Amber and Blood

1

Though they were all exhausted from their ordeal in the tower, Rhys did not deem it wise to remain long in the vicinity of Chemosh’s castle. He asked Mina if the small sailboat could make it to Flotsam and she stated that it could, provided they did not venture too far out to sea. They sailed up the coast, north to the harbor city of Flotsam.

They made the journey in safety, with only one brief scare, when Nightshade suddenly toppled over and lay in the bottom of the boat, where he was heard to faintly murmur the words: “meat pie”. Deeply concerned, Mina searched the boat and, sure enough, discovered more pies tucked away in a sack. Nightshade revived wonderfully upon smelling the food and, taking one pie with him, retired to the rear of the boat to eat, thereby avoiding Rhys’ reproving gaze.

They spent several days in Flotsam, resting and recovering. Rhys found an innkeeper willing to give him work in exchange for floor space and blankets in the common room. While he mopped floors and washed mugs, Nightshade and Mina explored the city. Rhys had at first prohibited Mina from leaving the inn, thinking that a six-year-old girl should not be roaming around Flotsam even if she was a god. But after a day spent trying to do his work and keep Mina from pestering the guests, infuriating the cook, and rescuing her after she tumbled down the well, Rhys decided it would be less dangerous if she went off exploring with Nightshade.

Rhys’ main concern was that Mina would go blabbing to strangers about the holy artifacts. Nightshade had described the nature of the artifacts’ miraculous powers, which were truly formidable. Rhys explained to Mina that the holy artifacts were immensely valuable and because of that, people might want to steal them, might even kill to possess them.

Mina listened to him with grave attention. Alarmed at the thought she might lose her gifts for Goldmoon, she promised Rhys solemnly and faithfully that she would keep them a secret. Rhys could only hope she meant it. He took Nightshade aside and impressed upon the kender the need to keep Mina from talking, then sent them both off, with Atta to guard them, to take in the sights of Flotsam so that he could get some work done.

Once, Flotsam had been a swaggering, rollicking, boisterous and free-wheeling rogue of a city. With a reputation for being disreputable, Flotsam had been a haven for pirates, thieves, mercenaries, deserters, bounty-hunters, and gamblers. Then came the Dragon Overlords, the largest and most terrible of which was an enormous red dragon named Malys. She seemed to take delight in tormenting Flotsam, periodically swooping down on the city to set parts of it ablaze, killing or driving off many of the inhabitants.

Malys was now gone and Flotsam was slowly recovering, but the wild child had been forced to grow up, and was now a sadder, though wiser, city.

Most of the ships now in the harbor belonged to the minotaur race, who ruled the seas from their islands to the north to the conquered lands of the former elven nation of Silvanesti to the south and beyond, for the minotaur nation was reaching out to humans, working hard to try to gain their trust. Well aware that their economic survival depended on trade with human nations, the minotaurs were ordered by their commanders to be on their best behavior while in Flotsam. The people of Flotsam, meanwhile, were conscious of their own economic survival and signs welcoming the minotaurs were posted in nearly every tavern and shop in town.

Consequently a city once known throughout Ansalon for its chair-breaking, table-hurling, mug-smashing, bone-crushing bar fights was now reduced to a few bloodied noses and a cracked rib. If a fight did break out, it was quickly squelched by either the local citizenry or minotaur guards. Offenders were hauled away to prison or permitted to sleep it off below decks.

As Nightshade would soon discover, Flotsam was in line to become a model citizen. Crime was down. There was no longer even a Thieves Guild, for the members hadn’t been able to raise enough cash to pay the dues. A settlement of gnomes located outside the city offered the only chance for excitement, but the mere thought of Mina among gnomes made Nightshade shudder.

“Might well bring about the end of civilization as we know it,” he told Rhys.

The kender was pleased, however, to find people interested in his abilities as a Nightstalker. A great many people had been killed by the dragon, and Nightshade’s ability to speak to the departed was much in demand. He lined up a client the second night they were in Flotsam.

Mina was eager to go with Nightshade to the graveyard “to see the spooks” as she put it. Nightshade, considerably offended by this undignified term, told her quite sternly that his encounters with spirits were private, between him and his clients, not to be shared. Mina sulked and pouted, but the kender was firm, and that night after dinner, he went off by himself, leaving Mina with Rhys.

Rhys told her to help him sweep up. She gave the kitchen floor a couple of swipes with the broom, then she tossed it aside and sat down to pester Rhys about when they were going to start for Godshome.

Nightshade returned late in the night, bringing with him a set of cast-off clothes and new boots for himself and for Rhys, whose old boots were cracked and worn through. As it turned out, the kender’s client was a cobbler and he’d taken the boots in payment. Nightshade also brought a meaty bone for Atta, who accepted it with relish and proved her gratitude by lying on his feet as he related his adventures.

“It all started when I was visiting the graveyard last night and chatting with some of the spirits when I noticed a little boy—”

“A real little boy or a spook?” Mina interrupted.

“The proper term is spirit or ghost,” Nightshade corrected her. “They don’t like to be called ‘spooks’. It’s quite insulting. You believe in ghosts, don’t you?”

“I believe in ghosts,” said Mina. “I just don’t believe you can talk to them.”

“Well, I can,” said Nightshade.

“Prove it to me,” Mina said slyly. “Take me with you tomorrow night.”

“That wouldn’t be right,” Nightshade returned. “Being a professional, I keep my client’s communications confidential.” He was pleased at having uttered several large words in a row.

“You’re telling us about them now,” Mina pointed out.

“That’s different,” said Nightshade, though for a moment he was flummoxed as to how. “I’m not using their names!”

Mina giggled and Nightshade went red in the face. Rhys stepped in, told Mina to quit teasing Nightshade, and told Nightshade to go on with his story.

“The little boy ghost,” said Nightshade with emphasis, “was really unhappy. He was just sitting there on this tombstone, kicking it with his heels. I asked him how long he’d been dead and he said five years. He was six when he died, and he was eleven now. That struck me as odd, because the dead usually don’t keep track of time. He said he knew how old he was because his father came to visit every year on the little boy’s birthday. That seemed to make him sad, so to cheer him up, I offered to play a game with him, but he didn’t want to play. Then I asked him why he was still here among the living when he should be on his soul’s journey.”

“I don’t like this story,” Mina said, frowning.

Nightshade was about to make a stinging remark when he caught Rhys’ eye and thought better of it. He went on with his tale.

“The little boy said he wanted to leave. He could see a wonderful, beautiful place and he wanted to go there, but he couldn’t because he didn’t want to leave his father. I said his father would want him to go on with his journey and I told him that they’d meet up again. The little boy said that was the problem. If he did meet his father again, how would his father recognize him after so much time had passed?”

Mina had been fidgeting, but she was quiet now, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, listening intently, her amber gaze fixed on the kender.

“I told him his father would know. The little boy didn’t believe me and I said I would prove it.

“I went to the cobbler and I told him I was a Nightstalker and I’d talked to his son and that there was a problem. At first the cobbler was kind of rude, and there might have been a small scuffle when he tried to throw me out of his shop. But then I described his little boy to him, and the cobbler calmed down and listened.

“I took the cobbler to the graveyard, and his son was there waiting for him. The cobbler told me that he thought about his son every day, and he imagined what he would be like as he was growing up, and he said that was why he came to visit on his birthday. That he could see his little boy growing up in his mind. When the little boy heard this, he knew that no matter how much he changed, his father would know him. The boy quit kicking the tombstone and gave his father a hug and then he left on his journey.

“The father couldn’t see his little boy or hear him, of course, but I think he did feel the hug, because the father said I’d lifted a weight from his heart. He felt at peace for the first time in five years. So he took me back to his shop and he gave me the boots and he said I was a—”

Sitting up straight, Mina said abruptly, “What if the little boy hadn’t died? What if he’d lived and grown to be a man and he’d done things that were wicked? Very, very wicked. What would happen then?”

“How should I know?” Nightshade said crossly. “That has nothing to do with my story. Where was I? Oh, yes. The cobbler gave me the boots and he said I was a—”

“HI tell you,” said Mina solemnly. “The little boy must never grow up. That way, the father will still love him.”

Nightshade stared at Mina in astonishment. Then, leaning close, he said in a loud whisper, “Is that why she’s a—”

“Go on with your story,” Rhys said quietly. He reached out his hand and gently smoothed Mina’s auburn hair.

Mina gave a fleeting smile, but she did not look up. She sat gazing into the fire.

“Uh, anyway, the cobbler gave me the boots,” Nightshade said, subdued. He sat looking uncomfortable and then remembered. “Oh, I have something else!” He went to retrieve a large cloth bag and plunked it down triumphantly.

Rhys had noticed the bag, but had been careful not to ask questions, not being truly certain he wanted to know the answers.

“It’s a map!” Nightshade stated, pulling out a large, rolled-up sheet of oiled paper. “A map of Ansalon.”

He spread out the map on the floor and prepared to show it off. Unfortunately, the map kept wanting to roll back up again, and he had to anchor it down with two ale mugs, a soup bowl and the leg of the stool.

“Nightshade,” said Rhys, “a map like this costs a lot of money—”

“Does it?” Nightshade frowned. “I don’t know why. It looks kind of beat-up to me.”

“Nightshade—”

“Oh, all right. If you insist, I’ll take it back in the morning.”

“Tonight,” said Rhys.

