!” said Nuitari with a thick-lipped, sneering smile. “You had Mina in your bed and you kicked her out. She would have done anything for you.”

Chemosh made no response. Nuitari was right, curse him. Mina loved him, adored him, and he’d cast her off, spurned her because he’d been jealous of her.

Not jealous of another lover. Jealous of her—her power.

The Beloved served her, when they were meant to serve him. Mina had done to him what she’d done to Takhisis. The miracles she had performed in the name of Chemosh had been her own miracles. Men worshipped Mina, not him. The Beloved were subject to her will, not his.

And, if he believed Majere, Mina had done this in all innocence. She had no idea she was the god who had given the Beloved terrible life.

What a fool I’ve been! Chemosh reproached himself, but even as he did, an idea came to him. He remember the broken-hearted look she had cast him before she had leapt into the sea.

She still loves me. I can win her hack. With her at my side, I can supplant that thick-skulled bovine, Sargonnas. I can cast down Kiri-Jolith and thwart Mishakal and thumb my nose at know-it-all Gilean. Mina will gain me access to the Hall of Sacrilege. I will seize all the artifacts. I can rule Heaven…

All he had to do now was find her.

Chemosh cast his immortal gaze upon the world. He saw all beings everywhere: elves and humans, ogres and kender, gnomes and dwarves, fish and hounds, cats and goblins. His vision encompassed them, surrounded them, studied them, all simultaneously, all within the splitting of a split second. He found every living being on this planet and all who weren’t living in the ordinary sense of the word.

None of them were her.

Chemosh was baffled. Where could Mina be? How could she hide from him?

He had no idea and while he was puzzling this out, he realized that back in his castle, Gilean was asking the gods to swear an oath they would not interfere with Mina. Whatever choice she made about her place in the pantheon, whatever side she might choose, or if she would leave the world altogether, the decision had to be hers.

If I take this oath, Gilean will see to it that the oath is enforced. I will be barred from trying to seduce her.

Chemosh was confident in his power over her. All he needed was to see her, talk to her, take her into his arms…

He could not search for her, not at this moment, not while Nuitari was watching him like a snake watches a rat; not while Sargonnas was eyeing him with dark suspicion and Gilean was demanding that each god swear. Chemosh could not search for Mina, but he had someone at his command who could. Fortunately, he had a little time. The Gods of Magic were demanding to know why they needed to swear the oath at all.

Chemosh sent out a call, his thoughts speeding rapidly through the castle to Ausric Krell, the former death knight, cursed by Mina to become human again. Chemosh had to hurry. He had to issue his orders to find Mina before he took the oath. He could not be blamed if Mina came to him of her own free will.

One tiny little shove in his direction would hardly count.

“We should not have to take this oath,” Nuitari was arguing. “We were not even born when this child-god came into being.”

“We care nothing about Mina,” stated Lunitari.

“She has naught to do with magic. Leave us out of this,” added Solinari.

“Oh, but she does have something you want,” said Morgion, God of Disease, speaking in his soft, sickly voice. “Mina has in her possession a Tower of High Sorcery. And she has locked you out!”

“Is that true?” asked Gilean, frowning.

“It is true,” Solinari admitted. “Yet even if we are forced to take this oath, we deem it only fair that we be allowed to try to reclaim the tower, which is rightly ours and which she has basely stolen.”

“Losers weepers,” said Hiddukel with a chuckle.

“I have as much right to that tower as they do,” stated Zeboim. “After all, it is standing in my ocean.”

“I built it,” cried Nuitari, seething. “I raised it up from charred ruins! And you should all of you know,” he added with a baleful glance at Chemosh, “that inside that tower, in its depths, is the Solio Febalas, the Hall of Sacrilege. Inside that Hall are many holy artifacts and relics thought to have been lost during the Cataclysm. Your holy artifacts and relics.”

The gods were no longer smiling. They stared at Nuitari in amazement.

“You should have told us that the Hall had been found,” said Mishakal, blazing with white flame.

“And you should have told us about Mina,” Nuitari returned. He clasped his hands over his black robes. “I say that makes us even.”

“Are our blessed objects safe?” Kiri-Jolith demanded.

“I cannot say,” Nuitari returned with a shrug. “They were, while the tower under my control. I don’t vouch for them now. Especially as the tower was currently being overrun by the Beloved.”

The gods turned their gazes onto Chemosh.

“That was not my fault!” he cried. “Those ghoulish fiends are her creations!”

“Enough!” said Gilean. “The only thing this proves is that it is more important now than ever that all of us take this oath. Or will each of you risk taking the chance that another might succeed where you fail?”

The gods grumbled, but, in the end, they agreed. They had no choice. Each was forced to take the oath if for no other reason than to make sure the others took it, though each was perhaps privately thinking how he or she might twist it, or at least bend it a little.

“Place your hands on the Book,” said Gilean, calling the sacred volume into being, “and swear by your love for the High God who brought us into being, and your fear of Chaos, who would destroy us, that you will neither threaten, cajole, seduce, plead, or bargain with the goddess known as Mina in order to try to influence her decision.”

The Gods of Light each placed a hand upon the Book, as did the Gods of Neutrality. When it came the turn of the Gods of Darkness, Sargonnas thumped down his hand, as did Morgion. Zeboim hesitated.

“I’m sure my only concern,” she said, dabbing a salt tear from her eye, “is for that poor, unhappy girl. She’s like a daughter to me.”

“Just swear, damn it,” growled Sargonnas.

Zeboim sniffed and put her hand on the Book.

After her, last of all, came Chemosh.

“I so swear,” he said.

4

Death had been good to Ausric Krell, and he wanted it back.

Krell had once been a powerful death knight. Cursed by the Sea Goddess, Zeboim, he had known immortality. He could kill with a single word. He was so fearsome and horrible to look upon, in his black armor with the ram’s head skull helm, that some poor wretches had dropped down dead of terror at the mere sight of his awful visage.

No longer. When he looked in the mirror, he did not see reflected back the red-glowing eyes of undeath. He saw the squinty pig-eyes of a middle-aged human male with heavy jowls and a sullen brutish face, spindly limbs, flabby flesh, and a paunch. Krell, the death knight, had once reigned supreme on Storm’s Keep, a mighty fortress in the north of Ansalon. (At least, that was how he remembered it. In truth, he’d been a prisoner there, and he’d hated it, but not so much as he hated what he was now.)

Of all the undead who walk Krynn, a death knight is one of the most fearsome. Cursed by the gods, a death knight is forced to exist in a world of the living, hating them, even as he fiercely envies them. A death knight is unable to sleep or find rest. He is a prisoner of his own immortality, forced to reflect constantly on his crimes and the wayward passions that brought him to this unhappy state, until he comes to repent and his soul can move onto the next stage of its journey.

That, at least, was the gods’ plan.

Unfortunately, with Krell the plan hadn’t worked. In life, Krell had been a traitor, a murderer, a thief. He had duped, deceived, destroyed, and betrayed all who had ever trusted him. Possessed of no great intellect, Krell had relied on low cunning, small-minded trickery, a complete lack of conscience, and brute strength to batter his way through life. Krell was a bully and, as with all bullies, he had lived every day in secret terror and died a screaming, craven coward at the hands of the Sea Goddess, Zeboim, who could never forgive him for having slain her beloved son.

Deeming that his torment had been too brief, Zeboim had cursed Krell, transforming him into a death knight, intending he should suffer for eternity. Instead, to her ire, Krell had actually enjoyed undeath. He wielded lethal power with cruel delight. He became the consummate bully, finding pleasure in tormenting and terrorizing and ultimately slaying those mortals who were either foolish or brave enough to encounter him. And he could inflict his punishment without the constant fear that someone bigger and stronger would do the same to him.

True, Zeboim had continued to be a thorn in his skeletal side, but Krell had finally solved that problem. He had sworn to serve Chemosh, Lord of Death, and in return, Chemosh had offered him protection from the Sea Goddess.

And now all that was gone. Death had been snatched from him by that cursed bitch, Mina. He still couldn’t understand what had happened. He’d been going to snap her neck. It had all seemed so easy. She had fought him with bestial fury and somehow (he wasn’t clear on just how it had happened) she had cursed him by giving him back his life.

Krell was not only alive, he was a prisoner inside his room in Chemosh’s castle, fearful of leaving because of the Beloved who roamed the castle and who were thirsting to kill him in a most unpleasant manner. Krell could hear outside his window the rumbling voices of the gods, but he was far too absorbed in bemoaning his own fate to pay much attention to their clamor.

Krell was strong and brutal enough to hold his own against most humans, but he could not fight the Beloved—those heinous undead beings now roaming the castle wailing for Mina. No weapon could kill the Beloved, at least no weapon that Krell had ever found. He had tried to hack them apart with his sword. He had battered them with his fists and even used his formidable magical power on them to no avail. Hacked apart, they put themselves back together and they shook off magic like a duck shakes off water. And now, the Beloved were capable of killing him. Indeed, they seemed to bear him some sort of personal grudge. He’d been forced to throttle a couple of them on his way here, barely managing to escape with his life. Now they lurked about outside his door, keeping him a prisoner in his own bedroom. All this while, outside his window, the gods raged.

Something about Mina being a god… Krell snorted, thought it over. True she had done this to him, taken away his power, but he was certain Zeboim was behind it. The two females were in this together. It was a conspiracy against him. He’d get back at the Sea Goddess, and that Mina-bitch, as well.

Such were Krell’s brooding thoughts, as he sat in the room, wrapped in a blanket for warmth, for his wonderful, shining, magical armor had vanished. He was thinking with cruel pleasure what he would do to Mina when he finally managed to lay his hands on her when a voice interrupted his blood-drenched day dreams.

“Who’s there?” Krell snarled.

“Your master, you dolt,” said Chemosh.

“My lord,” said Krell, but he said it with a sneer. Once he would have groveled, but he was in no mood to play the toady. Let Chemosh polish his own boots. What had the god done for him? Nothing. Perhaps the Lord of Death had even been in on the plot to destroy him.

“Stop sitting there feeling sorry for yourself,” Chemosh said coldly. “You must find Mina.”

No one wanted to find Mina more than Ausric Krell. He almost jumped at the chance, but then he checked himself. The Krell of low cunning was back. He could hear in his master’s voice an underlying hint of urgency, perhaps even of desperation. Krell could take advantage of the situation to do a little bargaining. He was in a position of power, after all. He had nothing left to lose.

“They say this Mina is now a god, my lord,” Krell pointed out. “And I am a poor, weak mortal.” He gnashed his teeth as he spoke.

“Do this for me and I will make you one of my clerics, Krell. I will give you holy powers—”

“Cleric!” Krell snorted in disgust. “I don’t want to be one of your sniveling clerics, running about in a black dress and a fright mask.”

“Do not push me, Krell—”

“Or you’ll do what to me?” Krell roared angrily. “You came to me for help, my lord. If you want my help, change me back into a death knight.”

“I can’t just ‘change’ you into a death knight,” Chemosh said testily. “It’s not like changing one’s clothes. It’s far more complicated, involves a curse—”

“Then go find Mina yourself,” Krell said sullenly.

Hunched in his blanket, he stumped over to his bed and sat down.

“I cannot change you into a death knight, but I will grant you the powers of a Bone Acolyte,” Chemosh offered.

“A bony what?” Krell asked suspiciously.

“I don’t have time to explain! I’m rather busy at the moment. I’m being forced to take a godly oath. But you will be powerful. I promise.”

Krell thought this over. Chemosh would have to be true to his word if he wanted Krell to succeed.

“Very well,” said Krell grudgingly. “Make me into this Bony Acolyte. Where do I find Mina?”

“I have no idea. She jumped off the battlements into the sea.”

“Then you want me to recover her body, my lord?” Krell was disappointed.

“She’s a god, you idiot! She can’t die! By the Skull, I think I would be better off giving orders to the bed post! I have to leave now—”

“Then where should I start my search, my lord?” Krell demanded, but he received no answer.

Krell had an idea, however. Mina’s monk, the one he’d found inside the grotto. Krell had first thought the monk was her lover. Now he wasn’t so sure. Still, she seemed to have taken an unusual interest in him. She’d sneaked out of Chemosh’s castle to meet up with him in secret in a grotto. Perhaps she’d gone back to find him. The last Krell had seen of the monk, he’d been chained to a wall in the grotto. Not likely he would be going anywhere.

Krell stood up, then realized that he couldn’t very well confront Mina wrapped in a blanket.

“My lord!” Krell shouted. “A Bone Acolyte! Remember?”

Chemosh did remember. He granted Krell the powers of a Bone Acolyte and, though he wasn’t quite as formidable as he had been when he was death knight, Krell was pleased with the results.

5

Nightshade entered the grotto staggering beneath a load of driftwood. He dumped it down on the floor and then stood staring at the girl, who lay unmoving on the cold stones as Rhys chafed her chill hands, trying to warm them. Atta trotted inside, sniffed at the girl, growled, and retreated to a far corner.

“We need tinder to start the fire,” said Rhys. “Perhaps some seaweed. If you could hurry…”

Muttering under his breath, Nightshade summoned Atta and the two went back out. Rhys hoped he would be quick about his task. The girl’s skin was cold and clammy to the touch, her heartbeat slow and sluggish, her lips and fingernails blue. He would have wrapped her in his own robes, but they were as wet as her cotton smock.

He glanced around the grotto that had once been a shrine to Zeboim. An altar to the goddess stood at the far end. He had paid it scant attention when the minotaur had first brought him here. He’d had far more urgent matters to think about, such as being chained to a wall and threatened with torture and death. Now, hoping he might find something of use, he left the child and went back to look at it more closely.

The altar was crudely carved out of a single piece of red-and-black striped granite. A conch shell had been placed reverently on the altar that was adorned with a frayed, sea-green piece of silk. Breathing a prayer of thanks to Majere and another prayer asking forgiveness of Zeboim for defiling her altar, Rhys lifted up the shell, removed the cloth, then carefully put the shell back.

Rhys took off the child’s sopping-wet smock, rubbed her dry with the silk cloth, and wrapped her up in it, winding it around her much like the cocoon from which the fabric had been spun. The girl ceased to shiver. Some color came to her pallid cheeks, the blue faded from her lips.

“Thank you, Zeboim,” said Rhys softly.

“You’re not very welcome,” said the Sea Goddess, sharply. “Just make certain you scrub my cloth and put it back when you’ve finished.”

Zeboim entered the grotto quietly, subdued—for her—with a only a moderate breeze stirring the blue-green dress that frothed about her bare feet. She cast a bored glance at the girl on the floor.

“Where did you dredge up the kid?”

“I found her washed up on the shore during the storm,” Rhys replied, watching the goddess closely.

“Who is she?” Zeboim asked, though she didn’t seem to much care.

“I have no idea,” Rhys replied. He paused, then said quietly, “Do you know her, Majesty?”

“Me? No, why should I?”

“No reason, Majesty,” said Rhys, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Nightshade must have been mistaken.

Stepping over the girl, Zeboim came to Rhys and knelt down before him. She reached out with her hand, caressed his cheek.

“My own dear monk!” she said in dulcet tones. “I am so glad to see you safe and sound! I’ve been consumed with worry for you.”

“I thank you for your concern, Majesty,” said Rhys warily. “How may I serve you?”

“Serve me?” Zeboim was dismayed. “No, no. I came merely to inquire about your health. Where is your friend, the… um… dear little kender. And that mutt. Dog. I mean, dog. Sweet dog. Oh, my dear monk, you’re so cold and wet. Let me warm you.”

Zeboim fussed about him. Drying his robes with a touch of her hand, she lit the pile of driftwood with a flick of her finger. All the while, Rhys waited in silence, not fooled by her blandishments. The last he’d seen of the Sea Goddess, she had told him she would watch in glee as Mina put him to death.

“There, isn’t that better?” Zeboim asked solicitously.

“Thank you, Majesty,” Rhys said.

“Is there anything else I can do for you—”

“Perhaps tell me why you’ve come,” Rhys suggested.

Zeboim looked annoyed, then said abruptly, “Oh, very well. If you must know, I’m looking for Mina. It occurred to me she may have come to you, seeing that she found you interesting. I’m sure I don’t know why. I think you’re as dull as dishwater. But Mina couldn’t stop talking about you, and I thought she might be here.”

She glanced about the grotto, and shrugged. “It seems I was mistaken. If you see her, you will let me know. For all the grand times we had together—”

As she started to leave, her gaze fell again on the child wrapped in the altar cloth. Zeboim halted, staring.

The girl lay on her side, curled up in a ball. Her face was hidden by the cloth, but her tangled red braids were clearly visible in the firelight. The goddess looked at the girl, then she looked at Rhys.

Zeboim gasped. Swooping down on the girl, the Sea Goddess grasped hold of the altar cloth and dragged it from the child’s face.

Zeboim grasped the girl’s chin and wrenched her face to the firelight. The girl woke with a cry.

“Stop it!” said Rhys sharply, intervening. “You’re hurting her.”

Zeboim laughed wildly. “Hurt her? I couldn’t hurt her if I drove a stake through her heart! Did Majere do this? Does he think he can hide her from me with this stupid disguise—”

“Majesty—” Rhys began.

“Ouch!” Zeboim cried, snatching back her hand. She glared down at the child in shock. “She bit me!”

“Come near me and I’ll bite you again!” the girl cried. “I don’t like you! Go away.”

She wrapped herself more snugly in the altar cloth, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes.

Zeboim sucked her bleeding hand and regarded her intently.

“Don’t you know me, child?” she asked. “I’m Zeboim. We’re friends, you and I.”

“I never saw you before,” said the girl.

“Majesty,” said Rhys uneasily, “who is this girl? You seem to know her.”

“Don’t play games with me, monk,” said Zeboim.

“I am not playing a game, Majesty,” said Rhys earnestly.

Zeboim shifted her gaze to him. “You’re telling the truth. You truly don’t know.” She gestured at the slumbering child. “She is Mina. Or rather, she was Mina. I have no idea who she thinks she is now.”

“I do not understand, Majesty,” said Rhys.

“You’re not alone,” the goddess said grimly. “Where did you find her?”

“She was in the sea during the storm. She nearly drowned—”

“In the sea?” Zeboim repeated, and she added in a murmur. “Of course! She jumped from the wall into the sea. And she came to you, the monk who knew her…”

“Majesty,” said Rhys, “you need to tell me what is going on.”

Zeboim eyed him. “My poor monk. It would be immense fun to walk out and leave you floundering in ignorance, but not even I am that cruel. I don’t have time to go into details, but I will tell you this much. This girl, this child, this Mina is a god. She is a god who does not know she is a god, a god who was tricked by Takhisis into thinking she was human. What’s more, she is a god of light who was duped into serving darkness. Are you keeping up with me so far?”

Rhys stared at her, dumbstruck.

“I can see you’re not.” Zeboim shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t much matter. You’re stuck with her. To continue my story, poor Mina had the misfortune to fall in love with Chemosh and—just like a man—he broke her heart. Mina tried to win him back by giving him a gift. She dragged the Tower of High Sorcery up out of my sea and stuck it on that island out there. We were all very impressed. That was the first hint most of us had that she was a god. Majere, of course, already knew.”

“I don’t believe… I can’t believe…” Rhys paused, recalling the name of the place she had referred to as home. “If what you say is true, Majesty, how did she come to be like this? A child?”

“The gods only know,” said Zeboim. “No, wait. I take that back. We gods haven’t a clue. You think I’m lying, don’t you?”

Rhys was embarrassed. “Majesty—”

She grasped hold of his arm, digging her nails through the fabric of his robes into his flesh. Staring into his eyes, past his eyes, into his very soul, she hissed at him.

“Believe me or not, as you choose. As I said, it doesn’t matter. Mina came to you. What I want to know is… why? Did Majere send her to you? We took an oath, all of us. We’re not supposed to interfere. Did Majere break that oath?”

Rhys realized in that instant that Zeboim was telling the truth, and a shudder ran through him. He looked past the goddess at the forlorn little girl, wrapped in a frayed altar cloth, asleep on the cold, damp floor of a cave, and he remembered her floundering in the waves of the god-driven storm. He did not understand the workings of heaven, but he did know something of the suffering of mortals.

“Perhaps she came because she is alone and afraid,” said Rhys, “and she needed a friend.”

Zeboim tore Rhys apart with her gaze, studied the pieces, then hurled him away from her, sent him staggering back against the stone wall.

“Good luck with your new little friend, then, Monk.”

The Sea Goddess vanished in a blast of wind and rain.

Shaken, Rhys gazed down at the child.

“Majere,” he prayed, troubled, “is it your will that I undertake this task?”

“Rhys!” yelled a voice, and Rhys was momentarily startled. Then he realized the voice belonged to Nightshade.

“Rhys! Is it safe to come in?” the kender yelled from outside the grotto. “Is Zeboim gone?”

“She is gone.” For the time being, Rhys added mentally, certain this was not the last they would see of her.

Nightshade entered cautiously, staring hard into the shadows as though certain she would jump out at him. Then he saw the fire and he snapped his fingers.

“Oops, I knew I forgot something. I was supposed to go fetch tinder—”

“No need now,” said Rhys, smiling.

“Yeah, I can see that. I guess I forgot about the tinder because I was so excited about finding something else. I didn’t want to bring it in if you-know-who was still here. But since she’s gone, I’ll go get it.”

He darted out of the grotto and returned carrying a long, slender piece of driftwood. He held it out proudly.

“I found it washed up on shore. Doesn’t it remind you of your old staff? The emetic or whatever it was you called it? Anyway, Atta and I thought you might be able to use it.”

“Emmide,” said Rhys softly. He took hold of the staff, clasped his fingers around it. A pleasant warmth stole into his arm and spread throughout his body. And it was in this warmth that he heard the god’s voice, knew Majere’s answer.

Rhys rested the staff against the wall and spread the girl’s wet smock near the fire to dry. She slept deeply, her breathing even and quiet. He sank down onto the floor and leaned back against the wall. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.

“I heard Zeboim yelling at you. What did she want?” Nightshade asked.

“You and Atta were right. This little girl is Mina,” said Rhys. He closed his eyes.

“Whoo boy!” breathed Nightshade.

He removed his pouches, then took off his boots and emptied out the water and arranged them close to the blaze to dry off.

“My boots still smell of salt pork,” he said. “Which reminds me. It’s been a long time since dinner. I wonder if there’s any of that pork left.”

He went over to the barrel of salt pork the minotaur had left them for food and peered inside. Atta watched him hopefully. He shook his head, and the dog’s ears drooped.

“Oh, well. I guess we can wait until lunch, can’t we, girl?” Nightshade said, giving her a pat. “Say, Rhys, did Zeboim tell you how Mina turned into a little kid? I’ve heard of people aging ten years overnight, but never the other way around. Did the goddess have something to do with that? Did she? Rhys?”

The kender poked him. “Rhys, are you asleep?”

“What?” Rhys woke with a start.

“Sorry,” said Nightshade remorsefully. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s all right. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What was your question?” Rhys asked patiently.

“I was asking if Zeboim did this. She seems fond of shrinking people.” The kender was still bitter over the time the goddess had reduced him to the size of a khas piece and stuffed him inside Rhys’ pouch, then sent them both off to fight a death knight.

Rhys shook his head. “The Sea Goddess was shocked to see Mina as a child.”

“So what did she say happened?”

“According to Zeboim, Mina is a god who doesn’t know she’s a god. A god who was tricked by Takhisis into thinking she was human. Mina is a god of light, duped into serving Darkness.”

Nightshade regarded Rhys with narrowed eyes. “Did you hit your head again?”

“I’m fine,” Rhys assured him.

“Mina a god.” Nightshade snorted. “If you ask me, it’s all a bunch of hooey. Zeboim did this. She turned Mina into a little kid and sent her to us just to annoy us.”

“I don’t think so,” Rhys said quietly. “Mina woke up while you were gone. She told me she had run away from home and she asked me to take her back.”

Nightshade found this news cheering. “See there? Where does the kid want to go? Flotsam? It’s not far, just up the coast. She probably got swept out to sea—”

“Godshome,” said Rhys.

Nightshade’s brow wrinkled. “Godshome? That’s not a place. No one lives in Godshome except the—”

He gulped, and his eyes got round, and he gave a low whistle that made Atta’s ear twitch.

“I don’t think Zeboim told her to say that,” Rhys added with a sigh.

Nightshade looked at Mina and chewed his lower lip. Suddenly, he brightened.

“I’ll bet you heard her wrong. I’ll bet she said ‘Goat’s Home’.”

“Goat’s Home?” Rhys repeated, smiling. “I have never heard of such a place, my friend.”

“You don’t know everything,” Nightshade stated, “even if you are a monk. There are lots and lots of places you’ve never heard of.”

“I have heard of Godshome,” Rhys said.

“Stop saying that!” Nightshade ordered. “You know we’re not going there. It’s not possible.”

“Why?” Rhys yawned again.

“Well, for one reason because nobody knows where Godshome is, or even if Godshome is. And for two reasons, if Godshome is anywhere, it’s close to Neraka, and that’s a bad place, a very bad place. And for three reasons, if Godshome is close to Neraka, that means it’s far from here—clear on the other side of the continent—and it would take us months, maybe years, to travel…”

Nightshade stopped. “Rhys? Rhys! Are you listening to my reasons?”

Rhys wasn’t. He sat with his back against the wall, his head slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest. He was asleep, fast asleep, so deeply asleep that the kender’s voice and even a couple of pokes on the arm could not wake him.

Nightshade sighed and then he stood up and walked over to the little girl and squatted down to stare at her closely. She certainly didn’t look like a god. She looked like a drowned rat. He felt again the overwhelming sadness that he had felt when he’d seen Mina, the grown-up Mina. He didn’t like that, and so he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve and then glanced back surreptitiously at Rhys.

His friend was still asleep and would probably sleep for a good long time. Long enough for Nightshade to have a talk with this kid—whoever she was—and tell her that where she really wanted to go was the thriving metropolis of Goat’s Home and that she should travel there on her own, and she should leave now very quietly so as not to disturb Rhys.

“Hey, kid,” Nightshade whispered loudly, and he reached out his hand to shake her awake.

His hand hung, poised, in midair. His fingers started to tremble a little at the thought of actually touching her, and he snatched his hand back. He continued to squat there, gazing at Mina and chewing on his lip.

What did he see when he looked at her? What made her different in his sight from other mortals? What made her different from the dead he could see and talk to? What made her different from the undead? Nightshade looked intently at the child, and tears again flooded his eyes. He saw beauty, unimaginable beauty. Beauty that shamed the most radiant, glorious sunrise and made the glittering stars seem pale and plain in comparison. Her beauty made his very soul stand still in awe, for fear the slightest whisper might cause the wondrous sight to slip away from him. But it wasn’t her beauty that wrenched his heart and caused the tears to roll down his cheeks.

Her beauty was clothed in ugliness. She was smeared with blood, cloaked in the shroud of death and destruction. Evil, dread and horrible, was a pall over her.

“She is a god,” he said under his breath. “A god of light who’s done really horrible things. I’ve known it all along. I just didn’t know I knew it. That’s what made me feel all weepy inside.”

Nightshade didn’t think he could explain this to Rhys, because he wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself. He decided to talk it all over with Atta. He’d found that telling things to a dog was a lot easier than telling things to humans, mainly because Atta never asked questions.

But when he turned around to discuss Mina with Atta, he saw that the dog had rolled onto her side and was deep in slumber.

Nightshade slumped against the wall beside Rhys. The kender was sitting there, thinking mind-boggling thoughts, and listening to Rhys’ soft breathing, and the girl’s soft breathing, and Atta’s soft breathing, and the wind’s soft breathing, sighing over the sand dunes, and the waves coming to shore and leaving the shore and coming back to the shore and leaving the shore…

6

Nightshade woke suddenly, jolted awake by Atta’s bark.

Atta was on her feet. Her legs were stiff, her hackles raised, and she was staring intently at the opening of the grotto. Nightshade could hear the sounds of crunching, as of heavy footfalls walking in their direction.

They were close and getting closer.

Atta gave another sharp, warning bark. Mina stirred at the sound and drew the cloth over her head and went back to sleep. The heavy crunching noise stopped. A shadow fell over the entrance, blotting out the sun.

“Monk! I know you’re in there.”

That voice was muffled, yet Nightshade had no trouble recognizing it.

“Krell!” he yelped. “Rhys, it’s Krell!”

Nightshade was as immune to fear as the next kender, but he was also blessed with a good deal more common sense than most kender; a fact which he attributed to spending a lot of his time conversing with the dead. And so, instead of rushing out to greet the death knight, as any other kender would have done, Nightshade scuttled backward on all fours and yelled again for Rhys.

“I am awake,” said Rhys calmly.

He was on his feet, the emmide in his hands.

“Atta, silence. Here.”

The dog trotted over to stand beside him. She no longer barked, though she continued to growl.

Krell swaggered into the grotto. He was no longer wearing the accursed armor of a death knight. His armor was that of death. His helm was a ram’s skull. The horns curled back from his head, and his eyes were visible inside the skull’s eye sockets. His breastplate was made of bone—the top part of the skull of some gigantic beast. His arms and legs were encased in bone, as if he wore his skeleton on the outside of his body. Bony spines protruded from his hands and elbows and shoulders, and he carried a sword with a bone hilt.

He was a formidable sight, yet the eyes that glared out from behind the ram’s skull did not burn with the terrifying fire of undeath. His eyes were dull and flat. He did not stink of death. He just stank; he was sweating under the weight of his armor. His breath rasped, for the armor was heavy, and he’d been forced to walk all the way from the castle.

Nightshade quit crawling and sat back on his heels.

“Krell, you’re alive!” said Nightshade, though he was not sure this was an improvement. “You’re not a death knight anymore.”

“Shut up!” Krell snarled. He looked searchingly around the grotto, glanced without interest at the sleeping child, glared at the kender, then turned back to Rhys. “I’ve come for Mina. In the name of my lord Chemosh, I demand to know where she is.”

“Not here,” said Nightshade promptly. “We don’t know where she is. We haven’t seen her, have we, Rhys?”

Rhys was silent.

Krell’s eyes narrowed. Though dimly lit, the grotto wasn’t very big and there were no nooks or crannies where someone could hide.

“Where’s Mina?” Krell asked again.

“You can see for yourself” said Nightshade loudly. “She’s not here.”

“Then where is she?” Krell demanded. He kept his gaze on Rhys. “Remember the last time we met, Monk? Remember what I did to you? I broke almost every bone in your hand. Now I won’t waste time breaking bones. I’ll just cut your hand off the wrist—”

Krell drew his sword and took a step toward Rhys.

“Atta, stop—” Rhys began, but he was too late.

Atta lunged at Krell and sank her teeth into his calf muscle, a part of his leg left unprotected by the bone shin-guards.