“The minotaur captain won’t miss it until morning,” Nightshade assured him. “And I didn’t take it. I asked the captain if I could borrow it. That was right before he passed out. My minotaur is a little rusty, but I’m pretty certain ‘Ash kanazi rasckana cloppf’, means ‘Yes, of course you can, my friend.’” (Translation: “Shove off before I gut you, you little turd!”)

“We’ll both return the map tonight,” said Rhys.

“Well, if you insist. But first, don’t you want to look at it? This shows the way to—”

“—to Godshome?” cried Mina, jumping up eagerly.

“Well, no, Godshome’s not on here. But it does show Neraka, which is somewhere near where Godshome might be.”

“Which is where?” Mina asked, squatting down beside the map.

Nightshade hunted a bit, then placed his finger on a mountain range on the western side of the continent.

“And where are we?” Mina asked.

Nightshade placed his finger on a dot on the eastern side of the continent.

“That’s not far,” said Mina happily.

“Not far!” Nightshade hooted. “It’s hundreds and hundreds of miles.”

“Pooh. Watch this!” Mina stepped on the map, almost squashing Nightshade’s fingers. Placing her feet close to each other, she walked heel, toe, heel, toe from one side of the map to other side. “There. You see? That was about three steps. Not far at all.”

Nightshade gaped at her. “But that’s—”

“This is boring. I’m going to bed.” Mina walked over to where she had her blanket stashed. Spreading it out, she lay down and immediately sat back up. “We’re starting for Godshome tomorrow,” she told them, and then laid back down, curled up, and went to sleep.

“Three steps,” Nightshade repeated. “She’s going to expect to get there by tomorrow night.”

“I know,” said Rhys. “I’ll talk to her.” He gazed somberly at the map and sighed. “It is a long way. I hadn’t realized just far we had traveled. And how far we have to go.”

“We could book passage on a ship,” Nightshade suggested. “We might find one that would allow kender—”

Rhys smiled at his friend. “We might. But would you put yourself into the hands of the Sea Goddess again?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Nightshade said with a grimace. “I guess we walk.”

He plopped down on his stomach and continued to study the map. “It’s not a straight line from here to there. How will we remember the route?”

He rolled over comfortably on his back, propped his head on his arms. “The minotaur won’t miss his map until morning. If we had something to write on, I could copy it. I know! We could cut up my old shirt!”

He brought the shirt back along with a pair of shears he borrowed (legitimately) from the innkeeper and a quill pen and some ink. Nightshade then settled down happily to make a copy of the map and plot out their route.

“Do you know anything about all these different countries?” he asked Rhys.

“I do know something of them,” Rhys said. “The monks of my order often leave the monastery to travel the world. When they return, they tell tales of where they have been, what they have seen. I have heard many stories and descriptions of the lands of Ansalon.”

A sad note in Rhys’ voice caused Nightshade to look up from his work. “What’s the matter?”

“All those of my order are urged to make such a journey, but it is not required,” Rhys replied. “I had no intention of leaving my monastery. I did not think I needed to know any more of the world than what I could see from the green pastures where I tended the sheep. I would have remained in the monastery all my life, but for Mina.”

He looked over at the child, who was asleep on the floor. Mina’s sleep was often restless. She cried out, whimpered and cringed, and now she had tangled herself up in her blanket. Rhys rearranged the blanket, tucked it around her, and soothed her until she grew more peaceful.

When she was breathing more evenly, he left her and returned to where Nightshade was still studying the map.

“It occurs to me that the head of my order may know something about Godshome. Although it is out of our way, I believe it would be worth our while to first seek guidance at the Temple of Majere in Solace—”

“Solace!” Nightshade repeated excitedly. “My favorite place in the whole world! Gerard’s there, and he’s the best sheriff in the whole world. Not to mention chicken and dumpling day at the Inn of the Last Home. Is that Tuesday? I think it was Tuesday. Or is Tuesday pork chop and green beans day?”

The kender returned to his work with renewed vigor. Drawing on his own information (gleaned from fellow kender and therefore not entirely to be relied upon) and Rhys’ knowledge of the lands through which they would have to travel, he eventually determined the route.

“We walk overland along the northern coast of the Kyrman Sea,” Nightshade explained, when it was all finished. “We go past the ruins of Micah, which, according to the map is about thirty miles, then we travel another seventy miles through the desert, and on to the city of Delphon. What do you know about the humans of Khur? I’ve heard they’re very fierce.”

“They are a proud people, renowned warriors, with strong loyalties to their tribes that often lead to blood feuds. But they are noted for their hospitality to strangers.”

“That never seems to include kender. Still, with all those blood feuds, they must have a lot of dead people hanging about. Perhaps they’ll need my services.”

Taking this hopeful view, Nightshade went back to his map. “There’s a road from Delphon that leads west through the hills to the capital city of Khuri-Khan. Then there’s another big stretch of desert and another hundred miles or so after that, and we come to Blöde, home of the ogres.”

Nightshade heaved a sigh. “Ogres like kender—for supper. And ogres kill humans or make them their slaves. But that’s the only way.”

“Then we must make the best of it,” said Rhys.

Nightshade shook his head. “If we get through Blöde alive—which is a big ‘if’—we come to the Great Swamp. A Dragon Overlord named Sable used to live there, but she’s dead and the curse she cast on that land died with her. Still, the swamp is a nasty place, with lizards and man-eating plants and poisonous snakes. After that, we have to find a way across the Westguard River, then we go west a bit, go south a bit, skirt the coastline of New Sea, travel through Linh and Salmonfall and we finally reach Abanasinia.

“Once there, we cross the Plains of Dergoth, then travel through Pax Tharkas and into what used to be Qualinesti past the Lake of Death. I have to admit I’m kind of looking forward to that part. I’ve heard there are lots of wandering spirits in the lake. Elf ghosts. I like elf ghosts. They’re always very polite. After that, we cross the White Rage River and then venture into Darkenwood, which isn’t all that darken anymore, from what I’ve heard. Then we head out over the Plains of Abanasinia, pass through Gateway and finally trek north to Solace. Whew!”

Nightshade wiped his brow and went off to fetch a mug of restorative ale. Rhys sat in his chair by the fire, contemplating the map, envisioning the journey.

A monk, a kender, a dog, and a six-year-old god.

Walking deserts, mountains, swamps, plains, forests. Encountering civil wars, border skirmishes, tribal battles, blood feuds. As well as the usual hazards of the road: washed-out bridges, forest fires, torrential rainstorms, bitter cold, sweltering heat. And the usual dangers: thieves, trolls, ogres, lizard-men, wolves, snakes, the odd wandering giant.

“How long do you think the trip will take us?” Nightshade asked, wiping foam from his lips.

A lifetime, Rhys thought.

2

They left Flotsam the next morning, and for the first several miles the trip went well. Mina was entertained and diverted by the new and interesting sights. Farmers from outlying districts bringing goods to market exchanged friendly greetings. A caravan of wealthy merchants with men-at-arms guarding them took up the entire road. The men-at-arms were stern and business-like, but the merchants waved at Mina and, seeing the monk, asked for his blessing on their travels and tossed him a few coins. After that, a noble lord and lady and their retinue rode by; the lady stopped to admire Mina and give her some sweetmeats, which Mina shared with Nightshade and Atta.

They met several parties of kender, who were either leaving Flotsam (forcibly) or heading in that direction. The kender stopped to chat with Nightshade, exchanging the latest news and gossip. He questioned them about the road ahead, and received an enormous amount of information, some of it accurate.

Their most interesting encounter was with a group of gnomes whose steam-powered perambulating combination threshing machine, dough-kneader, and bread-baker had run amuck and was lying in pieces on the side of the road. This meeting caused considerable delay as Rhys stopped to tend to the victims.

All this excitement occupied the better part of the day. Mina was happy and well-behaved and eager to meet more gnomes. They made an early stop for the night. The weather being fine, they camped outdoors, and Mina thought that was great fun at first, though she didn’t think much of it around midnight when she discovered she’d made her bed on an ant hill.

Consequently, she was cross and grumpy the next morning, and her mood did not improve. The farther they traveled from Flotsam, the fewer people they met along the road until eventually there was no one but themselves. The scenery consisted of empty stretches of vacant land enlivened by a few scraggly trees. Mina grew bored and began to complain. She was tired. She wanted to stop. Her boots pinched her toes. She had a blister on her heel. Her legs ached. Her back ached. She was hungry. She was thirsty.

“So when are we going to get there?” she asked Rhys, lagging along beside him, scuffing her feet in the dust.

“I’d like to cover a few more miles before it grows dark,” Rhys said. “Then we’ll make camp.”

“No, not camp!” Mina said. “I mean Godshome. I’m really tired of walking. Will we be there tomorrow?”

Rhys was trying to think how to explain that it might well be a year of tomorrows before they reached Godshome when Atta gave a sharp bark. Her ears pricked, she stared intently down the road.

“Someone’s coming,” said Nightshade.

A horse and rider were heading in their direction, traveling at a fast pace to judge by the pounding hoofbeats. Rhys took hold of Mina’s hand and hurriedly drew her to the side of the road, to get out of the way of the horse’s hooves. He could not yet see the rider, due to a slight dip in the road. Atta remained obediently at Rhys’ side, but she continued to growl. Her body quivered. Her lip curled.

“Whoever’s coming, Atta doesn’t like them,” Nightshade observed. “That’s not like her.”

Accustomed to traveling, Atta tended to be friendly with strangers, though she kept herself aloof and would submit to being petted only if there was no way to avoid it. She was warning them against this stranger, however, even before she saw him.