Krell howled in pain and, twisting around, he peered down at his leg. Blood oozed from two rows of tooth marks. He snarled in rage and tried to slash at the dog with his sword. As Atta leaped deftly out of the way, Rhys blocked Krell’s blow with his staff.

Krell snorted in derision and hacked at the staff with his blade, thinking to snap it. Rhys swiftly raised the staff and slammed it into Krell’s hand, knocking the sword from his grasp. Krell wrung his fingers and glared at Rhys, who had taken a step backward.

Krell bent down to retrieve his blade.

“Atta, guard,” said Rhys.

Atta crouched over the sword. Her lip curled back from her teeth, and she snapped viciously at Krell’s hand. He snatched it back, his fingers bloody.

“I think you should leave now,” Rhys said. “Tell your master that the Mina he seeks is not with me.”

“You’re a rotten liar, Monk!” Krell said. His breath from the skull helm was foul. “You know where she is and you’ll tell me. You’ll be begging to tell me! I don’t need a sword to kill you in any number of nasty ways.”

Rhys did not feel fear, as he had felt before in the presence of the death knight. He felt disgust, revulsion.

Krell was not driven to kill by a holy curse. Krell killed now for small, mean reasons. He killed because he reveled in the pain and fear of his victim, and because he liked holding the power of life and death in his grubby hands.

“Atta,” Rhys said calmly, “go to Nightshade.”

The kender grabbed hold of the growling dog and clamped his hand over her muzzle.

“Let Rhys handle this,” he whispered.

“I just have to say a word to Chemosh, Monk,” said Krell. “And he’ll flay the flesh from your bones, for starters—”

Rhys gripped his staff firmly, holding it upright before him, his hands clasped over it. He had no idea if this staff was blessed as had been his other staff. Perhaps it was. Perhaps not. He knew Majere stood with him. He could feel the god as a core of peace and calm and tranquility.

The gleam in Krell’s eyes turned ugly.

“You’ll tell me.”

He walked over to the girl, who had slept through the commotion, and reaching down, grabbed hold of the child by the hair and yanked her from her slumber.

Mina gasped and cried out. Wriggling in Krell’s grasp, she tried to free herself.

Krell gripped her tightly and put his huge hand to her throat.

Mina gave a little whimper and went rigid and stiff in the man’s grasp.

“I always did like ’em young,” Krell chortled. “Here’s a hint of what will happen to the girl if you don’t talk, Monk.”

Krell dug long, yellow, skeleton-like nails into Mina’s throat. Thin trails of blood trickled from the cuts in her flesh. Mina flinched in pain, but she didn’t make a sound. Her amber eyes hardened into fixed resolve.

“Uh-oh,” said Nightshade, and he dragged Atta back against the wall.

“I’ll cut deeper next time. Where is Mina?” Krell demanded, glaring at Rhys.

But it was Mina who answered.

“Right here,” she said.

She seized hold of the bone bracers on his arm and dug her fingers into them. The bracers split and cracked and fell off. She kept digging deeper and blood started to well up from beneath her fingers.

Krell grunted in pain and tried to wrench his arm free.

Mina gave his arm a twist. Bones snapped, and Krell screamed in agony and, moaning, sagged to his knees. The jagged edges of blood-covered bone could be seen jutting out from blue-tinged, bloody flesh.

Mina glared at him.

“You hurt me. You’re a bad man.” She wrinkled her nose. “And you smell. I don’t like you. My name is Mina. What do you want with me?”

“This is some sort of trick—” he snarled.

“Answer me!” Mina kicked him on his armor-covered thigh. The bone armor split in two.

Krell groaned. “Chemosh sent me…”

“Chemosh. I don’t know any Chemosh,” said Mina. “And if he’s a friend of yours, I don’t want to know him. Go away and don’t come back.”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Krell said savagely. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ll let the master figure it out.”

With his good arm, he seized hold of Mina’s hand and roared, “Chemosh! I have her—”

Rhys leaped, swinging his staff at Krell’s head. The emmide whistled through empty air. Rhys lowered the staff, staring about in amazement. Krell had vanished.

“Rhys,” cried Nightshade in strangled tones. “Look up.”

The kender pointed.

Krell hung upside down, suspended from the ceiling of the grotto from a length of rope tied around his boot. His ram’s skull helm had fallen off and now lay on the floor at Mina’s feet.

Krell’s eyes bulged. His mouth gaped open and shut. His broken arm dangled helplessly. He struggled, kicking his foot, but only succeeded in twisting round and round in midair.

Mina looked up at Rhys.

“I’m not sleepy anymore. It’s time to go.”

Rhys gazed up at Krell, twisting and turning on his god-spun thread, demanding, begging Chemosh to come save him. Rhys looked at Nightshade, who was staring at Mina with awestruck eyes—and it is not easy to strike awe into a kender.

Mina reached out and took hold of Rhys’ hand.

“You’re going to take me home, Mister Monk,” she reminded him. “You promised.”

Rhys could not answer. A smothering sensation in his chest made it hard to breathe. He was starting to realize the enormity of the task that he had undertaken.

“C’mon, Mister Monk!” Mina tugged at him impatiently.

“My name is Rhys Mason,” Rhys said, trying to speak in normal tones. “And this is my friend, Nightshade.”

“P-pleased to meet you,” said Nightshade faintly.

“What’s the dog’s name?” Mina asked. She reached down to pet Atta, who cringed at the god-child’s touch and would have crawled off, but Nightshade had hold of her. “She’s a nice dog. I like her. She bit the bad man.”

“Her name is Atta.” Rhys drew in a deep breath. He knelt down, putting himself at eye-level with her. “Mina, why do you want to go to Godshome?”

“Because that’s where my mother is,” Mina answered. “She’s waiting for me there.”

“What is your mother’s name?” Rhys asked.

“Goldmoon,” said Mina.

Nightshade made a choking sound.

“My mother’s name is Goldmoon,” Mina was saying, “and she’s waiting for me at Godshome, and you’re going to take me to her.”

“Rhys,” said Nightshade, “could I have a word? In private?”

“Aren’t we going now?” Mina asked impatiently.

“In a minute,” said Rhys.

“Oh, all right. I’ll go play outside,” Mina stated. “Can the dog come with me?” She ran to the entrance of the grotto and turned to call, “Atta! Come, Atta!”

Rhys made a sign with his hand. Atta cast him a reproachful glance, then, her ears drooping, she slunk out of the cave.

“Rhys”—Nightshade pounced on him—“what in the name of Chemosh, Mishakal, Chislev, Sargonnas, Gilean, Hiddukel, Morgion and… and all the other gods I can’t think of right at the moment, what do you think you’re doing?”

Rhys picked up Nightshade’s boots and held them out to him.

Nightshade shoved the boots aside.

“Rhys, that little girl is a god! Not only that, she’s a god who has lost her bloody mind!” Nightshade waved his arms to emphasize his words. “She wants us to take her to Godshome—a place that maybe doesn’t even exist to meet Goldmoon—a woman who’s been dead for years! That girl is crackers, Rhys! Cuckoo! Looney! Off her rocker!”

“Chemosh,” Krell was howling. “You son-of-a-bitch! Come get me out of here!”

Nightshade jerked his thumb upward.

“What happens when Mina gets mad at us? Maybe she’ll shoot us off to a moon and leave us stranded there. Or pick up a mountain and drop it on top of our heads. Or feed us to a dragon.”

“I made a promise,” said Rhys.

Nightshade sighed and, sitting down, he pulled on one of his boots and tugged.

“You made that promise before you knew all the facts,” Nightshade stated, pulling on the other boot. “Do you even know where Godshome is—that is, if it is?”

“Legend holds that Godshome is in the Khalkist mountains, somewhere near Neraka,” Rhys replied.

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” Nightshade grumbled. “Neraka is the most horrible, evil place on the continent. Not to mention that it’s on the other side of the—world.”

“Not quite that far,” said Rhys, smiling.

They left the grotto, where Krell was still hanging from the ceiling, twisting and swearing. Chemosh appeared to be in no hurry to rescue his champion.

“In my opinion, you were hoodwinked,” Nightshade continued. He halted at the entrance, looking up at his friend. “Rhys, I want you to consider one thing.”

“What’s that, my friend?”

“Our story is over, Rhys,” said Nightshade earnestly. “We had a happy ending—you and me and Atta. Let’s close the book and go home.”

The kender gestured to Mina, who was running among the sand dunes, laughing wildly. “This is god-business, Rhys. We shouldn’t be getting mixed up in it.”

“A wise person once told me, ‘You can’t quit a god,’” said Rhys.

“The person who said that to you was a kender,” Nightshade returned grumpily. “And you know you can’t trust them.”

“I trusted one with my life,” said Rhys, resting his hand on Nightshade’s head. “And he did not let me down.”

“Well, then, you got lucky,” Nightshade muttered. He shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked at a rock.

“My story is not finished. No one’s story is ever really finished. Death is just the turning of another page. But you are right, my friend,” Rhys said with an involuntary sigh. “Traveling with her will be dangerous and difficult. Your story may not be finished, but perhaps now you should turn the page, take a different path.”

Nightshade thought this over. “Are you sure Majere won’t help me pick locks?”

“I cannot say for certain,” Rhys replied, “but I really doubt it.”

Nightshade shrugged. “Then I guess I’ll stay with you. Otherwise I’d starve.”

He grinned and winked. “I’m only fooling, Rhys! You know I’d never leave you and Atta. What would you two do without me? You’d get yourselves killed by crazy gods!”

That may yet be the end of our tale, Rhys thought. Chemosh will not be the only god seeking Mina.

He kept the thought to himself however, and, whistling to Atta, he gave his hand to Mina, who came skipping up to him.

7

Mina set off, but she did not head toward the road. She started walking toward the sea.

“I thought you wanted to go to Godshome,” said Nightshade, who was not in a good mood. “What are you going to do? Swim there?”

“Oh, we’ll go to Godshome,” said Mina. “But first I want you to come with me to the tower.”

“Which tower?” Nightshade asked. “There are lots of towers in the world. There’s a very famous tower in Nightlund. I’ve always wanted to visit Nightlund, because it is filled with the roving spirits of the dead. I can talk to roving spirits, if you ever—”

“That tower.” Mina added proudly, “My tower.”

She pointed to the tower that stood in the middle of the Blood Sea.

“Why do you want to go there?” Rhys asked.

“Because she’s crazy,” Nightshade said in a low voice.

Rhys gave him a look, and the kender lapsed into a gloomy silence.

Mina stood gazing out across the sea.

“My mother will be mad at me for running away,” Mina said. “I want to bring Goldmoon a present so she will forgive me.”

Rhys recalled Revered Son Patrick, cleric of Mishakal, telling the story of Goldmoon and Mina. After Mina ran away, Goldmoon had grieved for the lost girl and hoped someday she would return. Then came Takhisis, the One God, and the War of Souls began with Mina leading the armies of darkness. Hoping to turn Goldmoon, who was now an elderly, frail woman, to the side of Darkness, Takhisis gave Goldmoon youth and beauty. Goldmoon did not want her youth back. She was ready to die, to proceed on the next stage of her life’s journey where her beloved, Riverwind, waited for her. Though Mina tried to persuade Goldmoon to change her mind, Goldmoon defied Takhisis and died in Mina’s arms.

Goldmoon must have died in sorrow, Rhys realized, believing the child she had loved was lost forever, bound to evil. No wonder Mina had obliterated that memory.

He determined he should at least make the attempt to help her understand the truth.

“Mina,” said Rhys, taking hold of the child’s hand, “Goldmoon is dead. She died many, many months ago—”

“You’re wrong,” said Mina serenely, speaking with unwavering certainty. “Goldmoon is waiting for me at Godshome. That’s why I’m going there. To beg her not to be mad at me anymore. I will take her a present so she will love me again.”

“Goldmoon never stopped loving you, Mina,” said Rhys. “Mothers don’t ever stop loving their children.”

Mina looked back at him, her eyes wide. “Not even if they do bad things? Really, really bad things?”

Rhys was caught off guard by her question. If this was truly madness, it held a strange and terrible wisdom.

He rested his hand on her slender shoulder. “Not even then.”

“Maybe so,” said Mina, though she sounded doubtful. “But you can’t be sure, and so I want to take Goldmoon a present. And the present I want to take her is inside that tower.”

“What sort of tower is it?” Nightshade asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. “Where did it come from?”

“It didn’t come from anywhere, stupid,” Mina scoffed. “It’s always been there.”

“No, it hasn’t,” argued Nightshade.

“Yes, it has.”

“No—” Nightshade caught Rhys’ eye and changed the subject. “So who built it, if it’s been there all this time?”

“Wizards built it. It used to be a Tower of High Sorcery. But it’s my tower now.” Mina flashed Nightshade a defiant glance, daring him to disagree. “And Goldmoon’s present is inside.”

“A Tower of High Sorcery!” Nightshade gasped, his jaw sagging. “Are there wizards inside it?”

Mina shrugged. “I guess. I don’t know. Wizards are stupid anyway, so it doesn’t matter. What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

“The tower is the middle of the sea, Mina,” Rhys said. “We don’t have a boat—”

“That’s right!” Nightshade struck in happily. “We’d love to visit your tower, Mina, but we can’t. No boat! Say, is anyone else hungry? I hear there’s an inn in Flotsam that makes a really good meat pie—”

“There’s a boat,” Mina interrupted. “Behind you.”

Nightshade looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, a small sailboat rested on its keel on the shore, not fifteen paces from where they were standing.

“Rhys, do something,” said Nightshade out of the corner of his mouth. “You and I both know there wasn’t a boat there a second ago. I don’t want to sail in a boat that didn’t used to be there…”

Mina began tugging Rhys excitedly toward the sail boat. Nightshade, sighing deeply, followed, dragging his feet.

“Do you even know how to sail this thing?” he asked. “I’ll bet you don’t.”

“I bet I do,” she answered smugly. “I learned at the Citadel.”

Nightshade sighed again. Mina climbed inside the boat and began to rummage around, sorting out a tangle of ropes and instructing Rhys on how to raise the sail. Nightshade stood beside the boat, his lower lip thrust out.

Mina regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “You said you were hungry. Someone might have left food in the boat. I’ll look.” She felt about under one of the wooden plank seats and came up holding a large sack.

“I was right!” she announced, pleased. “See what I found.”

She reached into the sack and took out a meat pie, and handed it to Nightshade.

He did not touch it. It looked like a meat pie and it certainly smelled like a meat pie. Both his mouth and his stomach agreed this was definitely a meat pie, and Atta added her vote, as well. The dog eyed the pie and licked her chops.

“You said you were hungry,” Mina reminded him.

Still, Nightshade hesitated. “I don’t know…”

Atta took matters into her own hands—or rather into her mouth. A leap, a snap, a couple of gulps, and the meat pie was a grease smear on her nose.

“Hey!” cried Nightshade indignantly. “That was mine.”

Atta slurped her tongue over her nose and began to hungrily paw the sack. Rhys rescued the remainder of the pies and handed them out. Mina nibbled on hers and ended up feeding most of it to Atta. Nightshade ate his hungrily and, finding Rhys could not finish his, the kender ate it for him. He helped Rhys hoist the sail and, acting under Mina’s direction, pushed the boat out into the waves.

Mina took the tiller and steered the boat into the wind. The waves had calmed. A light breeze caught the sail, and the boat glided over the waves, heading out to sea. Atta crouched at the bottom, nosing the sack hopefully.

“For a god-baked pie, that wasn’t bad,” Nightshade remarked, falling down onto the seat beside Rhys when the sailboat took an unexpected lurch. “Maybe a little less onion and more garlic. Next I think I’ll ask her to cook up some beefsteak with crispy potatoes—”

“We should be very careful not to ask for anything,” Rhys suggested.

Nightshade mulled this over.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. We might get it.” The kender shifted his gaze to the tower. “What do you know about Towers of High Sorcery?”

Rhys shook his head. “Not much, I am afraid.”

“Me neither. And I have to say I’m not really looking forward to the experience. Wizards don’t like kender for some reason. They might turn me into a frog.”

“Mistress Jenna liked you,” Rhys reminded him.

“That’s true. All she did was slap my hand.”

Nightshade caught hold of the gunwale as the boat gave another sudden lurch. They were sailing quite fast now, bounding over the waves, and the tower was coming nearer. It looked extremely dark. Not even the bright sunlight shining on the crystal walls seemed to be able to brighten it.

“I suppose most kender would give their topknots to visit a Tower of High Sorcery, but then I guess I’m not most kender,” Nightshade remarked. “My father said I wasn’t. He said it came from spending my time in graveyards talking to the dead. They were a bad influence on me.” Nightshade looked at little downcast at this.

“I think most kender would give their topknots to be able to do that,” Rhys told him.

Nightshade scratched his head. He’d never considered this. “You know. You might be right. Why, I remember once meeting a fellow kender in Solace, and when I told him I was a Nightstalker, he said—”

Nightshade stopped talking. He stared out to sea. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes, stared again, then tugged on Rhys’ sleeve.

“There are people out there in the water…” Nightshade cried. “Maybe they’re drowning! We have to help save them!”

Alarmed, Rhys risked standing up in the rocking boat to gain a better view. At first all he could see were sea birds and the occasional frothy white cap. Then he saw a person in the water, and then another, and still another.

“Mina!” Nightshade cried. “Steer the boat over to those people—”

“No, don’t,” Rhys said suddenly.

The people were far from shore, yet they were swimming strongly, not floundering or flailing. Hundreds of them, swimming, far from shore, heading for the tower…

“Rhys!” Nightshade cried. “Rhys, they’re Beloved and they’re swimming to the tower. Mina, stop! Turn the boat around!”

Mina shook her head. Her amber eyes gleamed with pleasure, her lips were parted in a smile, and she laughed for no other reason than pure joy. The sail boat traveled faster, seeming to leap over the waves.

“Mina!” Rhys called urgently. “Turn the boat around!”

She looked at him and smiled and waved.

“Those people are dangerous!” he cried, and he jabbed his finger in the direction of the undead, some of whom had reached the tower and were crawling onto the shore. He could see many more clustering around the entrance. “We must turn back!”

Mina stared at the Beloved in bewilderment, which quickly changed to dismay and then to anger.

“They have no business going to my tower,” she said and she steered the boat straight toward them.

“Rhys!” Nightshade howled.

“There’s nothing I can do,” Rhys said, and for the first time he truly understood the dire peril of their situation.

How could he control a six-year-old girl who could suspend a minion of Chemosh by his heels from a ceiling, summon up a sailboat, and produce meat pies on a whim?

He was suddenly angry. Why didn’t the gods themselves deal with her? Why dump this in his lap?

The boat shifted suddenly. The emmide, which had been lying on the seat beside him, rolled up against his hand. He grasped it and, though the staff was wet and slick with salt spray, he felt again a comforting warmth. One god, at least, had his reasons…

“Rhys! We’re getting closer!” Nightshade warned.

They were quite close to the tower now. The Beloved had already overrun the island, which was not very large, and more were arriving all the time. Some swam. Some crawled up out of the sea as though they had walked along the ocean floor They climbed over the rocks, sometimes slipping and falling back into the water, but always returning. They were mostly human, young and strong, and all of them were dead, yet horribly alive, chained to a world of unendurable pain, victims of Mina’s terrible kiss. Rhys’ heart ached to see them.

“What are all you people doing there?” Mina cried angrily. “This is my tower.”

She gave the rudder a twitch, took the boat out of the wind. The sail sagged and flapped, and the boat glided on its own momentum into the rock-bound shore. Rhys feared for a moment they would crash, but Mina proved a deft sailor, and she guided them to a safe landing among the rocks and coral and dripping seaweed.

“Hand me that line,” Mina said, jumping lightly onto shore, “so I can tie up the boat.”

“Rhys! What are you doing?” Nightshade cried, aghast. “Cast off! Sail away! We can’t stay here! They’ll kill us!”

The emmide was still warm in Rhys’ hand. He remembered his thought: her madness held a terrible wisdom. This was something she needed to do, seemingly. And he had promised. She was in no danger. She could not die. He wondered if she understood that he and Nightshade could.

From his vantage point, Rhys could see his reflection in the tower’s glistening black crystal walls. The entrance to the tower was only about a hundred paces away and the door stood open. Many of the Beloved must already be inside. Several hundred Beloved remained on the island, milling about aimlessly. Some of these, catching sight of the boat, turned to stare with their empty eyes.

“Too late!” Nightshade groaned. “They’ve seen us.”

Rhys hurriedly tied up the boat and, taking his staff, went to stand beside Mina. Nightshade helped Atta out of the boat, then he grabbed a boat hook and slowly and reluctantly followed Rhys.

“I could be in some nice graveyard about now,” the kender said dolefully, “visiting with any number of pleasant dead people…”

“Mina!” One of the Beloved cried out her name and “Mina!” said another. The name spread among them. The Beloved began running toward the boat.

“How do they know me?” Mina quavered. She shrank back fearfully, pressing up against Rhys. “Why do they stare at me with their horrible eyes?”

The Beloved thronged around her, reaching out their hands to her, calling her name.

“I hate them! Make them go away!” Mina pleaded, turning away and burying her head in Rhys’ robes. “Make them go away!”

“Mina! Mina, touch me,” the Beloved begged her, stretching out their hands to her. “You made me what I am!”

One of the Beloved grabbed Mina’s arm, and she shrieked in a frenzy of panic. Rhys could not keep hold of Mina and, at the same time, fight off the Beloved. He had all he could do to retain the writhing, screaming child. He flung the emmide to Nightshade.

“It’s blessed by the god!” Rhys cried.

The kender understood. He dropped the boat hook and caught the staff. Swinging it like a club, he brought it down with all his might on the Beloved’s wrist.

At the staff’s touch, the flesh on the Beloved’s hand blackened and dropped off from the bone, leaving behind a skeletal hand that unfortunately retained its grasp. Bony fingers still clawed at Mina’s arm.

“That was a big help!” Nightshade shouted, casting the heavens an irate glance. “I should think a god could do better than that!”

More Beloved began crowding about. Nightshade struck at them with the staff, trying to beat them off and not having much luck. The fact that globs of flesh were turning black and falling off their bones didn’t seem to bother them in the least. They kept coming and Nightshade kept swinging. His arms were starting to ache, his palms were sweating and he was sick to his stomach at the gruesome sight of fleshless hands and arms flailing about him.

Atta snapped and barked and made darting runs at the Beloved, sinking her teeth into any part of them that came within her reach, but the dog bites had less effect on them than the staff.

“Back to the boat!” Rhys gasped, endeavoring to keep hold of Mina and fend off the Beloved. They paid no attention to him or the kender or the dog. They were desperate to seize Mina.

Her piercing shriek, right in his ear, startled Nightshade so that he dropped the emmide.

Skeletal fingers grabbed Mina’s wrist. Rhys smashed the Beloved in the face with the heel of his hand, breaking its nose and shattering its cheek bones. Mina stared in horror at the bony fingers digging into her flesh, and, screaming shrilly, she struck at the Beloved with her fist.

Flame—amber, incandescent—-consumed the Beloved utterly, leaving nothing, not even ashes, behind. The heat of the blast washed over Rhys and Nightshade and then was gone.

“Rhys,” quavered Nightshade, after a moment, “do I have any eyebrows left?”

Rhys managed to cast him a reassuring glance, but that was as much as he had time to do. Mina, keeping hold of Rhys’ hand, turned to face the Beloved.

The heat of Mina’s holy rage had driven them back. They no longer tried to grab her. They still surrounded her, watching her with empty eyes and repeating her name over and over. Some spoke “Mina” in soft and sad and pleading tones. Others snarled “Mina,” desperate, angry.

“Stop saying that!” Mina screamed shrilly.

The Beloved hushed, fell silent.

“I’m going to my tower,” said Mina, glowering. “Get out of my way.”

“We should go back to the boat,” Nightshade urged. “Make a run for it!”

“We’d never reach it,” said Rhys.

The Beloved would not allow Mina to leave. They had been waiting here for her. Perhaps it was her command that had driven them to this island.

“Our lives are in her hands,” Rhys said. Moving slowly, he reached down and picked up his staff.

Nightshade groaned and muttered, “No meat pie is worth this.”

8

Mina, tugging Rhys with her, walked forward. The Beloved drew back, giving her room to pass. She walked through the throng of the dead, watching them warily with frightened eyes, clinging to Rhys’ hand so tightly that her fingertips left red marks. Nightshade crowded close behind them, tripping on Rhys’ heels. Atta kept near Rhys’ side, her body quivering, her lip curled back from her teeth, a constant growl rumbling.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this,” Nightshade said.

“Shush!” Rhys warned. He had seen the empty eyes shift from Mina to the kender and the flash of sunlight off steel. The Beloved did not attack, however. Rhys guessed they would not, as long as they were with Mina.

“Rhys,” whispered Nightshade, “she doesn’t remember them! And she created them!”

Rhys nodded and kept walking. The Beloved had been wandering about the island in their aimless fashion until catching sight of Mina. After that, they saw nothing else. They gathered around her, speaking her name in reverent tones. Some reached out to her, but she shrank back from them.

“Go away!” she said sharply. “Don’t touch me.”

One by one, they fell back.

Mina kept walking toward the tower, holding onto Rhys’ hand. When they reached the tower entrance, they found the double doors locked.

“All this way and she forgets the key,” Nightshade muttered.

“I don’t need a key,” said Mina. “This is my tower.”

Letting go of Rhys’ hand, she walked up to the great doors and, pushing on them with all her strength, gave them a shove. At her touch, the massive doors swung slowly open.

Mina bounded inside, looking about her with a child’s wonder and curiosity. Rhys followed more slowly. Though the tower was constructed of crystal, some magic in the walls blocked the light. The morning sun could not even enter the door, but was swallowed up at the threshold. Inside, all was darkness. He halted just inside the doorway.

Slowly, as his eyes grew accustomed to the cool, damp darkness, he became aware that the tower’s interior was not as dark as it had first seemed. The crystal walls diffused the sunlight, so that the interior was illuminated with a pale, soft light, reminiscent of moonglow.

The entrance hall was cavernous. A spiral staircase carved into the crystal walls wound round the interior, leading upward, out of sight. Globes of magical light were placed at intervals along the stairway, to guide the way of those who walked it. Most of the globes flickered like guttered candles, as though their magic was starting to wane. Some had gone out completely.

Long ago, the entry hall of the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar must have been magnificent. Here the wizards of Istar would have welcomed fellow wizards and other guests and dignitaries. Here, they must have waited for the Kingpriest, handing over to him the keys to their beloved tower, agreeing in sorrow to surrender rather than risk the lives of innocents in battle.

Perhaps the Kingpriest was the very last mortal to walk this hall, Rhys thought. He pictured the Kingpriest, splendid in his misguided glory, taking a triumphant victory lap, congratulating himself on having driven out his enemies before he locked and sealed the great doors behind him. Locked and sealed Istar’s doom.

Nothing of glory or magnificence was left. The walls were wet and grimy, covered in sand and silt. The floor was ankle-deep in sludge, dead fish, and seaweed.

“Ugh! Your tower stinks, Mina!” said Nightshade loudly. Catching hold of Rhys’ sleeve, the kender added in low, urgent tones, “Be careful! I thought I heard voices whispering. Over there.” He jerked his thumb.

Rhys looked intently into the shadows in the direction Nightshade had indicated. Rhys saw nothing, but he could feel eyes watching him and he could hear someone sucking in gasping breaths, as though he or she had run a long distance.

Exertion did not bother the Beloved. Whoever was lurking in the shadows must be a living being. Rhys had assumed the tower to be vacant—after all, it had been dragged up from the bottom of the sea. He started to think his assumption was wrong. Nuitari had built the tower of his magic; he would have almost certainly found a way for his wizards to inhabit it, even though it had rested on the bottom of the ocean.

Rhys looked at Atta, who usually warned him of peril. She was aware of something in the shadows, for she would occasionally turn her head to glare in that direction. The Beloved represented the greatest danger to her, however, and her attention was fixed on them. She barked a sharp warning.

Rhys turned to see the Beloved crowding around the open door. They did not enter, but hesitated, dead eyes watching Mina.

“Keep them out!” she told Rhys. “I don’t want them in here.”

“The brat’s right,” snarled a high-pitched, nasal whine from the shadows. “Don’t let those fiends in! They’ll murder us all. Shut the doors!”

Rhys would have liked nothing better than to obey the command, but he had no idea how the doors operated. Constructed of blocks of obsidian, red granite and white marble, the double doors were four times the height of a man, and must each weigh as much as a small house.

“Tell me how to close them,” he shouted.

“How in the Abyss should we know?” a deeper voice boomed irascibly. “You opened the blasted doors! You shut them!”

But Rhys had not opened the doors. Mina had, and she was too terrified of the Beloved to go back. The Beloved continued to mass around the entrance, but they could not find a way inside, and that appeared to be frustrating them.

“Some force seems to be blocking them,” Rhys called out to the strangers in the shadows. “I presume you two are wizards. Do you have any idea what the force is or how long it will last?”

He heard snatches of a whispered consultation, then two wizards dressed in black robes emerged from the shadows. One was tall and thin with the pointed ears of an elf and the face of a savage mongrel. His hair was ragged and disheveled, his robes were tattered and filthy. His slanted eyes darted about like the head of a striking snake. Once, by accident, the eyes met Rhys’ gaze and immediately slithered away.

The other wizard was a dwarf, short of stature with broad shoulders and a long beard. The dwarf was cleaner than his companion. His eyes, barely visible beneath shaggy brows, were cunning and cold.

Both wizards appeared to have gone through some traumatic ordeal, for the half-elf’s face was bruised. He had a black eye and he had tied a dirty rag around his left wrist. The dwarf’s head was swathed in bloody bandages and he was limping.

“I am Rhys Mason,” Rhys announced. “This is Nightshade.”

“I’m Mina,” said the girl, at which the dwarf gave a perceptible start and stared at her narrowly.

The half-elf sneered.

“Who gives a rat’s ass who you are, twerp,” he said in loathing.

The dwarf cast him a baleful glance, then said, “I am called Basalt. This is Caele.” He was speaking to Rhys, but he kept staring at Mina. “How did you get into our tower?”

“What is the force blocking the door?” Rhys persisted.

Basalt and Caele exchanged glances.

“We think it might be the Master,” Basalt said reluctantly. “Which means he allowed you to come inside and he’s keeping the fiends out. What we want to know is why he let you in here.”

Mina had been staring at the wizards. Her brow furrowed, as though trying to recall where she’d seen them before.

“I know you,” she said suddenly. “You tried to kill me.” She pointed to the half-elf.

“She’s lying!” Caele yelped. “I never saw this brat before in my life! You have five seconds to tell me why you are here or I’ll cast a spell that will reduce you to—”

Basalt thrust his elbow into his companion’s ribs and said something to him in a low voice.

“You’re daft!” Caele scoffed.

“Look at her!” Basalt insisted. “That could be why the Master—” The rest was lost in whispering.