The horse and rider topped the ridge and, sighting them, increased speed, galloping down the road toward them. The rider was cloaked in black. His long hair streamed behind him in the wind.

Nightshade gasped. “Rhys! That’s Chemosh! What do we do?”

“Nothing we can do,” Rhys replied.

The Lord of Death reined in his horse as he drew near. Nightshade looked about wildly for someplace to hide. They were caught out in the open, however. Not a tree or a gully in sight.

Rhys ordered Atta to be quiet and she obeyed for the most part, though the occasional growl got the better of her. He drew Mina close to him, holding his staff in front of her with one hand, keeping his other hand protectively on her shoulder. Nightshade stood stolidly by his friend’s side. Reminding himself he was a kender with horns, he assumed a very fierce look.

“Who is that man?” Mina asked, gazing at the black-cloaked rider curiously. She twisted her head around to look up Rhys. “Do you know him?”

“I know him,” Rhys replied. “Do you know him, Mina?”

“Me?” Mina was amazed. She shook her head. “I never saw him before.”

Chemosh dismounted his horse and began walking toward them.

The horse remained unmoving where he left it, as though it had been changed to stone. Nightshade edged closer to Rhys.

“Render with horns,” Nightshade said to give himself courage. “Kender with horns.”

Atta growled, and Rhys silenced her.

Chemosh ignored the dog and the kender. He flicked an uninterested glance at Rhys. The lord’s attention was focused on Mina. His face was tight, livid with anger. His dark eyes were cold.

Mina stared at Chemosh from behind the barricade formed by the monk’s staff and Rhys felt her tremble. He tightened his hold on her reassuringly.

“I don’t like this man,” Mina said in a shaky voice. “Tell him to go away.”

Chemosh came to a halt and glared down at the little red-haired girl sheltering in Rhys’ arms.

“You can end this game of yours now, Mina,” he said. “You have made me look the fool. You’ve had your laugh. Now come back home with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Mina retorted. “I don’t even know you. And Goldmoon told me never to talk to strangers.”

“Mina, stop this nonsense—” Chemosh began angrily, and he reached out his hand to seize her.

Mina kicked the Lord of Death in the shin.

Nightshade sucked in a breath and closed his eyes and waited for the world to end. When the world kept going, Nightshade opened his eyes a slit to see that Rhys had pulled Mina behind him, shielding her with his body. Chemosh was looking exceedingly grim.

“You are putting on a very fine show, Mina, but I have no time for play-acting,” he stated impatiently. “You will come with me, and you will bring with you the artifacts you basely stole from the Hall of Sacrilege. Or I will shortly be seeing your friends in the Abyss—”

Lashing rain drowned out the rest of Chemosh’s threat. The sky grew black as his cloak. Storm clouds boiled and bubbled. Zeboim arrived in a gust of wind and pelting hail.

The goddess leaned down and presented her cheek to Mina.

“Give your Auntie Zee a kiss, dear,” she said sweetly.

Mina buried her face in Rhys’ robes.

Zeboim shrugged and shifted her gaze to Chemosh, who was regarding her with an expression as dark and thunderous as the storm.

“What do you want, Sea Bitch?” he demanded.

“I was worried about Mina,” Zeboim replied, bestowing an affectionate glance on the girl. “What are you doing here, Lord of Rot?”

“I was also concerned—” Chemosh began.

Zeboim laughed. “Concerned with how royally you screwed things up? You had Mina, you had the tower, you had the Solio Febalas, you had the Beloved. And you’ve lost it all. Your Beloved are a gruesome pile of greasy ash lying at the bottom of the Blood Sea. My brother has the tower. The High God has claimed the Solio Febalas. As for Mina, she’s made it painfully clear she wants nothing more to do with you.”

Chemosh did not need to hear the litany of his misfortune recited back to him. He turned his back on the goddess and knelt down beside Mina, who regarded him in wary amazement.

“Mina, my dear, please listen to me. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I’m sorry I hurt you. I was jealous…” Chemosh paused, then said, “Come back to my castle with me, Mina. I miss you. I love you…”

“Mina, my pet, don’t go anywhere with this horrid man,” said Zeboim, shoving the Lord of Death out of the way. “He’s lying. He doesn’t love you. He never did. He’s using you. Come live with your Auntie Zee…”

“I’m going to Godshome,” said Mina, and she took hold of Rhys’ hand. “And it’s a long way from here, so we have to get started. Come on, Mister Monk.”

“Godshome,” said Chemosh after a moment’s astonished silence. “That is a long way from here.” He turned on his heel and walked back to his horse. Mounting, he gazed down at Rhys from beneath dark and lowering brows. “A very long way. And the road is fraught with peril. I’ve no doubt I’ll be seeing you again shortly, Monk.”

He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and rode off in ire. Zeboim watched him leave, then she turned back to Rhys.

“It is a long way, Rhys,” said Zeboim with a playful smile. “You will be on the road for months, perhaps years. If you live that long. Though now that I think of it…”

Zeboim bent swiftly down to whisper something in Mina’s ear.

Mina listened, frowning, at first, and then her eyes widened. “I can do that?”

“Of course you can, child.” Zeboim patted her on the head. “You can do anything. Have a safe journey, friends.”

Zeboim laughed and, spreading her arms, she became a whipping wind, which then dwindled to a teasing breeze and, still laughing, wafted away.

The road was empty. Rhys sighed in relief and lowered his staff.

“Why did that silly-looking man want me to come with him?” Mina asked.

“He made a mistake,” said Rhys. “He thought you were someone else. Someone he used to know.”

The time was only midafternoon, but Rhys, worn out from the strain of the encounter with the gods and a day of putting up with Mina, decided to make camp early. They spread out their blankets near a stream that wound like a snake through the tall grass. A small grove of trees provided shelter.

Nightshade soon recovered his spirits and began to badger Mina into telling him what the goddess had said to her. Mina shook her head. She was pondering deeply over something. Her brow was creased, her lips pursed. Eventually she shook off whatever was bothering her and, taking off her shoes and stockings, went to play in the creek. They ate a frugal meal of dried peas and smoked meat, then sat around the fire.

“I want to see the map you drew,” Mina said suddenly.

“Why?” Nightshade asked suspiciously, and he clapped his hand protectively over his pouch.

“I just want to look at it,” Mina returned. “Everyone keeps telling me Godshome is such a long way away. I want to see for myself.”

“I showed you once,” Nightshade said.

“Yes, but I want to see it again.”

“Oh, all right. But go wash your hands,” Nightshade ordered as he removed the map from its pouch and spread it out on top of his blanket. “I don’t want greasy finger marks on it.”

Mina ran down to the stream to wash her hands and face.

Rhys had stretched out full-length on the ground, resting after the meal. Atta lay beside him, her chin on his chest. He stroked her fur and gazed into the heavens. The sun stood balanced precariously on the rim of the world. The sky was a blend of soft twilight hues, pinks and golds, purples and oranges. Beyond the sunset, he could feel immortal eyes watching.

Mina came running back, to exhibit moderately clean hands. Nightshade anchored the map with rocks and then showed Mina the route they were going to be taking.

“This is where we are now,” he said.

“And where is Flotsam where we started?” Mina asked.

Nightshade pointed about a whisker’s width away.

“All this walking and we’ve only come that far!” Mina cried, shocked and dismayed.

She squatted beside the map and studied it, her lower lip thrust out. “Why do we have to go all over the place—up and down and round about? Why can’t we just go straight from here to here.”

Nightshade explained that climbing extremely tall mountains was quite difficult and dangerous, and it was much better to go around them.

“Too bad there are so many mountains,” he added. “Otherwise we could go straight as the dragon flies and it wouldn’t take long at all.”

Mina gazed thoughtfully at the dot that was Flotsam and the dot that Nightshade said was Solace, where they would find his great friend, Gerard, and the monks of Majere who would tell them where to look for Godshome.

Rhys was drifting off in a pleasant haze of twilight forgetfulness when he was jolted wide away. Nightshade let out a screech.

Rhys jumped up so fast he startled Atta, who yelped in aggravation.

“What is it?”

Nightshade pointed a quivering finger.

The map was no longer lines and squiggles drawn on the back of the kender’s old shirt. The map was a world in miniature, with real mountains and real bodies of water that shimmered in the dying light, and real windswept deserts and boggy swamps.

Thus the gods might see the world, Rhys thought to himself.

Nightshade screeched again and suddenly the kender was floating up into the air, light as thistledown. Rhys felt himself grow buoyant, his body losing weight and mass, his bones hollow as a bird’s, his flesh like a soap bubble. His feet left the ground, and he sailed upward. Atta floated toward him, legs dangling helplessly beneath her.

“Straight as the dragon flies,” Mina said.

Rhys recalled the near-drowning incident in the tower. He recalled the meat pies and the fiery conflagration that had consumed the Beloved, and he knew he had to put a stop to this. He had to take control.

“Stop it, Mina!” Rhys said sternly. “Stop it at once! Put me down this instant!”

Mina stared at him, her eyes round and starting to glisten with tears.

“Now!” he said through gritted teeth.

He felt himself grow heavy, and he fell back down to the ground. Nightshade dropped like rock, landing with a thud. Atta, once she was down, slunk off hurriedly to curl up beneath a tree, as far from Mina as possible.

Mina drifted very slowly out of the air to land in front of Rhys.

“We are walking to Solace,” he said, his voice shaking with anger. “Do you understand me, Mina? We are not swimming or flying. We are walking!”

Mina’s tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She flung herself on the ground and began to sob.