“I agree with Mina for once,” said Nightshade. “I don’t trust these two as far as I can stand the stink of them. Who’s this Master they’re talking about?”

“Nuitari, God of the Black Moon,” Rhys answered.

Nightshade gave a dismal groan. “More gods. Just what we need.”

“I have to find the way downstairs,” Mina told Rhys. “You two stay here, keep an eye on them.”

She pointed at the wizards, then, casting them one last baleful glance, started walking about the great hall, poking and peering into the shadows.

“If it is Nuitari, I wish he’d just shut the door,” Nightshade stated, watching the Beloved, who were watching him back.

“If he did, we might not be able to get back out,” said Rhys.

Caele and Basalt had been conferring all this time.

“Go on,” Caele said, and he gave Basalt a shove. “Ask them.”

“You ask them,” Basalt growled, but in the end he came shambling up to Rhys.

“What are those fiends?” he asked. “We know they’re some sort of undead. Nothing we tried seems to stop them. Not magic, not steel. Caele stabbed one through the heart and it fell down, then it got back up and tried to strangle him!”

“They are known as the Beloved. They’re undead disciples of Chemosh,” Nightshade explained.

“Told you,” Basalt growled at Caele. “That’s her!”

“You’re full of it,” Caele muttered back.

“How did your tower come to be here in the Blood Sea?” Nightshade asked curiously. “It wasn’t here yesterday.”

“You’re telling us!” Basalt grunted. “Yesterday we were in our tower safe at the bottom of the ocean, minding our own business. Then there was an earthquake. The walls started shaking, the floor was the ceiling and the ceiling was the floor. We didn’t know if we were on our heads or our feet. Everything broke, all our vials and containers. Books went flying off the shelves. We thought we were dead.

“When everything stopped shaking, we looked out and found ourselves stuck on this rock. When we started to crawl out through a side door, those fiends tried to murder us.”

Rhys thought of the power that had wrenched this tower from the bottom of the sea and he looked at the little girl, wandering about, searching behind pillars and tapping on the walls.

“What’s she doing? Playing hide-and-seek?” Nightshade cast a nervous glance at the Beloved and another at the two wizards. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t like this talk about stabbing people in the heart—even if it was a Beloved.”

“Mina—” Rhys began.

“Found it!” she announced triumphantly.

She stood beneath an arched entryway, hidden in the shadows, that led to another, smaller spiral staircase.

“Come with me,” ordered Mina. “Tell the bad men they have to stay here.”

“This is our tower!” Caele snarled.

“Is not!” Mina retorted.

“Is so—”

Basalt intervened, clamping his hand over Caele’s arm.

“You’re not going anywhere without us,” Basalt said coldly.

Caele growled in agreement and snatched his arm from his partner’s grasp.

“Atta and I will keep an eye on them,” Rhys promised, thinking it better to have the wizards where he could see them rather than having them skulking along behind.

Mina gave a nod. “They can come, but if they try to hurt us, I’ll tell Atta to bite them.”

“Go ahead. I like dog,” Caele sneered. His lip curled. “Baked.”

Mina entered the archway and started to descend the stairs. Nightshade followed after her, with Atta at his heels. Rhys came last, keeping watch out of the corner of his eye on the two wizards. The half-elf was talking rapidly into his cohort’s ear, making jabbing gestures with his hand, emphasizing a point by stabbing it with a dirty finger. The dwarf didn’t like whatever the half-elf was proposing, apparently, for he drew back, scowling, and shook his head. The half-elf whispered something else and the dwarf appeared to consider this. At length, he nodded and called out.

“Wait, Monk! Stop! She’s leading you to your death,” Basalt warned. “There’s a dragon down there!”

Nightshade missed his footing, slipped on a stair, and landed hard on his backside.

“Dragon? What dragon?” The kender rubbed his sore tailbone. “I didn’t agree to a dragon!”

“The dragon is the guardian of the Solio Febalas,” said Basalt.

“The Solo Feebleness?” Nightshade repeated. “What’s that?”

Rhys could not believe he had heard right.

“Solio Febalas,” Rhys said with a catch in his voice. “The Hall of Sacrilege. But… that can’t be. The Hall was lost during the Cataclysm.”

“Our Master found it,” said Basalt proudly. “It’s a treasure trove, filled with rare and valuable holy artifacts.”

“They’re worth a king’s ransom. Which is why the dragon is guarding it,” Caele added. “If you try to enter, the dragon will kill you and eat you.”

“This just gets better and better,” said Nightshade glumly.

“Pooh, the dragon won’t eat anyone,” Mina said calmly. “She didn’t eat me and I’ve been down there. The dragon’s name is Midori. She’s a sea dragon and old. Very old.”

“Rhys,” said Nightshade, “I’m sure there are lots of kenders who would really love to be eaten by a sea dragon. I don’t happen to be one of them.”

“There speaks a man of sense! You and the monk should come back upstairs,” Caele urged. “Basalt and I will go with the… er… little girl.”

“What a great idea!” exclaimed Nightshade, starting to head back up the stairs.

Rhys caught hold of him, turned him around.

“We will stay with Mina,” he said, and he continued on down, bringing Nightshade along with him.

There was more whispering behind him.

“The Master won’t like us going down there,” he overheard Basalt say.

“He won’t like it if they rob us blind, either,” Caele retorted.

Basalt clamped his hand down on Caele’s wrist.

“Don’t be a fool,” said the dwarf, adding something in a language Rhys did not understand.

Caele grunted and twitched his sleeve back in place, but not before Rhys had caught the glint of steel.

Rhys turned away. The two were clearly up to no good and he guessed this had something to with the Solio Febalas, the Hall of Sacrilege. If they were telling the truth and Nuitari had found the lost Hall, then what the half-elf had said about it being worth a king’s ransom was true. Ransom enough for a hundred kings! Artifacts, relics, potions blessed by all the gods were said to have been confiscated by the soldiers of the Kingpriest. Truly a treasure trove for anyone, even two followers of Nuitari.

These artifacts had been forged in the Age of Might, when the power of clerics was unsurpassed. Priests of all the gods would pay dearly to acquire holy and powerful relics long thought lost. Most prized of all, most desired, would be artifacts blessed by Takhisis and Paladine. Though the two gods were gone from the pantheon, their ancient artifacts might still retain their power. The wealth of nations would be a small price to pay for such a treasure.

I want to bring a present to Goldmoon…

Rhys halted suddenly. That’s why Mina had come to the tower. She was going to the Hall of Sacrilege.

Nightshade, hearing him stop, twisted his head around.

“The stairs are slick,” said the kender. “You should be careful. Not that it matters if we fall and break our necks, since we’re all going to be eaten by a vicious sea dragon!” he added loudly.

“No, we’re not!” Mina yelled. She came bounding back up the stairs. “The dragon’s gone.”

“Gone!” Caele sucked in a breath.

“It’s ours!” Basalt gasped.

The two wizards shoved past Rhys, jostling each other in their clamorous haste to reach the bottom.

9

The wizards rounded a turn in the spiral staircase and vanished. Rhys hurried after them, leaving Nightshade scrambling to catch up. Rhys found Basalt and Caele teetering precariously on the final stair, staring in dismay.

To keep thieves away from the valuables inside the Hall of Sacrilege, Nuitari had housed the Solio Febalas inside an enormous globe filled with sea water. The Hall was guarded by sharks, sting-rays, and various other types of lethal marine life, including an ancient sea dragon.

But now all that remained of Nuitari’s ingenious aquatic strongbox were mounds of wet sand glittering with shards of broken glass.

The tower’s upheaval had shattered the globe. The sea water had poured out, carrying the sea monsters with it. Midori, rudely awakened by the shock, had apparently decided enough was enough and gone off to find more stable housing. The destruction stretched as far as the eye could see.

“No! Atta, stop!” Nightshade cried, grabbing the dog by the scruff of her neck as she started to venture out onto the sand. “You’ll cut your paws to ribbons! Where’s the Feeble Soloness?” he asked Mina.

She pointed silently and unhappily into the midst of the wreckage.

“Oh, well. I guess we can’t go there,” Nightshade said cheerfully. “Say, I have an idea. Let’s sail to Flotsam. I know an inn that serves beefsteak and crispy potatoes with a side of green peas and—”

“Nightshade,” Rhys admonished.

“I didn’t ask her for it!” the kender said in a defensive whisper. “I just happened to mention beefsteak in case she was hungry.”

“It was all so beautiful,” said Mina, and she began to cry.

Basalt stood staring glumly at the mess.

“I don’t care what the Master says,” the dwarf stated. “I’m not cleaning this up.” He heard a snicker from Caele and glowered. “What are you looking so damn pleased about? This is a disaster!”

“Not for us,” Caele said, with a sly grin.

Seeing that the monk was occupied with the sniveling brat, Caele crept back quietly back up the stairs, motioning Basalt to come with him. When they were out of earshot of the others, Caele whispered, “Don’t you realize what this means? The dragon’s gone! The Hall of Sacrilege is no longer guarded! Our fortunes are made!”

“If the Hall’s still there,” Basalt returned. “And if it’s still intact, which I doubt.” He gestured at the debris. “And how do you plan to reach it? The dragon might as well be here. Those glass shards are sharper than her teeth and just as deadly.”

“If the Hall survived the Cataclysm, it certainly survived this. You’ll see. As for reaching it, I have an idea on that.”

“What about Mina and her friends?” Basalt asked.

Caele grinned. Sliding up his sleeve, he revealed a knife attached to his wrist.

Basalt snorted. “Remember what happened the last time you tried to gut her? You ended up a prisoner in your own tomb!”

“She had that bastard Chemosh with her,” Caele said, scowling. “This time, all she’s got is a monk and a kender. You kill those two and I’ll—”

“Leave me out of this!” Basalt snarled. “I’ve had enough of your plots and schemes. They only ever get me into trouble!”

Caele paled in anger. A flick of the wrist and the knife was in his hand. Basalt was prepared, however. He had always assumed some day he would end up killing the half-elf and this day was as good as any. He began to chant a spell. Caele chanted a counter-spell. The two glared blackly at each other.

Mina was staring in bleak amazement at the ruins of the crystal globe. “I wanted to swim in the sea water again. I wanted to talk to the dragon…”

“I’m sorry, Mina,” said Rhys, not knowing what else to say to her.

He had his own worries. If the Solio Febalas was truly in the midst of the debris, he should find it, make certain it was safe, the contents secure. He could hear the two Black Robe wizards plotting and though he could not make out their words, he had no doubt that they were making plans to steal the sacred artifacts.

If he had been alone, Rhys would have gladly risked his own life trying to find a way through the broken glass, but he could not venture forth and leave his friends and his dog behind, not with the Beloved massing outside the tower, being held at bay by the gods alone knew what force. Nor did he trust the two Black Robes.

Rhys’ main concern was Mina. As a god, she could have walked across acres of razor blades without being harmed. But she was a god who did not know she was a god. She shivered from the cold, cried when disappointed, and bled when nails scratched her flesh. He dared not take her with him and he dared not leave her behind, either.

“Mina,” Rhys said, “I think Nightshade is right. We should start our journey home. You cannot cross this sand without hurting yourself. Goldmoon will understand—”

“I’m not leaving!” Mina stated petulantly. She had quit crying and now she was sulking. Her lower lip thrust out. She stood kicking the wet sand with the toe of her shoe. “Not without my present.”

“Mina…”

“It’s not fair!” she cried, wiping the back of her hand across her nose. “Why did this have to happen? I came all this way…”

She paused. Reaching down, ignoring Rhys’ warning to be careful, she picked up a small shard of broken glass. “This didn’t have to happen.”

Mina flung the glass shard into the air and it was joined by a million other shards, sparkling like rain drops in the sunshine. The pieces of glass fused together. Sea water, instead of draining out, flowed back inside.

Rhys suddenly found himself inside a crystal globe, submersed in fathoms of blue-green sea water, and he was drowning.

Holding his breath, Rhys stared about frantically, trying to find a way out. Nightshade was nearby, flailing his arms and kicking his feet, his cheeks puffed out. Atta paddled wildly, her eyes wide with terror. Mina, unaware of their predicament, was swimming away from them.

Rhys had only moments of life left. Atta was already sinking to the bottom. Rhys sliced through the water with his arms, kicked his feet, trying to reach Mina.

He managed to grab hold of her ankle. Mina twisted around. Her face was bright with pleasure. She was enjoying herself. The pleasure faded when she saw her friends were in trouble. She stared at them helplessly, seeming to have no idea what to do. Rhys’ lungs were going to burst. He was seeing dazzling stars and blue and yellow spots and he could no longer bear the pain. He opened his mouth, prepared to suck in death.

He gulped salt water and, though the sensation was not pleasant, he didn’t die. He floundered, shaken to find he was breathing water as easily as he had once breathed air. Nightshade, his mouth gaping, his eyes bulging, was spent. He floated limply in the water.

Mina caught hold of Atta, who had ceased to struggle. Mina petted the dog and kissed her and hugged her and Atta’s eyes flew open. The dog looked around frantically, panic-stricken, until she found Rhys. He swam over to her and was joined by Nightshade, who grabbed hold of his arm and tried to talk. All that came out were bubbles, but though Rhys couldn’t hear him, he understood the kender’s general meaning, which was, “You have to do something! She’s going to get us all killed!”

Rhys considered this was quite likely, but as for preventing it, he had no idea what to do. An ordinary six-year-old who misbehaved could be swatted or sent to bed without her supper. The idea of swatting Mina who, as Nightshade had said, could drop a mountain on their heads, was ludicrous. And, to be honest, Mina hadn’t misbehaved. She hadn’t deliberately tried to drown them. She’d made a simple mistake. Since she could breathe water as easily as air, she had assumed they could, too.

Mina swam underwater as though she’d been born to it, darting around them like a minnow, urging them to hurry. Rhys had learned to swim in the monastery, but he was hampered by his robes and by his staff, which he did not want to leave behind, and by his concern for Nightshade.

The kender had never learned to swim. He had never wanted to learn to swim. Now, given no choice in the matter, he thrashed about wildly, making no progress in any direction. He was about to give swimming up as hopeless when Atta passed him, churning the water with her front paws. Nightshade watched the dog and decided to emulate her. Not having paws, he used his hands and arms to paddle, and soon was able to keep up with the rest.

Mina swam excitedly on ahead, motioning for them to hurry. When they reached her, she was floating in the water, making small swirling motions with her hands, hovering above what appeared to be a child’s sand castle.

Simple in design, the castle was constructed of four walls four feet in height and four feet long, with a tall tower at each corner. There were no windows and only one door, though that door was a marvel.

Three feet tall and not very wide, the door was made of myriad pearls that shimmered with a purple luster. A single rune carved out of a large emerald glowed in the center.

Mina motioned to Rhys, and as he swam awkwardly near her, pushing the staff ahead of him. She gestured at the sand castle and eagerly nodded.

“The Hall of Sacrilege,” she mouthed.

Rhys stared in astonishment.

The infamous Hall of Sacrilege—a child’s sand castle. Rhys shook his head. Mina frowned at him and, reaching out, she grabbed hold of his staff and pulled him through the water. She pointed to the emerald rune embedded in the door. Rhys swam closer and caught a watery breath in awe. Carved into the rune was a figure 8 turned on its side, a symbol with no ending and no beginning, the symbol of eternity.

Rhys propelled himself backward. Mina regarded him, puzzled. She pointed at the door.

“Open it!” she commanded in a flurry of bubbles.

Rhys shook his head. This was the Solio Febalas, repository of some of the most holy artifacts ever created by gods and man, and the door was shut and the door was sealed. He was not meant to enter. No mortal was meant to enter. Perhaps not even the gods themselves were meant to enter this sacred place.

Mina tugged at him, urging him. Rhys shook his head emphatically, and drew back. He wished he could explain to her, but he could not. He turned and started to swim off.

She swam after him and grabbed hold of him again. Childlike, she was determined to have her way. Rhys had the feeling that if they’d been on dry land, she would have stamped her foot.

Rhys would have continued to refuse, but at that moment, the decision was taken away from him.

Even deep below the sea, he could hear the one single word dreaded throughout Krynn by anyone traveling with a kender.

“Oops!”

“Hey!” Caele cried, alarmed. “Where did they go?”

The two Black Robes, intent on killing each other, had been muttering arcane words and fumbling about in their pouches for spell components when they realized they were alone. Kender, kid, dog, and monk had disappeared.

“Damn their eyeballs!” Caele swore, seething. “They’ve found a way inside!”

The half-elf dashed down the stairs, skidding to a halt when he reached the bottom. The shards of broken glass were still there, sticking up out of the sand.

“If you hadn’t been so eager to slit my throat, we’d be in there helping ourselves to the riches.” Basalt shook his fist at the half-elf.

“You’re right, of course, Basalt,” said Caele with sudden meekness. “You’re always right. Give the Master my regards.”

The half-elf raised his hand in a flourish and vanished.

“Huh?” Basalt blinked. “What—”

The dwarf suddenly understood. He sucked in a huge breath and let it out in a roar. “He’s gone after them!”

Basalt did a quick mental run-through of his spell catalog and began a feverish rummage through his pouches of spell components to see what he had on hand. He’d come prepared to do battle, not for traveling to an unknown destination across a sea bottom covered with broken glass. He wondered what magic Caele had used, decided most likely the half-elf had cast a spell known as Dimension Door, a favorite of Caele’s, for it required only spoken words, no spell components. Caele disliked casting spells that used components, mainly because he was too lazy to gather them.

Basalt was familiar with the Dimension Door spell himself, but it had one drawback. In order to cast the spell, the wizard had to know where he was going, for he had to visualize the location. Basalt had no idea where the Hall of Sacrilege was or what it looked like. He had never been inside the water-filled globe that protected it.

Caele, on the other hand, had been inside the globe. He had been sent—under duress—to the dragon, Midori, to collect a small amount of her blood which Nuitari had used in the Dragon-sight bowl, allowing him to spy on his enemies. Caele had never mentioned seeing the Hall, but the half-elf was a sneaking, cunning, lying bastard, and Basalt guessed that Caele had done some snooping about while he was down there and simply not mentioned it.

Picturing Caele in the Hall, scooping up treasures right and left, Basalt gnashed his teeth in anger. He glared irately at the broken glass blocking his way and thought wistfully about how wonderful it would be if he could just float over it, and that brought a spell to mind.

Basalt didn’t have the requisite pure components on hand, but he could make do. The spell required gauze; he tore the bandage from his forehead and, using his knife, cut off a piece. He generally carried a bit of candle with him, for flame or wax always came in handy. The candle was beeswax, one he’d made himself and he was quite proud of it, for it was magical.

Holding the gauze in one hand and the candle in the other, he spoke the command word and the candle burst into flame. He held the gauze in the flame until it caught fire, let it burn a moment, then blew it out. A thin wisp of smoke trailed up from the blackened fabric. Basalt spoke a magical word and waited a tense moment to see if the spell would work.

He felt a strange and unpleasant sensation, as though flesh and bone, skin and muscle were being magically rendered into a liquid state and then he oozed away, leaving behind a gaseous, insubstantial form. Basalt had not used this spell in some time and it occurred to him—belatedly—that he wasn’t sure how one managed to get one’s body back again. He would worry about that later, however. Right now he had to catch up with Caele.

Drifting along with the air currents, the gaseous form of Basalt—looking like a hairy cloud of black smoke—wafted over the broken glass and entered what was left of the crystal globe.

10

Nightshade had been understandably miffed at Mina for dunking him in sea water and then nearly drowning him, but, after a while, he forgave her. He liked the novelty of being able to breath under water and swim like a fish—or rather, like Atta. He was paddling along through the sea, enjoying the view, wondering if he had gills on his neck and if they were pulsing in and out, and feeling his neck to see if he did, and being disappointed to discover that he didn’t, when he came to the sand castle.

Rhys and Mina were arguing. Mina apparently wanted Rhys to go inside, and Rhys was having none of it, which Nightshade, as a kender with common sense, approved, for he guessed immediately this building must be the Solo of the Feeble-minded or the Hall of Sacred Litches or whatever it was called.

Nightshade paddled about, waiting for the argument to end, and soon grew bored. There was nothing to do down here except swim. He wondered how fish stood it. There being nothing to look at except the sand castle, he decided to look at it, and he noticed the castle had an extremely interesting door made up of pearls and the largest, most beautiful emerald the kender had ever seen. He swam over for a closer look.

Nightshade was never certain what happened afterward. Either his common sense decided to pack its pouches and take a holiday or the kender side of him rose up, struck common sense a blip on the head bone, and knocked it out cold.

Not that it made any difference.

The fact was that the emerald was the largest and most beautiful emerald Nightshade had ever seen, and the closer he swam to it the larger and more beautiful it grew, so that in the end the kender part of him that was really there, despite what his father thought to the contrary, simply had to reach out his hand, take hold of the emerald, and try to pry it loose.

Two things happened, one which was unfortunate and the other more unfortunate.

Unfortunately the emerald did not come loose.

More unfortunately the door did.

The door flew open. All the kender had time for was to yell one startled “Oops!” then the sea water rushed inside the sand castle and took Nightshade with it.

The door slammed shut.

Nightshade was tumbled about in the rushing water and for several tense moments he had no idea if he was on his head or his heels, and then the water dropped him down on a solid surface and went on without him. He lay still for a moment gasping at the suddenness of it all. When he was over his shock, he noticed that he was breathing air, not water, for which he was grateful. He’d been going over in his mind what he knew about a fish’s diet and thinking sadly that he was going to have to live on worms.

After gulping in few deep, reassuring breaths, he decided to get up and take a look around.

He looked around and looked around again and the more he looked the more he was certain, with a quaking feeling in his gut, that this was somewhere he should not be and there was only thing for a kender of common sense—even a kender with horns—to do.

“Rhys,” Nightshade wailed, “help!”

Rhys turned just in time to see Nightshade sucked inside the Hall of Sacrilege and the door slam shut on him. Mina was laughing and clapping her hands. “Now, Mister Monk, you’ll have to go inside. I win,”

She grinned and stuck out her tongue at him.

Rhys had never been a parent himself, and he had often wondered how any adult could bear to spank a child. He was now beginning to understand.

Mina swam to the door, and brushed her hand across the rune-carved emerald. As the door swung slowly open, sea water carried Mina and Rhys inside and bowled over Nightshade, who had been beating on the door with his fists.

Rhys picked himself up. He looked back through the open door onto the desert-like landscape of rippling wet sand.

Atta stood outside the door in the wet sand, shaking off the water, starting with her hind end and working her way to the front. When Rhys called to her, she slunk warily through the door. She clearly did not want to be here. Pressing her body up against his, she stood there, shivering.

Nightshade didn’t want to be here either.

“Rhys,” he said in a shaking voice, “this is it. This is that Hall place. It’s… it’s pretty scary, Rhys. I don’t think we’re supposed to be here.”

The Solio Febalas, the Hall of Sacrilege—the repository of the King-priest’s arrogant determination to defy the gods. Nightshade’s instincts (and Atta’s) were right. Mortals were not meant to be here. The hall was sacred to the gods, to their wrath.

“You’re not mad at me for making you come inside, are you, Mister Monk?” Mina asked wistfully, and she slid her hand into his.

Looking at her, he did not see a god. He saw a child with the mind of a child—unformed, with imperfect knowledge of the world, and he wondered, suddenly, if that was what the gods saw when they looked upon mankind.

Rhys no longer felt the gods’ wrath. He felt their sorrow.

“No, Mina,” he said, “I am not mad at you.”

The Hall was immense, perfectly round in shape, with a high, domed ceiling. The walls were notched with alcoves carved into the stone, each sacred to one of the gods. A single rune adorned the wall of each alcove. In some instances, the runes shone with light. There was the steadily beaming light of Majere, the blue-white flame of Mishakal, the almost blinding silver glare of Kiri-Jolith.

Alcoves on the opposite side of the hall were dark, fighting to extinguish the light. The dread symbol of Sargonnas, God of Vengeance, was darkness on darkness. The alcove of Morgion was a noxious black green, Chemosh was ghastly bone white.

The alcoves in between, separating darkness and light, striving to hold each in check, belonged to the neutral gods. In the center was the alcove sacred to Gilean. A book lay open upon the altar. Red light shone upon a set of scales, perfectly balanced, that stood in the center.

On either side of the altar of Gilean, one on the left and one on the right, were two alcoves that were neither dark nor light, but were both shrouded in shadow, as though a veil hung over them. Once, one had been impenetrably dark, the other unbearably light. Both were empty now—the altars of the banished Takhisis and the self-exiled Paladine.

The Hall was filled with holy artifacts, stacked on top of the altars, or jumbled in piles, or tossed carelessly onto the floor. Brought here by the soldiers of the Kingpriest, they had been unceremoniously dumped into his storehouse of shame.

Rhys could not speak. He could not see for his tears. He sank to his knees and, laying his staff carefully at his side, he clasped his hands in a prayer.

“Mister Monk, come with me—” Mina began.

“I don’t think he can hear you,” Nightshade said.

Mina gave a small sigh. “I know how he feels. I felt the same way when I came here—as though all the gods were gathered around me, looking down at me. And I was so very small and all alone.”

She paused, then glanced trepidatiously back at the alcoves. “But I still have to get my present for Goldmoon and I don’t want to go alone.” She turned to the kender. “You come with me.”

Nightshade cast a longing glance at the altars, at the vast assortment of the strange and beautiful, horrible and wonderful.

“I better not,” he said at last, regretfully. “I’m a mystic, you see, and it wouldn’t be right.”

“What’s a mystic?” Mina asked.

“It’s a… well…” Nightshade was confounded. He had never been called upon to define himself before. “It means I don’t believe in the gods. That is, I do believe in gods—I have to, I met Majere once,” he added with pride. “Majere even helped me pick a lock, though Rhys said that a god picking a lock was a one-time occurrence and I shouldn’t expect him to do it again. Being a mystic means I don’t pray to the gods like Rhys does. Like he’s doing right now. Well, I guess I did pray to Majere, but that prayer wasn’t for me. It was for Rhys, who couldn’t pray because he was almost dead.”

Mina looked confused, and Nightshade decided to cut his explanation short.

“Being a mystic means I like to go my own way without bothering anyone.”

“Fine,” said Mina. “You can go your own way with me. I don’t want to go back there by myself. It’s dark and spooky. And there might be spiders.”

Nightshade shook his head.

“Please!” Mina begged.

Nightshade had to admit he was tempted. If only she hadn’t mentioned spiders…

“Dare you!” Mina taunted.

Nightshade wavered.

“Double dog dare you!” Mina said.

That did it. Nightshade’s honor was at stake. No kender in the long and glorious history of kender had ever refused a double-dog dare.

“Race you!” he cried, and darted away.

Caele had never actually seen the Hall of Sacrilege, but he had been able to visualize it for his spell. The dragon, Midori, had once described it to him. Caele had not paid much attention to her description at the time; the dragon had rambled on about it simply to torment him. Midori knew he was terrified of her and she found it entertaining to keep him within snacking distance.

Caele had been sick with fear the day the dragon had spent a horrible half-hour rambling on about the sand castle and how clever Nuitari had been in building it to house the holy artifacts and how it was too bad he—Caele—would never live to see it. Caele remembered almost nothing from that conversation, but he did manage to dredge up the words “sand castle” from his memory and, with that image in his mind, his magic carried him to this location.

He materialized in the doorway and immediately froze, not daring to move until he’d assessed the situation. The monk was on his knees, blubbering. The dog crouched at his side. The kender and the brat were off looting an altar. No sign of Basalt.

Caele had been planning to kill the monk immediately, but the deadly spell he was going to cast slipped from his mind as his stunned gaze went from one altar to another. He had never imagined in his greediest dreams the unfathomable wealth. And it was just lying here, unguarded, simply begging to be taken off and sold to the highest bidder. Caele was so moved he could have blubbered like the monk.

He snapped back to business. First he had to get rid of the competition. Caele knew any number of spells which would kill people in a variety of unpleasant ways. He was reaching for the magical lodestone that would cause the monk to disintegrate into oozing globs of flesh when he caught sight of movement near one of the altars.

Caele stared hard in that direction. He wasn’t certain which god the altar belonged to, nor did he care. One of the objects glittering on the altar was a chalice encrusted with jewels. Caele had already marked it as being particularly valuable, and he realized someone else had noted its value as well. A shadowy form crept near it—a shadowy, hairy form reaching out his hand.

“Basalt!” Caele snarled.

The dog sprang to her feet with a bark.

11

Nightshade stood with his hands jammed into his pockets, concentrating hard on keeping them there. He’d never before seen so many interesting and curious and wonderful objects all collected together in one place. Everything he looked at seemed to cry out to him that it wanted to be touched, picked up, poked at, prodded, sniffed, unlocked, unlatched, unhooked, unstoppered, unrolled, or at the very least stuffed into a pouch for further study.

Several times Nightshade’s hands made an effort to leap out of his pockets and do all of the above mentioned. He managed by a great effort of will to keep his hands under control, but he had the feeling his will was growing weaker and his hands were growing stronger.

He wished Mina would hurry.

Unaware of the struggle going on in the kender’s pockets, Mina wandered back and forth between the two altars, both of them in deepest shadow, looking at the objects stacked up around them. Her lips were pursed, her brow wrinkled. She was apparently trying to make up her mind, for sometimes she would reach out to an object, then draw back her hand and move on to something else.

Nightshade was in agony. One hand had already crept out of a pocket and he’d used the other hand to grab the first and wrestle it back. He was just about to yell at Mina to make up her mind, when Atta’s bark—sounding unnaturally loud in the utter silence of the Hall—caused the kender to nearly leap out from under his topknot.

“Mina!” Nightshade cried. “It’s one of those bad wizards! He’s here!”

“I know,” said Mina with a shrug. “They’re both here. There’s another one sneaking around over there by the altar of Sargonnas.” She gave a sly grin. “The dwarf thinks he’s clever. He doesn’t know we can see him.”

At first Nightshade didn’t see anything, then, sure enough, a dwarf came into view, skulking about one of the altars. He was eyeing a jeweled chalice that had a foot piece formed in shape of a minotaur’s head standing on its horns.

Atta was barking at the other wizard, lurking about in the doorway. Rhys was on his knees, his entire being given to his god. Caele had his hand in one of his pouches, and Nightshade knew enough about wizards to consider it unlikely he was reaching for a peppermint.

“Mina, I think he’s going to try to kill Rhys!” Nightshade said urgently.

“Yes, probably,” Mina agreed. She was still mulling over her choices.

“We have to do something!” Nightshade said angrily. “Stop him!”

Mina sighed. “I can’t decide which one Mother would like. I don’t want to make a mistake. What do you think?”

Nightshade didn’t think. Caele was pointing something at Rhys and chanting.