Rhys was trembling. He had always prided himself on his discipline and here he was, yelling at a child. He was suddenly, deeply ashamed.

“I didn’t mean to shout at you, Mina—” he began wearily.

“I just wanted to get there faster!” she cried, raising a tear-stained and dirt-streaked face. “I don’t like walking. It’s boring and my feet hurt! And it’s going to take too long, forever and ever. Besides, Aunt Zeboim told me I could fly,” she added with a quiver and a hiccup.

Nightshade nudged Rhys in the ribs. “It is a long way and flying might be kind of interesting at that—”

Rhys looked at him. Nightshade gulped.

“But you’re right, of course. We should walk. That’s why the gods gave us feet and not wings. I’ll just go to bed now….”

Rhys knelt down and took Mina in his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck and sobbed on his shoulder. Gradually her sobs lessened, she grew quiet. Rhys, looking down at her, saw that she had cried herself to sleep. He carried her to her blanket that he’d spread on a soft bed of grass beneath a tree and laid her down. He was tucking another blanket around her when she woke up.

“Good night, Mina,” he said, and he reached out his hand to gently smooth back the hair from her forehead.

Mina grabbed hold of his hand and gave it a remorseful kiss.

“I’m sorry, Rhys,” she said. It was the first time she’d ever called him by his name and not ‘Mister Monk’. “We can walk. But could we walk fast?” she added plaintively. “I think I need to reach Godshome quickly.”

Rhys was bone-tired, or he might have thought twice before he agreed that, yes, they could “walk fast”.

3

The next day, they were in Solace.

“After all,” pointed out Nightshade, when he had recovered from the trip, “you did tell her we could walk fast.”

The morning had started well. Mina was in a chastened mood, quiet and docile. Wisps of fog rose lazily from the stream bed. They set out early with Rhys walking as fast as he thought Mina could manage. When he first saw the trees and grasslands start to slip past him, the increase in speed was so gradual that he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him.

But then the landscape began to slide past him at an incredible velocity. He and Nightshade, Mina and Atta continued to walk at what seemed a normal pace. Fellow travelers flashed past. Clouds raced across the sky. One moment the weather was sunny and the next rain storms soaked them, and the next moment it was sunny again. They sped through the desert. The city of Delphon was a blur of color, the city of Khuri-Khan a blast of noise and heat.

The ogres of Blöde were there, and then they weren’t. The Great Swamp was muggy and stifling and foul-smelling, but not for long.

They skimmed across the Westguard River and saw the sun sparkle on the waves of New Sea and then it was gone and the Plains of Dergoth were so much emptiness. The Lake of Death lay in eerie shadow, the White Rage River thundered past. They were in and out of Darkenwood, racing over the Plains of Abanasinia, speeding through Gateway, and here was Solace, and then everything slowed down and stopped.

Rhys was dizzy with the rapid motion and grabbed hold of a post to keep from falling. Nightshade staggered about on wobbly legs for a few moments, then gave a plaintive “Oof!” and collapsed. Atta flopped down on her side and lay there panting.

“We walked all the way!” Mina said proudly. “I did what you told me!”

Her amber eyes were clear and shining. Her smile was eager and happy. She truly believed she had done something worthy of praise, and Rhys did not have the heart to scold her. After all, they had been spared a long, difficult, and dangerous journey, and arrived safely at their destination. He could not help but be relieved. As Rhys came to realize, Mina didn’t think she’d done anything extraordinary. For her, strolling across a continent in a day was something everyone could do if he just put his mind to it.

Rhys helped Nightshade to his feet and assured Atta that all was well. Mina was looking eagerly about. She was delighted with Solace.

“The houses are built in trees!” she cried, clapping her hands. “There’s a whole city up in the trees! I want to go up there. What is that place?”

She pointed to a large building nestled in the branches of a giant vallenwood.

“That’s the Inn of the Last Home,” Nightshade stated, eagerly sniffing the air. He was feeling almost back to normal. “Boiled cabbage. Which means today must be corned beef and cabbage day. Wait until you meet Laura. She owns the Inn and she does the cooking and she’s the best cook in all of Ansalon. Then there’s our friend, Gerard, the sheriff. He’s—”

“Mina,” Rhys said, interrupting, “would you run over to that well and fetch some water for Atta?”

Mina did as she was bid, running excitedly off to the public well, taking the panting dog with her.

“I don’t think we should tell Gerard the truth about Mina,” Rhys said to Nightshade when Mina was gone. “We don’t want to strain his credulity.”

“Is that like noodles?” Nightshade asked, puzzled. “’Cause I know you have to strain them.”

“I am afraid he would not believe us,” Rhys clarified.

“That she’s a god whose gone crazy? I’m not sure I believe us,” Nightshade said solemnly. He put his hand to his forehead. “I’m still kind of dizzy from all that walking. But I see what you mean. Gerard knew Mina, didn’t he? The old Mina, I mean. When she was a soldier during the War of Souls. He told us about meeting her that one night when he started talking about what happened to him during the war. But she’s a little girl now. I don’t think he’d be likely to connect the two. Do you?”

“I don’t know,” Rhys said. “He might recognize her if he hears her name and sees her. Her looks are extraordinary.”

Nightshade watched Mina hurry back toward them. She was carrying water in a pail and sloshing most of it onto her shoes.

“Rhys,” said the kender in a whisper, “what if Mina recognizes him? Gerard was her enemy. She might kill him!”

“I don’t think she will,” said Rhys. “She seems to have blotted out that part of her life.”

“She blotted out the Beloved too, and it all came back to her,” Nightshade reminded him.

Rhys smiled faintly. “We must hope for the best and trust that the gods are with us.”

“Oh, they’re with us, all right,” Nightshade grumbled. “If there’s one thing we’re not short on, it’s gods.”

After Atta gulped her water, Rhys and his companions joined the people standing in line, waiting for a table in the popular inn. The line wound up the long, curving stairway that led to the front door. The last rays of the setting sun turned the sky golden red, gleamed off the leaves of the vallenwood and shimmered in the stained glass windows. People in line were in a good mood. Happy to be finished with the day’s work, they were looking forward to a hearty meal and an evening spent in the company of friends.

“Goldmoon told me stories about the Inn of the Last Home,” Mina was saying excitedly. “She told me how she and Riverwind were brought here miraculously by the blue crystal staff, and how they met the Heroes of the Lance, and how the Theocrat fell into the fire and burned his hand and the staff healed him. And then the soldiers came and—”

“I’m starving,” Nightshade complained. “And this line hasn’t moved one little bit. Mina, if you could just whisk us to the front—”

“No!” Rhys said severely.

“But, Rhys—”

“Race you!” Mina cried.

Before Rhys could stop her, she had dashed off.

“I’ll go get her!” Nightshade offered, and he bolted before Rhys could grab him.

Reaching the stairs, Mina pushed past indignant patrons. Nightshade caused further disruption trying to catch her. Rhys hastened after both of them, apologizing profusely as he went. He collared Nightshade at the door, but Mina was too fast and had already darted inside the Inn.

Several good-natured customers told him he could go ahead of them. Rhys knew he was condoning bad behavior, and also knew he should have scolded both girl and kender and marched them to the back of the line. But, frankly, he was too tired to lecture, too tired to put up with the arguing and the wailing. It seemed easier just to let it go.

Laura, the proprietor of the Inn, was vastly pleased to see Rhys again. She gave him a hug and told him he could have his old job back if he wanted it, and added that he and Nightshade could stay as long as they liked. Laura had another hug for Nightshade, and she was charmed when Rhys introduced Mina, whom Rhys described vaguely as an orphan they had befriended along the way. Laura clucked in sympathy.

“What a state you’re in, child!” Laura exclaimed, looking with dismay at Mina’s dirt-streaked face and tangled hair, her tattered filthy clothes. “And those rags you’re wearing! Mercy’s sake, that chemise is so threadbare you can see right through it.”

She cast Rhys a reproachful glance. “I know you old bachelors don’t know anything about raising little girls, but you could at least have seen to it that she took a bath! Come along with me, Mina dear. We’ll have a nice meal and a hot bath and then off to bed with you. And I’ll see to it that you’re dressed properly. I have some of my niece Linsha’s old clothes packed away. I think they should just about fit you.”

“Will you brush my hair for me before I go to sleep?” Mina asked. “My mother used to brush my hair every night.”

“You sweet thing,” said Laura, smiling. “Of course, I’ll brush your hair—such pretty hair. Where is mother, dear?” she asked, as she led Mina away.

“She’s waiting for me at Godshome,” Mina replied solemnly.

Laura looked considerably startled at this pronouncement, then her face softened. “Ah, you sweet child,” she said gently, “that’s a lovely way to remember her.”

Nightshade had already found a table and was discussing the evening’s offerings with the waitress. Rhys looked about for Gerard, but his usual table was empty. Nightshade tucked blissfully into a large plate of corned beef and cabbage. Rhys ate a small amount, then gave the rest to Atta, who sniffed disdainfully at the boiled cabbage, but wolfed down the corned beef.

Rhys insisted on paying for their room and board by helping in the kitchen. As the night went on, he continued to look for Gerard, but the sheriff never came.

“Small wonder,” said Laura, when she returned to inspect her kitchen and make preparations for tomorrow’s breakfast. “There’s been trouble in Temple Row lately. Oh, nothing serious, mind you. The clerics of Sargonnas and Reorx got into a shouting match and nearly came to blows. Someone threw rotten eggs at the temple of Gilean, and lewd pictures and bad words were scrawled on the walls of Mishakal’s temple. Feelings are running high. The sheriff’s likely out talking to people, trying to keep things calm.”