Nightshade started to shout a warning, but the shout changed to a gargle of astonishment. A rope made from hemp and twined with holly leaves that had been coiled up on the altar of Chislev, darted like a striking snake and wrapped itself around Caele’s arms, pinning them to his side. The words of the half-elf’s spell ended in a shriek. He fell to the floor, rolling about, trying to free himself from the binding rope.

At that moment, Basalt grabbed hold of the chalice, and—to Nightshade’s astonishment—used it to strike himself in the head. Basalt howled in pain and tried to rid himself of the chalice, only to end up hitting himself again. He kept bashing himself with the chalice, unable to stop. Blood poured down his face. He staggered about groggily, moaning in pain, then toppled over, unconscious. Only then did he quit hitting himself.

Nightshade gulped. His hands, still in his pockets, were now quite comfortable there, expressing no desire to touch anything.

“I think we should leave this place,” said Nightshade in a tight, small voice.

“I will take this,” said Mina, making up her mind at last.

“Don’t touch anything!” Nightshade warned, but Mina paid no attention to him.

She picked up a small crystal carved in the shape of a pyramid from the altar of Paladine and stood admiring it. Nothing happened.

Holding the small crystal, Mina went to the altar of Takhisis and, after a moment’s indecision, chose a nondescript-looking necklace made of shiny beads.

“I think Mother will like these,” she announced.

“What are they?” Nightshade asked. “What do they do? Do you even know?”

“Of course I know!” Mina said, offended. “I’m not a dummy. I know everything about everything.”

Nightshade forgot for a moment that she was a god and she probably did know everything about everything. He made a rude noise, expressive of disbelief, and challenged, “What is that necklace then?”

“It is called ‘Sedition’,” said Mina, smug in her knowledge. “Takhisis made it. The person who wears it has the power to turn good people evil.”

Nightshade almost said, “You mean like you?” but he thought better of it. Even though Mina had nearly drowned him, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“What about the little pyramid?” he asked.

“This was sacred to Paladine.” Mina held it up to see the crystal sparkle in the blue light from the altar of Mishakal. “The jewel shines the light of truth on people. That’s why the Kingpriest had to hide it away. He was afraid people would see him for what he really was.”

Nightshade had a an idea. “Pooh, I don’t believe you. You’re making that up.”

“It’s the truth!” Mina retorted angrily.

“Then show me,” said Nightshade. He held out his hand for the crystal.

Mina hesitated. “You promise you’ll give it back?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die if I don’t,” Nightshade vowed.

Since he’d sworn this terrible oath, sacred to childhood the world over, Mina agreed. She placed the pyramid-shaped crystal into the kender’s hand.

“What do I do?” he asked, regarding it curiously and now a bit warily. He was wondering, suddenly, if the artifact might take offense at being used by a mystic.

“Hold it to your eye and look at something through it,” said Mina.

“What will I see?”

“How should I know?” she demanded. “It depends on what you’re looking at it, ninny.”

Nightshade held up the crystal and looked at the dwarf wizard lying on the floor. He saw a dwarf wizard lying on the floor. He looked at Caele and saw Caele. He looked at Rhys and saw Rhys. He looked at Atta and saw a dog. Thinking that this was a pretty sorry excuse for an artifact, Nightshade turned the crystal on Mina.

A white light shone down upon her, shone round about her, illuminating her from within and without. Nightshade blinked his eyes, for he was half-blinded. He tried to brave the light, to stare into it, to see more clearly, but the light grew ever more brilliant, ever more radiant. Bright and blinding, the light intensified, forcing the kender to close his eyes to try to block it out. The light expanded and grew; the light of a myriad suns, the first light, the light of creation. Nightshade cried out in pain and dropped the crystal and stood rubbing his burning eyes.

Once, when he was a little kender, he’d stared straight at the sun because his mother had told him not to. For long minutes after, all he’d been able to see were dark splotches like small black suns, and that was all he could see now. He wondered for a brief and terrifying moment if that was all he was ever going to be all to see. And after what he had seen, he wondered if maybe that was all he was going to want to see.

Mina snatched up the fallen crystal.

“Well,” she said. “What did you see?”

“Spots,” Nightshade said, rubbing his eyes.

Mina was disappointed. “Spots? You must have seen something else.”

“I didn’t!” Nightshade returned irritably. “Maybe it’s not working.”

“Maybe you just didn’t know what you were looking at!” Mina chided.

“Oh, I knew,” said Nightshade. Thankfully the spots were starting to fade. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. It seemed odd to be sweating when he could still see the goose-flesh on his arms.

Mina stuffed the artifacts into her pockets and then smiled at him.

“Your turn,” she said.

“For what?”

She waved her hand. “You came with me. You can pick out an artifact. Any one you want.”

Nightshade could see Basalt lying bloody on the floor and he could hear Caele’s shrieks of terror. Nightshade thrust his hands into his pockets.

“No. Thank you, though.”

“’Fraidy cat,” scoffed Mina.

Walking over to the altar of Majere, she picked up something shiny and held it out to Nightshade.

“Here,” she said. “You should have this.”

In her hand was a gold cloak pin in the shape of a grasshopper. Nightshade remembered the time he and Atta had been set upon by two of the Beloved, only to be saved by an army of grasshoppers. The cloak pin had rubies for eyes, and was so skillfully crafted it looked as if it could have jumped away at any moment. Nightshade was quite charmed with it, and he wanted it more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. His hand quivered in its pocket.

“Are you sure Majere won’t mind if I take it?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to make him mad.”

“I’m sure,” said Mina, and before Nightshade could protest, she fastened the pin onto his shirt.

Nightshade stiffened in fright, half-expecting the pin to fly up his nose or knock him on the head. The grasshopper sat quite tamely on his shirt. It seemed to Nightshade, as he marveled over it, that the red eyes winked at him.

“What does it do?” he asked.

“It’s a hopper, ninny,” said Mina. “What do you think it does?”

“Hop?” Nightshade ventured a guess.

“Yes,” she said, “and it will make you hop, too. As high and as far as you want to go.”

“Whoo, boy!” Nightshade breathed.

Rhys had not heard or seen anything. The dwarf howled and Caele swore and Atta barked and Rhys was oblivious. The only sound he heard was the voice of the god.

And then Rhys felt a hand tapping his shoulder and he raised his head. The voice of the god ceased.

“Mister Monk, I have my presents for Goldmoon,” Mina said, showing him the two objects. “We can go now.”

Rhys stood up. He had been kneeling on the floor a long time, seemingly, for his knees hurt and his legs were stiff. Looking about, he was astonished to see the two Black Robes lying on the floor—one trussed and shrieking, the other bloody and unconscious.

He looked to Nightshade for an explanation.

“They made the gods mad,” the kender replied.

Rhys was considerably mystified by this pronouncement, but before he could ask, Mina shouted impatiently that she was ready to leave.

“What do we do with weasel-face and furball?” Nightshade asked.

“Leave them here,” Mina said, glowering. “Seal them up inside to die. That will teach them a lesson.”

“We can’t do that!” Rhys said, shocked.

“Why not? They were going to kill us,” Mina returned.

Rhys looked down at Caele, bound up in the blessed rope, wriggling about on the floor. The half-elf’s fury warred with his fear. One moment he gnashed his teeth and snarled threats and the next he was whining to be saved. The other wizard, Basalt, had regained consciousness and moaned that his head hurt.

“I know how he feels,” Nightshade said with a glance at Mina. “She does have a point, Rhys. The weasel was going to kill you with a magic spell if whatever god that is with the rope hadn’t stopped him. We shouldn’t turn them loose.”

“I’m not going to leave anyone to die,” Rhys said sternly, in a tone that brooked no argument. “We can at least carry them out of here. You grab that end.”

“Ugh!” said Nightshade, wrinkling his nose as he picked up Caele’s bare feet. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m sorry there’s no more water in here.”

While Mina watched in disapproval, Rhys and Nightshade hauled first Caele, then Basalt, out of the Hall of Sacrilege and dumped the two wizards down onto the damp sand.

“Atta, guard!” said Rhys, pointing at the wizards.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Nightshade said in a low voice. “I think someone’s coming to fetch them.”

A man clad in sumptuous black robes walked across the wet sand. The man’s moon-round face was pallid with fury, his eyes cold and glinting. Mina grabbed hold of Rhys’ hand. Atta slunk behind Rhys and Nightshade deemed it prudent to return to the Hall, The man’s wrathful gaze skipped over all of them, rested briefly on Mina, then landed full force on the wizards.

Caele saw what was coming and began to blubber.

“Master Nuitari, it wasn’t my fault! Basalt forced me to come—”

“I forced you!” Basalt began, but his shout made his head hurt and he moaned. “Don’t believe him, Master. It was that mongrel elf—”

The moon face contorted in rage. Nuitari stretched forth his hand, and the two wizards vanished.

The God of the Dark Moon turned to Rhys. “My apologies, Monk of Majere. These two will not bother you again.”

Rhys bowed.

“Excuse me, Nuitari,” Nightshade called from the safety of the doorway, “to make up for the fact that your wizards tried to kill us, could you get rid of the Beloved? I don’t mean to complain, but they’ve invaded your tower and they won’t let us leave.”

“This is no longer my tower,” Nuitari replied and, with a cold glance at Mina, he disappeared.

“Then who was keeping them at bay?” Nightshade asked, perplexed.

“Probably Mina,” said Rhys. “She just didn’t know it.”

Nightshade grumbled something unintelligible, then said, “So what do we do about the Beloved?”

“As long as Mina is with us, I don’t think the Beloved will harm us,” Rhys said.

“And what happens when Mina tries to leave?”

“I don’t know, my friend,” Rhys said. “We must have faith that—”

He paused, his eyes narrowed. “Nightshade, where did you get that golden pin?”

“I didn’t take it,” the kender said promptly.

“I’m sure you didn’t intend to take it,” Rhys hinted. “I imagine you found it lying on the floor—”

“—where a god dropped it?” Nightshade grinned at him. “I didn’t steal it, Rhys. Honest. Mina gave it to me.”

He looked down with pride at the grasshopper. “Remember when Majere sent the hoppers to save me? I think it’s his way of saying thank you.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Mina volunteered. “The god wanted him to have it. Just like the gods wanted me to have my gifts for Goldmoon. Which reminds me, could you carry them for me?” Mina held the two artifacts them out to Rhys. “I’m afraid I’ll lose them.”

“Whatever you do,” Nightshade warned, “don’t put on the necklace!”

“I think Goldmoon will like them,” Mina continued, handing first the crystal pyramid, then the necklace, to Rhys. “When the gods left, Goldmoon told me she was very sad. Even though years and years had passed, she still missed the gods. I promised her I would find the gods and bring them back to her. And I did.”

Mina smiled, pleased with herself.

Rhys shivered. Mina had not found a god. The god, Takhisis, had found her. Takhisis lied to Mina and corrupted her and made her a slave of darkness when she should have been rejoicing in the light. Had Mina been an unwitting victim, or had she known right from wrong and deliberately chosen the darkness? And now, was she blotting out the memories, trying to forget the terrible crimes she had committed? Or had she truly forgotten? Was this play acting? Or was it madness?

Perhaps even Mina did not know the answer. Perhaps that was why she going to Godshome. And he was to make this strange journey with her, guard her, guide her, protect her.

Rhys placed the artifacts—the prism and the necklace—in his scrip. If anyone discovered he was carrying such valuable treasures, he and those with him would be in deadly peril. He thought of saying something to Mina and Nightshade, warning them that they must keep the artifacts secret. He discarded that idea, decided the less fuss he made over them the better. Hopefully, both kender and child would forget about them.

That is exactly what Mina appeared to do. Now that she was free of her burden, she began to tease Nightshade, asking him with a giggle if he’d like to go swimming again. When he said loudly, “No!” she punched him in the arm and called him a baby, and he punched her in the arm and called her a brat, and the two ran off, kicking at each other’s ankles, trying to trip each other. Atta, at a gesture from Rhys, dashed after to keep an eye on them.

The shards of glass had disappeared, as had the sea water, presumably at Mina’s command.

Rhys lingered near the Hall, reluctant to leave. Majere had spoken to him in the Solio Febalas, spoken not to his head, but to his heart. He saw clearly the road he must walk and it was a long one. Mina had chosen him to be her guide, her teacher. He did not understand why, for not even the gods understood. His position was difficult and dangerous for he was a guardian whose charge was far stronger and more powerful than he was. He was a guide who could only follow, for Mina alone had to find the road she must walk. He had accepted the trust placed in him and prayed that he would not be found wanting.

“Mister Monk, hurry up!” Mina shouted impatiently. “I’m ready to go to Godshome now!”

The door to the Solio Febalas swung slowly shut. The green emerald glowed with a soft radiance. Rhys bowed in profound reverence, and turned and hastened off to catch up with Mina.

Nuitari lurked about the Hall of Sacrilege. The God of the Dark Moon had one heavy-lidded eye on the door that was now sealed and locked and the other eye upon his fellow god, Chemosh, Lord of Bones, who was also hanging about the Hall.

Both gods had been forced to wait until Mina opened the door to enter the tower, which Nuitari had found particularly galling, since this was, by rights, his tower. His cousins had agreed that he should have it. He had given up the Tower of Wayreth and the Tower of Nightlund to obtain it. And since the Solio Febalas was located inside the tower, he considered the Hall belonged to him, as well. After all, sunken treasure belonged to whoever found it.

True, the Hall of Sacrilege was not a ship that had gone down in a storm, but to his mind the law of the sea applied. Chemosh could not be made to accept this perfectly logical view of the matter, and he was proving to be a damned nuisance. His holy artifacts were his, Chemosh claimed, and he wanted them back.

Neither god had been able to enter while Mina was inside with her rag-tag monk and kender. The latter had both gods in agony, envisioning valuable artifacts capable of producing untold miracles disappearing inside the kender’s pouches and pockets, to be lost along the way or traded for six pine cones and a trained cricket.

Each had experienced a profound sense of relief to see Mina and company depart with apparently only two artifacts, and a gold bug of small value.

When the monk left, the door had swung shut. Chemosh suspected Nuitari of having shut it and Nuitari suspected Chemosh. Both gods waited for the other to make the first move. At last, Nuitari could stand it no longer.

“I will take a look inside to make certain the kender didn’t rob the place blind.”

“I will go with you,” said Chemosh immediately.

“No need,” Nuitari said in oily tones.

“But I insist,” Chemosh replied.

Both gods hesitated, eyeing each other balefully, then both headed for the door. Both reached out their hands to grab open the door of the castle made of sand.

An immortal voice, stern and angry, spoke to each of them.

“Once each grain of sand was a mountain. Thus, all things of seeming might and importance are reduced to insignificance. All things.”

A wave rolling forward from the beginning of time smashed into the Solio Febalas, washed over it, and, withdrawing, carried it into the vast ocean of eternity.

Shaken to the core of their immortal beings, the gods shrank into the wet sand, neither daring to move or look, lest he draw down upon him the wrath of the High God. Finally Chemosh lifted his head and Nuitari opened his eyes.

The Hall of Sacrilege was gone, washed away.

Chemosh stood up and brushed the sand off his lace sleeves and stalked off with what dignity remained. Nuitari rose to his feet and shook out his black robes. He did not leave, but lingered, gazing at the smooth sand where the Hall had once stood. He had spent years studying the history of and cataloging every one of the artifacts. He knew them all, knew what each did, knew how dearly the other gods would have paid to obtain them. Not in gold or steel or jewels, of course; Nuitari had little care for that. But in other ways. Zeboim would have been convinced to leave his tower unmolested. Kiri-Jolith’s blasted paladins would have quit harassing his black robes. Sargonnas would have been forced to allow his minotaurs to practice magic freely, and so on.

But the High God, who never spoke, had spoken. Perhaps it was just as well. The artifacts and the Hall itself belonged to a time and a place that were now long gone. The world had moved on. Better to leave them in the dust of the past. Still, Nuitari could not help but wonder sulkily why Mina had been permitted by the High God to enter the Hall while he and the others had been barred.

The God of Dark Magic withdrew from the place where the Hall had stood, but he did not leave. He conceded the Solio Febalas to the High God.

In return, Nuitari wanted his tower back.

12

Mina led the way, for Rhys and Nightshade had lost all sense of direction. She was happy and laughing, skipping along ahead of them, turning around to scold them for being slow. The distance from the Hall to the tower was not far and a short walk brought them back to the stairs.

Mina would have dashed up immediately, but Rhys laid a restraining hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, gazing up at him. She pointed up the stairs. “This is the way out.”

“It is best to be cautious,” he said. “Let me go first. You follow with Nightshade.”

“But you’re too slow,” Mina complained, as they began to climb the winding staircase. “I have my gifts. I have to get to Godshome right now.”

“Godshome is a long way off,” Nightshade grumbled. The stairs had not been built for short kender legs, and he was having to work to climb each step, with the result that various parts of him were starting to ache. “A long, long way off.”

“How long?” Mina asked.

“Miles,” said Nightshade. “Miles and miles and miles.”

“How long will that take?”

“Months,” said Nightshade grumpily. “Months and months.”

Mina stared at him, dismayed, then she laughed. “Don’t be silly!” she said, adding impatiently, “You both are too slow. I’m going on ahead.”

“Mina, wait! The Beloved—” Rhys cried and made a grab for her, but she wriggled out of his grasp and dashed up the stairs.

“I’ll wait for you at the top!” she promised.

“Atta, go with her!” Rhys ordered and, as the dog ran off, he turned back to assist Nightshade, who was groaning with every step and rubbing his aching thighs.

“Assuming we get past the Beloved alive—which is an awfully big assume—where do we go now?” the kender asked.

“We have to find Godshome,” Rhys replied.

Nightshade scrunched up his face and eyed Rhys intently. “You were having a long conversation with Majere back there in the Solo Flabbiness. Didn’t he tell you where to find Godshome?”

Rhys shook his head and cast a worried glance up the stairs.

“Majere should have given you a map. Or pointed out landmarks,” Nightshade persisted. “You know: ‘Take the left fork at the crossroads and walk twenty paces and turn right at the lightning-struck tree.’ That sort of thing.”

“He didn’t,” said Rhys. “Godshome is not a place one can find on a map.”

“Oh, I get it,” Nightshade said gloomily. “This is one of those whatchamacallit journeys. You know—the kind that’s supposed to teach you something.”

“Spiritual journey,” said Rhys.

“Right. Gods are very big on spiritual journeys. Yet another reason I became a mystic. When I go on a journey, I like it to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. And I like for there to be an inn at the end and something good to eat. Spiritual journeys are noted for their lack of good things to eat.”

Rhys gripped his friend’s arm and hoisted him up another stair. “You are wise, as always, Nightshade. And you are right. The journey is going to be long and it could be dangerous. You and I have had this talk before, but now you understand how dangerous it can be. If you want to take your road and leave us to take ours, I will understand.”

“I would leave in a heartbeat,” stated Nightshade, “except for the free food.”

Rhys sighed. “Nightshade—”

“Rhys, Mina can magic up meat pies! Just like that!” The kender snapped his fingers. “I’d be crazy to walk away from a person who can do that, even if she is a god and nutty as a fruitcake. Speaking of cake reminds me, it must be way past dinnertime.”

They rounded a curve in the staircase and saw the landing, but no sign of Mina or the dog. Rhys halted, hushed Nightshade when he would have spoken. They both listened.

“The Beloved,” said Nightshade.

“I’m afraid so.” Rhys grabbed the kender and hustled him along.

“Maybe Majere will help us escape them.”

“I’m not sure he can,” Rhys replied.

“What about Zeboim? I’d even be glad to see her right now and I never thought I’d say that!” Nightshade said, gasping for breath.

“I do not believe any of the gods can help us. We witnessed their failure in Solace. Remember? Kiri-Jolith’s paladin could not kill the Beloved, nor could the magic of Mistress Jenna. The Beloved are bound to Mina.”

“But she doesn’t remember them!” Nightshade waved his arms wildly and almost took a tumble down the stairs. “She’s terrified of them!”

“Yes,” Rhys agreed, steadying him. “She is.”

Nightshade glared at him.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” said Rhys helplessly. “I don’t know what to tell you. Except that we must have faith—”

“In what?” Nightshade demanded. “Mina?”

Rhys patted the kender’s shoulder. “In each other.”

“‘Don’t borrow trouble’, my father used to say,” Nightshade muttered, “though dear old Dad borrowed everything else that wasn’t nailed down—”

They were interrupted by a shrill scream and the sound of pleading voices.

Mina came tumbling back down the stairs. “Mister Monk! Those horrible dead people are up there! Someone opened the door—”

“Someone?” Nightshade growled.

“I guess I may have opened it,” Mina admitted. Her face was pale, her amber eyes wide. She looked plaintively at Rhys. “I know you told me to stay with you. I’m sorry I didn’t.” She took hold of his hand, clasping it firmly. “I’ll stay with you now. I promise. But I don’t think the dead people are going to let us out,” she added with a quiver in her voice. “I think they want to hurt me.”

“You should have thought of that before you made them dead!” Nightshade shouted.

Mina stared at him in bewilderment. “Why are you yelling at me? I don’t know anything about them. I hate them!” She burst into tears and, flinging her arms around Rhys, she buried her head against his stomach.

“Mina, Mina…” the Beloved called.

They were gathering on the landing, massing beneath the arched entry way. Rhys could not count their numbers. None of them were looking at him. None looked at Nightshade or Atta. The Beloved’s dead eyes were fixed on Mina. The dead mouths formed her name.

Mina peeked out from the folds of Rhys’ robes and, seeing the Beloved staring at her, she cringed and whimpered. “Don’t let them take me!”

“I won’t. Don’t be afraid. We have to keep moving,” Rhys said, trying to speak calmly.

“No, I won’t!” Mina clung to Rhys, dragging him back. “Don’t make me go up there!”

“Nightshade, take my staff,” said Rhys. He reached down and picked up the girl. “Keep tight hold.”

Mina flung her arms around his neck and wrapped her legs around his waist and hid her face against his shoulder. “I’m not going to look!”

“I wish I didn’t have to look,” Nightshade muttered. “You wouldn’t want to carry me, too, would you?”

“Keep walking,” Rhys said.

They climbed the stairs, moving slowly, but steadily. One of the Beloved took a step toward them. Nightshade froze, sheltering behind Rhys. Atta barked and lunged, jaws wide, teeth flaring. Mina screamed and hung onto Rhys so tightly she nearly choked him.

“Atta! Leave it!” Rhys commanded sharply, and the dog fell back. Atta padded along at his side, growling a warning, her lip curled back to show her fangs.

“Keep moving,” Rhys said to the kender.

Nightshade kept moving, crowding close behind Rhys. The Beloved paid no attention to monk, kender or dog.

“Mina!” cried the Beloved, reaching out to her. “Mina.”

She shook her head and kept her face hidden. Rhys placed his foot on the last stair. He raised himself slowly. Ascending the last stair, he stood on the landing beneath the archway.

The Beloved blocked his way.

Nightshade closed his eyes and hung onto Rhys’ robes with one hand and the emmide with the other.

“We’re dead,” said Nightshade. “I can’t look. We’re dead. I can’t look.”

Rhys, holding Mina in his arms, took a step forward into the throng of Beloved.

The Beloved hesitated, then, their eyes fixed on Mina, they fell back to let him pass. Rhys heard them move in behind him. He continued to walk at a slow and even pace, and they passed beneath the archway and into the main hall. He halted, overwhelmed with dismay. Nightshade made a choking sound.

The Beloved had invaded the tower. The spiral staircase continued upward to the very top of the tower and the Beloved stood on every stair. The Beloved massed in the hallway, their bodies pressed against each other, jostling and shoving, as each tried to glimpse Mina. And more Beloved were pushing their way through the entrance, shoving their way inside.

“There are thousands!” Nightshade gulped. “Every Beloved in Ansalon must be here.”

Rhys had no idea what to do. The Beloved could kill them even without meaning to. If they surged forward to seize Mina, the press of bodies would crush them.

“Mina,” said Rhys, “I have to set you down.”

“No!” she whimpered, clinging to him.

“I have to,” he repeated firmly and he lowered her to the floor.

Nightshade handed Rhys the emmide. Rhys took it and held it out horizontally in front of them.

“Mina, get behind me. Nightshade, take hold of Atta.”

Nightshade caught the dog by the scruff of her neck and hauled her close. Atta snarled and snapped whenever the Beloved drew too near, leaving her tooth marks in more than one, but they paid no heed. Mina pressed against Rhys, clinging to his robes. Rhys stood in front of them, holding his staff in both hands, keeping the Beloved at bay. He started walking toward the double doors.

The Beloved surged around him, vying with each other to try to touch Mina. Her name resounded through the tower. Some whispered “Mina,” as though the name was too holy to say aloud. Others repeated “Mina” over and over frantically, obsessively. Others wailed her name in pleading tones. Whether they whispered her name or spoke it, the voices seemed laden with sorrow, lamenting their fate.

“Mina, Mina, Mina.” Her name was a mournful wind sighing in the darkness.

“Make them stop!” Mina cried, her hands covering her ears. “Why do they call my name? I don’t know them! Why are they doing this to me?”

The Beloved moaned and surged toward her. Rhys struck at them with his staff, but it was like trying to beat back the endless waves. The mournful lamenting had taken on a different tone. It was now tinged with anger. The eyes of the Beloved had at last turned to him. He heard the scrape of steel.

Atta yelped in pain. Nightshade struggled against the massing bodies and pulled the dog out from under trampling feet and hauled her up in his arms. Atta’s eyes were wide with terror, her mouth open, panting. Her paws scrabbled against his chest, trying to keep hold.

The air was fetid, stank of decay. Rhys’ strength was flagging. He could not hold the Beloved back much longer and once he dropped the staff, he would be overwhelmed.

Light flared off a knife blade. Rhys struck at the blade with the end of the staff and managed to deflect the killing stroke, though the knife raked over Nightshade’s arm, slicing a deep cut. Nightshade cried out and dropped Atta, who crouched, quivering at his feet.

Mina stared at the blood, and her face went ashen. “I don’t want to be here,” she said in a trembling voice. “I don’t want this to be happening… I don’t know them… We’ll go away, far away…”

“Yes!” cried Nightshade, clasping his hand over his bleeding arm.

“No,” said Rhys.

Nightshade gaped at him.

“Mina, you do know them,” Rhys told her in stern tones. “You can’t run away. You kissed them and they died.”

Mina was at first bewildered, then understanding lit the amber eyes.

“That was Chemosh!” she cried. “Not me! It wasn’t my fault.”

She glared at the Beloved and clenched her fist and screamed at them, “I gave you what you wanted! You cannot be hurt. You can never feel pain or sickness or fear! You will always be young and beautiful—”

“—and dead!” Nightshade cried. He thumped himself on the chest. “Look at me, Mina. This is life! Pain is life! Fear is life! You took all that from them! And worse than that. You locked them up inside death and threw away the key. They have nowhere to go. They’re stuck, trapped.”

Mina stared at the kender in perplexity, and Rhys could picture what she was seeing—he and Nightshade, disheveled, bloody, sweating, gasping for breath, shoving at the Beloved with the staff, keeping a grip on the shivering dog. She could hear the kender’s voice shake with terror and exasperation, and his voice filled with desperation, and she could hear, by the contrast, the empty, hollow voices of the Beloved.

The little girl dissolved before Rhys’ startled eyes and the woman, Mina, stood before him as he had seen her in the grotto. She was tall and slender. Her auburn hair was shoulder length and framed her face in soft waves. Her amber eyes were large and shining with anger, peopled with souls. She wore a diaphanous black gown that coiled around her lithe body like the shades of night. She turned to face the Beloved, gazed out at the restless, dreadful sea of her victims.

“Mina…” they chanted. “Mina!”

“Stop it!” she cried.

The sea of dead moaned and wailed and whispered.

“Mina…”

The Beloved closed in around Rhys. He struck at them with the staff, but there were too many, and he was slammed back against the wall. Nightshade was on his hands and knees, trying to avoid the tramping feet, but his hands were bloody and his nose was bleeding. Rhys could not see Atta, though he could hear her whimper in pain. The heaving mass gave another surge, and he was smashed between the wall and the bodies and could not move; he could not breathe.

“Mina! Mina!” Rhys heard her name dimly, as everything started to fade.

Mina clenched her fists and raised her head and shouted into the echoing of her own name.

“I made you gods!” she screamed. “Why aren’t you happy?”

The Beloved went silent. Her name ceased.

Mina opened her hands and amber flames flared from her palms. She opened her eyes and amber flames shot from the pupils. She opened her mouth and gouts of flame poured out. She grew in size, taller and taller, screaming her frustration and pain to the heavens as the fire of her wrath blazed out of control.

One moment Rhys was being crushed beneath bodies and the next moment searing heat washed over him and the bodies were incinerated, leaving him covered in greasy ash.

Blinded by the blazing light, Rhys coughed as smoke and ash flew down his windpipe. He groped about for his friends and grabbed hold of Nightshade at the same time the kender grabbed hold of him.

“I can’t see!” Nightshade choked, clutching at Rhys in a panic. “I can’t see!”

Rhys found Atta and dragged her and Nightshade back through the archway and into the stairwell, away from the heat and flames and the greasy black ash that swirled about the tower in a horrid blizzard.

The kender rubbed his eyes, as the tears streamed down his cheeks, making tracks in the ash that smeared his face.

Rhys watched the wrath of an unhappy god destroy her failure.

The burning went on a long time.

Finally, the amber light grew dim and went out, Mina’s rage exhausted. Ashes continued to drift down in a gray cloud. Rhys helped Nightshade to his feet. They left the stairwell and plowed their way through horrible black drifts that nearly buried the dog. Nightshade gagged and covered his mouth with his hand. Rhys held his sleeve over his nose and mouth. He looked for Mina, but there was no sign of her and Rhys was too shaken to wonder what had become of her. He wanted only to escape the horror.

They fled through the double doors and stumbled out into sunlight and the blessed fresh air blowing off the sea.

“Where have you been?” Mina said accusingly. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you!”

The little girl stood in front of them, staring. “How did you get so dirty?” She held her nose. “You stink!”

Nightshade looked at Rhys.

She doesn’t remember, Rhys said quietly.

The sea was unusually calm, he noticed, the waves subdued, as if in shock. Rhys washed his face and hands. Nightshade rinsed off as best he could, while Atta dove into the water.

Mina set the sail on the small boat. The wind blew strong and favorably, as though eager to help them get away, and the boat went bounding over the waves.

They were nearing shore and Rhys was poised to lower the sail, when Nightshade cried out.

“Look, Rhys! Look at that!”

Rhys turned to see the tower being sucked slowly down beneath the waves. The tower sank lower and lower until all that was left were the small crystal fingers at the top, like a hand reaching up to heaven. Then those, too, vanished.

“The Beloved are gone, Rhys,” Nightshade said in an awed voice. “She set them free.”

Mina did not turn around at the kender’s shout. She did not look behind. She was concentrating on sailing the boat, steering it safely to shore.

I made you gods.

I made you gods. Why aren’t you happy?