Rhys listened to this in dismay. He tried to tell himself that this rivalry among the gods could not possibly have anything to do with him or his companions, but he knew otherwise. He thought of Zeboim and Chemosh, both gods trying to lure Mina to join them. Whichever side she chose—darkness or light—she would upset the balance between good and evil, tilt the scales to one side or the other.

“She’s a beautiful child,” said Laura, bending down to kiss the girl’s forehead, as she and Rhys checked on her before going to their rest.

“She does say some strange things, though. Such a vivid imagination! Why, she said that yesterday you’d been in Flotsam!”

Rhys went thankfully to his bed, which Laura had made up in the room next to Mina’s. Atta was just settling herself at his feet, when a shrill scream roused Rhys. He lit his bedside candle and hurried to Mina’s room.

Mina was thrashing about the bed, arms flailing. Her amber eyes were wide open and staring.

“—your arrows, Captain!” she was crying. “Order your men to shoot!”

She sat up, gazing at some horror only she could see. “So many dead. All stacked up… Beckard’s Cut. Killing our own men. It’s the only way, you fool! Can’t you see that?”

She gave a wild shout. “For Mina!”

Rhys took hold of her in his arms, trying to calm her. She fought against him, struck at him with her fists. “It’s the only way! The only way we win! For Mina!”

She fell back suddenly, exhausted. “For Mina…” she murmured as she sank into the pillow.

Rhys remained at her side until he was certain she was once more sleeping peacefully. He asked Majere’s blessing on her and then he went back to his bed.

He lay there a long time, trying to recall where he’d heard the name “Beckard’s Cut” and why it struck a chill to his heart.

“Where are you going this morning?” Nightshade asked Rhys between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and spiced potatoes. “The Temple of Majere,” Rhys replied.

“What about Mina?”

“She’s in the kitchen with Laura learning to make bread. Keep an eye on her. Give me an hour or so and then bring her to me in the Temple.”

“Will the monks let us in?” Nightshade asked dubiously.

“All are welcome to Majere’s temple. Besides”—Rhys reached out to lightly tap the golden grasshopper the kender wore pinned to his shirt—“the god has given you his talisman. You will be an honored guest.”

“I will?” Nightshade was awed. “That’s really nice of Majere. Be sure and thank him for me. What are you going to tell your Abbott about Mina?” he asked curiously.

“The truth,” Rhys said.

Nightshade shook his head dolefully. “Good luck with that. I hope Majere’s monks aren’t too mad at you for being Zeboim’s monk for a while.”

Rhys could have explained that while the monks might be sad and disappointed at his failings, they would never be mad. He realized that this concept could be difficult for his friend to understand, and he didn’t have time to explain. He was in haste to go the Temple, to beg for forgiveness for his sins and turn for help to those wiser than himself. He was looking forward to being able to rest and find peace in the blessed, contemplative quiet.

Rhys had not forgotten Gerard, however, and as he was walking down the town’s main street, cool beneath the dappling shadows of the vallenwood’s leaves, he stopped to speak to one of the town guards.

Rhys asked where he could find the sheriff and was told that Gerard was most likely in Temple Row.

“Some sort of trouble broke out there this morning, or so I heard,” the guard added.

Rhys thanked the guard for the information and continued on. Rounding a corner, he saw crowds of people—many of them bruised and bloodied—being escorted out of Temple Row by the city guard, who were pushing and shoving at stragglers and yelling at gawkers to “move along.” Rhys waited until the crowds had thinned, then he made his way toward the entrance to Temple Row. Several guards eyed him askance, but, seeing his orange robes, they permitted him to pass.

He found Gerard assigning guards, giving them orders. Rhys waited quietly until Gerard had finished and was starting to move off, before addressing him.

“Sheriff—” Rhys began.

“Not now!” Gerard snapped brusquely, and kept walking.

“Gerard,” Rhys said, and this time Gerard recognized his voice and, halting, turned to face him.

The sheriff was red in the face; his corn colored hair was standing all on end, for he was in the habit of running his hands through it when under duress. His intense blue eyes were narrow, their expression grim. That expression did not change when he saw Rhys. Rather it intensified.

“You,” Gerard growled. “I might have known.”

“It is good to see you, too, my friend,” said Rhys.

Gerard opened his mouth, then shut it again. His face flushed redder. He looked ashamed and reached out his hand to clasp Rhys’ hand and give it a remorseful shake.

“Forgive me. It is good to see you, Brother.” Gerard gave Rhys a rueful smile. “It’s just whenever there’s trouble involving the gods, you always seem to turn up.”

Rhys was trying to think how to answer this, but Gerard didn’t wait for a reply.

“Have you had breakfast?” The sheriff sounded and looked tired. “I’m on my way to the Inn. You could join me.” He glanced around.

“Where’s your friend Nightshade? And Atta? Nothing’s happened to them, has it?”

“They are both fine. They are at the Inn. I just came from there. I was on my way to the Temple of Majere to pay my respects, but I saw the turmoil and I find you here. You say there has been trouble. What happened?”

“Only a small riot,” said Gerard dryly. “There’s been discord brewing for some time now. The clerics and priests of all the gods have started snarling and snapping at each other like dogs over a bone. This morning a cleric of Chemosh got into a knock-down drag-out with a priest of Zeboim. Supporters from both sides rushed to help, and before long there was a pitched battle. To make matters worse, three of Kiri-Jolith’s paladins took it upon themselves to try to break up the fight. At the sight of the paladins, the clerics of Zeboim and Chemosh stopped fighting each other and turned on the paladins. That brought the clerics of Mishakal to their aid. And since Reorx’s worshippers like nothing better than a good brawl, they got into it, whaling on anyone they could find.

“Finally, that got boring, apparently, and someone suggested this was all Gilean’s fault and they should set fire to his temple. They were headed that direction with torches blazing when I arrived with my guards. We cracked a few heads and arrested the rest and that ended the altercation. I’ll let the holy fathers cool their heels in jail, then set them loose with a fine for disturbing the peace and destruction of property.”

“How did the fight start?” Rhys asked. “Do you know what the quarrel was about?”

“The clerics of Chemosh refused to say. Creepy bastards. I think it was a mistake to allow them to build a temple here, but Palin Majere insisted that it is not up to us to decree which gods people choose to worship. He said that so long as Chemosh’s clerics and followers don’t break the law they can have their temple. So far, they’ve behaved. Chemosh’s clerics haven’t been raising the dead or raiding graveyards—at least that I know of.

“As for Zeboim, her priests were eager to talk. They’re telling everyone that Chemosh is trying to take over as leader of the Gods of Darkness. What beats me is that all the clerics, even those of Kiri-Jolith, harbor resentment against Gilean. I have no idea why. His Aesthetics never take their noses out of their books.”

Gerard eyed Rhys. “For months, these priests and clerics have gone about their business peacefully enough and then within the space of a fortnight, they’re at each other’s throats. And now you show up. You’re personally acquainted with Zeboim. Something’s amiss in Heaven. What is it—another War of Souls?”

Rhys was silent.

“Uh, huh. I knew it.” Gerard heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his hair. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I would, my friend, and gladly, but it is extremely complicated—”

“More complicated than the goddess hauling you off to fight a death knight?” Gerard asked, half-joking and half-not.

“I’m afraid so,” said Rhys. “In fact, I am on my way to discuss the situation with the Abbot of my order to seek his advice and counsel. If you would like to accompany me—”

Gerard shook his head emphatically. “No thank you, Brother. I’ve had my fill of priests today. You go pray, and I’ll go eat. I suppose Atta’s keeping an eye on that kender of yours? I don’t want a riot to break out in the Inn.”

“Atta is with him, and I told Nightshade to meet me at the Temple.” Rhys glanced uncertainly at the guards patrolling the temple district. “Will your men let him pass?”

“The guards are here to keep an eye on things, not to prohibit anyone from going to the temples. Though if this violence breaks out again…” Gerard shook his head. “Let’s meet at my home tonight, then, Brother. I’ll fix my famous stewed chicken, and you can tell me what your Abbot says.”

“I would like that,” said Rhys. “Thank you. One other thing,” he added, as Gerard was about to depart. “What do you know of the name ‘Beckard’s Cut’?”

Gerard’s face darkened. “Don’t you recall your history lessons, Brother?”

“Not very well, I am afraid,” Rhys replied.

“Beckard’s Cut was a dark day in the annals of Krynn,” Gerard said. “The forces of the Dark Knights of Neraka were about to lose the siege of Sanction. They were in full retreat, heading into a narrow mountain pass called Beckard’s Cut. The leader of the Dark Knights gave orders for the archers to fire on their own men. They obeyed the command, firing hundreds of arrows at point blank range into their own comrades. The bodies of the fallen stacked up like cordwood, so they say, blocking the pass. The Solamnics were forced to retreat and that was the beginning of the end for us.”

“Who was the leader of the Dark Knights?” Rhys asked, though he knew the answer.

“That female fiend, Mina,” Gerard replied grimly. “I’ll see you tonight, Brother.”

Gerard went on his way, heading back down the street toward the Inn of the Last Home.

Rhys watched him go. He wondered if the sheriff would run into Mina and, if so, would he recognize her and what would happen if he did?

I was a fool to bring up Beckard’s Cut, Rhys chided himself. Now he will be thinking about Mina. Perhaps I should go back…

Rhys looked at the green, tree-shaded grounds of Majere’s temple and he felt strongly impelled to go there, as if Majere’s hand had hold of his sleeve and was pulling him in that direction. Still Rhys stood undecided. He feared his own heart was leading him, not the hand of the god.

Rhys longed for the peaceful solitude, the tranquil serenity. At last he gave in, either to the command of the god or the wishes of his soul. He was in need of the Abbot’s advice. If Gerard did recognize Mina and came to Rhys, demanding to know what in the name of heaven was going on, Rhys trusted the Abbot would be able to explain.

The Temple of Majere was a simple structure made of blocks of polished red-orange granite. Unlike the grand temple of Kiri-Jolith, there were no marble columns or ornate ornamentation. The door of Majere’s temple was made of oak and had no lock upon it, as did the door to the temple of Hiddukel, who, being a patron of thieves, was constantly fearful that someone would steal from him. There were no stained glass windows, as in the beautiful temple of Mishakal. The windows of Majere’s temple had no glass at all. The temple was open to the air, open to the sun and the sound of birdsong, open to the wind and rain and cold.

When Rhys set foot upon the well-worn path that led through the temple gardens, where the priests grew their own food, to the plain wooden door, the strength that had kept him going for so long suddenly drained out of him. Tears flowed from his eyes, as love and gratitude flowed from his heart for the god who had never lost faith in him, though he had lost faith in his god.

As Rhys entered the Temple, the cool shadows washed over him, soothing and blessing him. He asked a priest if he could beg an audience with the Abbot. The priest carried his request to the Abbot, who immediately left his meditation and came to invite Rhys to his office.

“Welcome, Brother,” said the Abbot, clasping his hand. “I understand you want to speak to me. How may I help?”

Rhys stared, struck dumb with amazement. The Abbot was an older man, as Abbots tended to be, for with age comes wisdom. He was well-muscled and strong, for all priests and monks of Majere—even Abbots—are required to practice daily the martial arts skills termed “merciful discipline.” Rhys had never been in this temple or any other temple of Majere besides his own, he had never been met this man, yet Rhys knew him, recognized him from somewhere. Rhys glanced down at the Abbot’s hand, which was holding his own, and noticed a white, jagged scar marring the brown, weathered skin.

Rhys had a sudden vivid memory of a city street, of priests of Majere accosting him, of Atta attacking them with slashing teeth and a priest drawing back a bleeding hand…

The Abbot stood quietly, patiently, waiting for Rhys to speak.

“Forgive me, Holiness!” Rhys said, guilt-stricken.

“I do forgive you, of course, Brother,” said the Abbot, then he added with a smile, “but it would be good to know what for.”

“I attacked you,” said Rhys, wondering how the Abbot could have forgotten. “It was in the city of New Port. I had become a follower of the Goddess Zeboim. You and the six brothers who were with you sought to reason with me, to bring me back to the Temple and my worship of Majere. I… could not. A young woman was in terrible danger and I had pledged to safeguard her and…”

Rhys’ voice faltered.

The Abbot was gently shaking his head. “Brother, I have traveled over much of Ansalon, but I have never been in New Port.”

“But you were, Holiness,” Rhys insisted, and he pointed. “That scar on your hand. My dog bit you.”

The Abbot looked down at his hand. He seemed mystified for a moment, then his expression cleared. He gazed at Rhys intently. “You are Rhys Mason.”

“Yes, Holiness,” said Rhys, relieved. “You do remember…”

“Quite the contrary,” said the Abbot mildly, “I have long wondered how I came by this scar. I woke one morning to find it on my hand. I was puzzled, for I had no memory of having injured myself.”

“But you know me, Holiness,” said Rhys, bewildered. “You know my name.”

“I do, Brother,” said the Abbot, and he extended his scarred hand to clasp Rhys by the shoulder. “And this time, Brother Rhys, if I urge you to pray to Majere and seek his counsel and forgiveness, you won’t set your dog on me, will you?”

In answer, Rhys sank to his knees and opened his heart to his god.

4

The riot in Temple Row that morning had been staged. The fight had been carefully planned by the clerics of Chemosh on orders from the Bone Acolyte, Ausric Krell, in order to test the reaction of the sheriff and the town guard. How many men would be sent in, how would they be armed, where would they be deployed? Krell learned a great deal, and he now made ready to put his knowledge to good use in the service of his master.

Chemosh had been considerably disconcerted to discover that Mina had transformed her aspect into that of a little girl. True, Krell had told him that she was now a child, but then, Krell was an idiot. Chemosh still believed Mina was acting a part, behaving like some spurned bar wench lashing out at a faithless lover. If he could just take her away some place private, some place where she wasn’t being hounded by monks or other gods, he was certain he could convince her to come back to him. He would admit to her that he’d been wrong—isn’t that what mortal men did? There would be flowers and candlelight, jewelry and soft music, and she would melt in his arms. Mina would be his consort, and he would be the head of the Dark Pantheon.

As for this nonsense about her wanting to go to Godshome, Chemosh didn’t believe a word of it. That was some ploy of Majere’s. The blasted monk must have put the idea into her head. The monk must therefore be removed.

Chemosh was under no illusions. Gilean would take strong exception to the Lord of Death abducting Mina. The God of the Book had threatened retaliation on any god who interfered with her, but Chemosh was not overly concerned. Gilean could lecture and threaten all he wanted; he would not be able to punish Chemosh. Gilean lacked the support of the other gods, most of whom were busy with their own plans and schemes to lure Mina to their side.

The most dangerous of these gods was Sargonnas. He had some nefarious plot in the works—of that Chemosh was certain. His spies had reported that an elite troop of minotaur soldiers had been dispatched to an unknown location on some sort of secret mission. Chemosh might have thought nothing of this; the God of Vengeance was always scheming and plotting. But this troop was under the command of a minotaur named Galdar—former compatriot and close friend of Mina. Coincidence? Chemosh did not think so. He had to act and he had to act fast.

Chemosh had ordered Krell and his Bone Warriors to accost the monk while they were on the road. Chemosh was not so consumed by his desire for Mina that he had forgotten the holy artifacts the monk carried. He had ordered Krell to search the monk’s body and bring anything he found to him. Krell had set up an ambush on the road, but before he could attack the party, Mina had thwarted Chemosh’s plans by racing to Solace with the speed of a comet.

If she could perform such a miracle, so could Chemosh. Ausric Krell and three Bone Warriors arrived in Solace only moments behind Mina. Chemosh’s orders regarding the monk and Mina were the same: kill the one and kidnap the other. While Rhys and Nightshade and Mina slept, Krell spent the night in Chemosh’s temple in consultation with the priests, forming a plan of attack. The riot that morning was Phase One.

The Temple of Chemosh in Solace was the first temple honoring the Lord of Death to be built in the open. Before now, the priests of Chemosh had kept their dark doings hidden away from public view and most still did, preferring to perform the mysteries of their death rites and rituals in dark and secret places. Now that the leadership of the Dark Pantheon was within his reach, Chemosh realized that a god who wanted to be a leader of gods could not have his followers skulking about raiding tombs and cavorting with skeletons. Mortals feared the Lord of Death. What Chemosh wanted now was their respect, maybe even a little affection.

Sargonnas had achieved this. The minotaur God of Vengeance had been demeaned and reviled down through the ages. His consort, Takhisis, had sneered at him. She had used him and his minotaur warriors to fight her battles, then discarded them when she no longer had need of them. When Takhisis had stolen the world, she had left Sargonnas in the lurch, just like the rest of the gods.

All that had changed. With Takhisis gone, Sargonnas had gained power for himself and his people. His minotaurs had raided the ancient elven homeland of Silvanesti, driven out the elves, and taken over that lush land. The minotaur empire was now a force to reckoned with. Minotaur ships ruled the oceans. The Solamnic Knights were said to be negotiating treaties with the minotaur emperor. Sargonnas had built a grand (if ostentatious) temple to himself in Solace, constructing the temple of stone shipped at great expense from the minotaur isles. His minotaur priests walked the streets of Solace and every other major city in Ansalon. Vengeance had become fashionable in certain circles. Chemosh watched the horned god’s rise in jealous envy.

Thus far, the balance had not yet been disturbed. Kiri-Jolith, the god of Just War, proved an excellent counterpoint to Sargonnas. Minotaur warriors who valued honor prayed to Kiri-Jolith as well as to Sargonnas and saw no conflict in this. The priests of Mishakal, working with the mystics of the Citadel of Light, were spreading the belief that love and compassion, the values of the heart, could help ease the world’s problems. The Aesthetics of Gilean were advocating and promoting education, claiming that ignorance and superstition were the tools of darkness.

Not to be outdone by his fellow gods, Chemosh ordered a temple built in Solace, constructing it of black marble. The temple was small, especially compared to that of Sargonnas, but it was far more elegant. True, not many people dared venture inside and those who did departed rapidly. The temple’s interior was shadowy and dark and smelled heavily of incense that could not quite mask the foul odor of decay. His priests were a strange lot, more comfortable around the dead than the living. Still, Chemosh’s temple in Solace was a start and as all men must eventually come to stand before the Lord of Death, many deemed it wise to pay him at least a courtesy call and leave a small offering.

Because of this new image, Chemosh could not allow Krell and his Bone Warriors to be seen rattling through the streets of Solace abducting small children. Another riot, larger than the first, would serve as a diversion and cover Krell’s attack. Krell had to move fast, for neither he nor Chemosh knew when Mina might take it into her head to depart. One of their spies reported that Mina was staying at the Inn along with the monk. The spy overheard Rhys and Nightshade talking and confirmed that Rhys was planning a visit to the Temple of Majere, and that the kender and the little girl were to join him there.

Krell had been thinking he might have to stage an attack on the Inn (in which case another riot in Temple Row would draw off Gerard and his forces), and he was pleased when he heard this news. He could snatch Mina and kill Rhys Mason at the same time. Krell had no fear of Majere’s peace-loving priests, who went out of their way to avoid a fight, even to the point of refusing to carry weapons.

Krell was pleased with his new Bone Warriors. He had not yet seen them in action, but they looked to be formidable foes. All three of them were dead, which gave them a distinct advantage over the living. They had been hand-picked by Chemosh, who chose them from the souls who came before him, and all were trained fighters. One was an elven warrior who had died in battle against the minotaurs and whose bitter hatred of minotaurs kept his soul bound to this world. One was a human assassin from Sanction whose soul was drenched in blood, and the third was a hobgoblin chieftain who had been slain by his own tribe and who now thirsted for revenge.

Chemosh animated the bodies of the three, preserving the flesh and bone, then turning them inside out, so that their skeletons, like a ghastly semblance of armor, protected the rotting flesh. Sharp bony spikes and protrusions extending from the skeletons could be used as weapons.

Having learned his lesson with the Beloved, Chemosh made certain that the Bone Warriors were bound to him and would obey his commands, or the commands of Krell, or anyone chosen to lead them. Chemosh wanted his Bone Warriors to be intimidating, but he didn’t want them to be indestructible. They could be slain, though it would take powerful magicks or blessed weapons to do it.

The Bone Warriors had one flaw Chemosh had not been able to overcome. They had such hatred for the living that if their leader lost his hold on them, the Bone Warriors would rage out of control, venting their fury on any living being that fell into their clutches, be that person friend or foe. Chemosh’s clerics might find themselves battling their god’s unholy creation. A small price to pay, however.

“The monk, Rhys Mason, has entered the Temple of Majere,” Krell reported to his group.

He and his Bone Warriors were safely ensconced in a secret underground chamber located beneath the Temple. Here Chemosh’s clerics performed the less savory rites, those meant to be witnessed by only his most loyal and dedicated followers. The chamber was dark except for the light of a single blood red candle placed on the altar. No stolen corpses were here at the moment, though a discarded winding cloth and a burial shroud had been stashed in a corner.

The priestess of Chemosh was on hand, much to Krell’s annoyance. He was convinced that Chemosh had placed her here to spy on him, and in this Krell was right. Chemosh trusted no one these days. Krell had tried a few times to get rid of the woman, but she persisted in staying and, not only that, she felt free to voice her opinion.

“We have now only to wait for Mina to arrive,” Krell continued. “When I give the order, we attack the temple of Sargonnas, though we will make it appear as though his priests have attacked us.”

Krell pointed to the three Bone Warriors. “Your task will be to keep the sheriff’s men busy, and any others who seek to intervene, such as the foul paladins of Kiri-Jolith. I will snatch Mina and kill the monk.”

The Bone Warriors shrugged their bone-armored shoulders. They had no care who or what they fought. All they sought was a chance to take out their undying rage on the living.

Having said all that was necessary, Krell was about to rise when the priestess spoke.

“You are making a mistake allowing Mina to enter the Temple of Majere. You should capture her before she sets foot on the grounds. Otherwise, Majere’s priests will defend her.”

Krell bristled. “And since when should I fear a bunch of monks? What are they going to do to me? Kick me with their bare feet? Maybe hit me with a stick?” He chortled and thumped the heavy bone armor that covered his body.

“Do not underestimate Majere, Krell,” the priestess cautioned. “His priests are more powerful than you think.”

Krell snorted.

“At least take me with you,” the priestess urged. “I can deal with the monk while you kidnap the child—”

“I go alone!” Krell stated angrily. “Those are my orders. Besides, my fight with the monk is personal.”

Rhys Mason had given Krell no end of trouble, starting from the day Zeboim had dropped the monk down on Storm’s Keep. The monk had made Krell look bad in the eyes of his master, and Krell had long dreamed of the time he would have him at his mercy. Still, Krell would have been just as happy to slay Rhys in the middle of a crowded marketplace as in a temple, but there was another consideration.

Chemosh had given Krell specific instructions to search the monk’s body and bring to him any objects the monk might be carrying. Krell had asked point blank what Chemosh was looking for. The god had been evasive. Krell guessed the monk was carrying something valuable.

Krell tried to imagine what such an object might be—treasure valuable to a god—and at last he decided it must jewels. Chemosh probably wanted to give them to Mina.

“And why should she have them and not me?” Krell asked himself. “I do all my master’s dirty work, and small thanks I get for it. Nothing but insults. He won’t even make me a death knight again. If I have to be a living man, I’ll be a rich living man. I’ll keep the jewels for myself.”

This being Krell’s decision, he couldn’t allow anyone—such as this high and mighty priestess—to witness the monk’s death. A nice, quiet place like a temple was the perfect location for the murder. Krell had already planned what he would do with his money. He would return to Storm’s Keep. Although Krell had never thought he would say this, he had come to miss the place where he had spent so many happy undead years. He would restore Storm’s Keep to its former glory, hire some thugs to guard it, and spend his days terrorizing the northern coast of Ansalon.

“Krell? Are you listening to me?” the priestess demanded.

“No,” said Krell sullenly.

“What I was saying is important. If this Mina is a god as Chemosh claims, how do you plan to carry her off? It seems to me,” the priestess added acerbically, “that she would be more likely to carry you off—or perhaps merely suspend you from the ceiling.”

The priestess was in her forties, tall for a woman and excessively thin. She had a gaunt face, protuberant eyes, and almost no lips, and she was not the least impressed with Ausric Krell.

“If His Lordship wanted you to know his plans, he would have told you, Madame,” Krell answered with a sneer.

“His Lordship did tell me,” replied the priestess coolly. “His Lordship told me to ask you. Perhaps I should remind you that you are counting upon my priests and followers risking their lives to assist you in this endeavor. I need to be apprised of what you have planned.”

If Krell had been a death knight, he would have snapped her scrawny dried-up neck like a scrawny dried-up twig. He wasn’t a death knight anymore, however, and she had been one of Chemosh’s first converts. Her unholy powers were formidable.

“If you must know, I am to use these on Mina,” Krell stated, and he revealed two small balls made of iron crisscrossed by golden bands. “These are magic. I’m to throw one of these at her. When the ball hits her, the gold bands will detach and bind her arms to her side’s. She’ll be helpless. I’ll pick her up and carry her off.”

The priestess laughed—screeching laughter that was like skeletal fingers clawing slate.

“This girl is a god, Krell!” said the priestess, when she could speak. Her lipless mouth twitched. “Magic will have no effect on her. You might as well bind her arms with daisy chains!”

“A fat lot you know about it,” Krell returned angrily. “This Mina doesn’t know she’s a god. According to Nuitari, if Mina sees someone casting a magic spell on her, she falls victim to it.”

“You’re saying she is subject to the power of suggestion?” the priestess asked skeptically.

Krell wasn’t certain he was saying that or not, since he had no clue what she meant.

“All I know is that my lord Chemosh said this would work,” Krell replied in sullen tones. “If you want, you can take it up with him.”

The priestess glared at Krell, then she rose haughtily and stalked out of the chamber. Shortly after that, the spy sent a message to the temple to report that Mina, accompanied by a kender and a dog, was in Temple Row.

“Time to move into position,” said Krell.

5

Rhys recounted his story to the Abbot from the beginning, starting when his poor brother had come to the monastery, and continuing to the end, telling how Mina had brought them from Flotsam to Solace in a day. Rhys kept his gaze on the sunlight flickering in the distant vallenwood tree and told his tale simply, without embellishment. He freely confessed his own faults, passed lightly over his trials, and emphasized Nightshade’s friendship, help, and loyalty. He told all he knew about Mina.

The Abbot listened to the monk’s story without interruption, remaining relaxed and composed. Every so often he touched his fingers to the scar on the back of his hand and sometimes, especially when Rhys spoke of Nightshade, the Abbot smiled.

At length Rhys came, with a sigh, to the end. He bowed his head. He felt limp and wrung out, as though he had been drained.

At length, the Abbot stirred and spoke, “Yours is a wondrous tale, Brother Rhys Mason. I must confess I would find it hard to believe, if I had not been a part of it.” He passed his hand again over the scar. “Praise Majere for his wisdom.”

“Praise Majere,” Rhys repeated softly.

“And so, Brother,” said the Abbot, “you have made a promise to take this god-child to Godshome.”

“Yes, Holiness, and I am at a loss. I do not know how to find Gods-home. I do not even know where to begin to look, except that according to legend it is located somewhere in the Khalkist mountains.”

“Have you considered the possibility that perhaps Godshome does not exist at all?” the Abbot suggested. “Some think Godshome is symbolic of the end of the spiritual journey each mortal takes when he first opens his eyes to the light of the world.”

“Do you believe that, Holiness?” Rhys asked, troubled. “If that is true, what am I to do? The gods are vying for Mina, each wanting to claim her for his or her own. I have been accosted by Chemosh and Zeboim. The sheriff told me about the riot this morning in Temple Row. The strife in Heaven falls like poisonous rain onto the earth. We could become embroiled in another War of Souls.”

“Is that the reason you risk your life and travel far to take her to a place that may not even exist, Brother?”

The Abbot did not give Rhys time to answer, but followed up that question with another. “Why do you think the god-child came to you?”

The question startled Rhys. He was silent for a moment, reflecting on it. At last he said, “Perhaps because I also know what it feels like to be lost and alone and wandering in the darkness of an endless night. Although,” Rhys added ruefully, “it seems all that Mina has gained by coming to me is that the two of us are lost and wandering together.”

The Abbot smiled. “That may not seem like much, but it could be everything. And in answer to your question, Brother, I do believe Godshome is a real place, a place mortal beings can visit. I have read the account of Tanis Half-elven, one of the Heroes of the Lance. He and his companions visited Godshome, though as I recall, he states that he does not remember how they found the place, nor does he think he could ever find it again. He and his friends were led there by a wizard named Fizban who was, in truth, Paladine—”

The Abbot’s voice trailed off as a sudden thought occurred to him.

“Paladine…” he murmured.

“You are thinking of Valthonis,” said Rhys, hope rising in him. “Do you believe he might know the way, Holiness?”

“When Paladine sacrificed himself to maintain the balance, he took on the heavy burden of mortality,” the Abbot replied. “He no longer has godly powers. His mind is that of a mortal, yet he is a mortal who was once a god and that makes him wiser than most of us. If there is anyone on Krynn who might be able to guide you and Mina to Gods-home, yes, it would be the Walking God.”

“Valthonis is known as the Walking God because he is never stays in one place for long. Who knows where he is to be found?”

“As a matter of fact,” said the Abbot, “I do. Several of our priests have chosen to travel with Valthonis, as do many others. When our brothers chance to meet any of our Order, they send reports back to me. I heard from one only last week, saying Valthonis and his followers were on their way to Neraka.”

Rhys stood up, energized, renewed. “Thank you, Holiness. I am not sure I should be encouraging Mina to use her miraculous powers, but in this instance I believe I could make an exception. We could be in Neraka by nightfall—”

“You are still a very impetuous man, Brother Rhys,” the Abbot remarked with gentle reproof. “Have you forgotten your history lesson of the War of Souls, Brother?”

This was the second time Rhys had been asked about history lessons. He couldn’t think what the Abbot meant.

“I am afraid I do not understand, Holiness…”

“At the end of the War, when the gods had recovered the world and discovered Takhisis’ great crime, they judged that she should be made mortal. To maintain the balance, in order that the Gods of Light would equal the number of Gods of Darkness, Paladine sacrificed himself, became mortal as well. As he looked on, the elf Silvanoshei killed Takhisis. She died in Mina’s arms, and Mina blamed Paladine for the downfall of her Queen. Holding the body of her queen, Mina vowed to kill Valthonis.”

Rhys sank back down into the chair, his hopes dashed. “You are right, Holiness. I had forgotten.”

“The Walking God has elven warriors to protect him,” the Abbot suggested.

“Mina could kill an army with a stamp of her foot,” said Rhys. “This is bitter irony! The one person who can give Mina what she most wants in this world is the one person in this world she has sworn to kill.”

“You say that in the form of a child she does not seem to remember her past. She did not recognize the Lord of Death. Perhaps she would not recognize Valthonis.”

“Perhaps,” said Rhys. He was thinking of the tower, of the Beloved, and how Mina, forced to confront them, had been forced to confront herself. “The question is: do we risk the life of Valthonis on the chance that she might not remember him?

“From all I have heard, Valthonis is honored and loved wherever he goes. He has done much good in the world. He has negotiated peace between nations who were at war. He has given hope to those in despair. Though his countenance is no longer the radiant brilliance of the god’s, he yet brings light to mankind’s darkness. Do we risk destroying a person of such value?”

“Mina is the child of the Gods of Light,” said the Abbot, “born in joy at the moment of creation. Now she is lost and frightened. Would not any parent be glad to find his lost child and bring her home, even though her recovery came at the cost of his own life? There is a risk, Brother, but I believe it is one that Valthonis would be willing to take.”

Rhys shook his head. He was not certain. There was a chance he could find Godshome on his own. Others had done so. True, Tanis Half-elven had been traveling in the company of a god, but, then, so was Rhys.

He was trying to think how he could explain his doubts when he saw the Abbot’s gaze shift to the door, where one of the priests of Majere stood silently in the entrance, waiting patiently to catch the Abbot’s attention.

“Holiness,” said the priest, bowing, “forgive me for disturbing you, but two guests are here asking for Brother Rhys. One is a kender, and he seems most eager to speak to our brother.”

“Our business is finished, isn’t it, Brother?” said the Abbot, rising. “Or is there anything more I can do for you?”

“You have given me all that I required and far more, Holiness,” said Rhys earnestly. “I ask now only your blessing for the difficult road that lies ahead.”

“With all my heart, Brother,” said the Abbot. “You have Majere’s blessing and my own. Will you seek out Valthonis?” he asked, as Rhys was about to depart.

“I do not know, Holiness,” said Rhys. “I have two lives to consider—that of Valthonis and that of Mina. I fear the consequences of such a meeting would be terrible for both.”

“The choice is yours, Brother,” said the Abbot gravely, “but I remind you of the old saying, ‘If fear is your guide, you will never leave your house.’”

6

Nightshade and Mina and Atta were welcomed into the Temple of Majere by one of the priests, who greeted them with grave courtesy. Every visitor to Majere’s temple was met with courtesy, no one was ever turned away. All the priests asked was that the guests speak in quiet tones, so as not to disturb the meditations of the faithful. The priests themselves spoke in soft, hushed voices. Any visitors who were loud or disruptive were asked politely to leave. There were rarely any problems, for such was the wondrous serenity of the temple that all who entered felt a sense of tranquility.

Even kender were welcome, which pleased Nightshade.

“Kender are welcome in so few places,” he told the priest.

“Do you require anything?” the priest asked.

“Just our friend, Rhys,” Nightshade answered. “We’re supposed to meet him here.” He cast a sidelong glance at Mina and said in meaningful tones, “If you could ask him to hurry, I’d appreciate it.”

“Brother Rhys is meeting with the his Holiness,” said the priest. “I will tell him you are here. In the meantime, can I offer you food or drink?”

“No, thank you, Brother, I just had breakfast. Well, maybe I could eat a little something,” Nightshade replied.

Mina mutely shook her head. She seemed suddenly shy, for she stood with her head ducked, stealing glimpses of her surroundings from beneath lowered eyelids. She was clean, brushed, and neatly dressed in a pretty gown with mother-of-pearl buttons up the back and long, tight-fitting sleeves. She looked the very image of the demure merchant’s daughter, though she did not act the part. Her antics at the Inn and then on the way to the temple had nearly driven poor Nightshade to distraction.

Mina had grown bored making bread and Laura had sent her out to play. Once out of the Inn, she dodged around the guards and dashed up the stairs to the tree level, forcing Nightshade and a couple of guards to chase her down. When they were back on the ground and on their way again, Mina started stepping on the kender’s heels trying to trip him, and stuck out her tongue at him when he scolded her.

Soon growing tried of teasing Nightshade, she had teased Atta, pulling on her tail and tugging at her ears, until the dog had lost her patience and snapped at her. The dog’s teeth did not so much as break the skin, but Mina had shrieked as though she were being mauled by wolves, causing everyone in the street to stop and stare. She swiped an apple from a cart, then blamed it on Nightshade, bringing retribution from an old lady who was surprisingly spry for her age and had amazingly sharp knuckles. Nightshade was still rubbing his aching head from that encounter. By the time they reached the temple, he was worn out and could hardly wait to hand Mina over to Rhys.

The monk took them to a part of the temple known as a loggia—a kind of indoor outdoor garden, as Nightshade termed it. The loggia was long and narrow in shape, lined with stone columns allowing fresh air and sunlight to flow into the room. In the center of the loggia was a fountain made of polished stone, from which trickled clear water that had a most soothing sound. Stone benches were placed around the fountain.

The priest brought Nightshade fresh-baked bread and fruit and told them that Rhys would be with them shortly. Nightshade ordered Mina to sit down and behave herself and, to his surprise, she did. She perched on a bench and looked all around—at the water sliding over the stones, at the gently swinging chimes outside, at the sun-dappled floor, and a crane walking with stately tread amid the wildflowers. She started to kick the bench with her feet, but stopped of her own accord before Nightshade could reprimand her.

Nightshade relaxed. The only sounds he could hear were bird calls, the musical murmurings of the water, and the wind whispering around the columns, occasionally stopping to ring silver chimes hanging from tree branches outside. Finding the atmosphere of the Temple quite soothing, but also a little boring, he thought he might just as well have a small nap in order to recover from the rigors of the morning. After eating the bread and most of the fruit, he stretched himself out on a bench and, telling Atta to watch Mina, he closed his eyes and drifted off.

Atta settled down at Mina’s feet. She patted the dog on the head.

“I’m sorry I teased you,” she said remorsefully.

Atta responded with a swipe of her tongue, to show that all was forgiven, then lay with her head on her paws to watch the crane and perhaps think wistfully of how much fun it would be to rush at the long-legged bird, barking madly.

Rhys found a peaceful scene when he entered the loggia: Nightshade asleep; Atta lying on the floor, blinking drowsily; Mina seated quietly on the bench.

Rhys placed his emmide alongside the bench and sat down beside Mina. She did not look at him, but watched the sunlight glistening on the water.

“Did your Abbot tell you how to find Godshome?” she asked.

“He did not know,” said Rhys, “but he knew of one who might.”

He thought she would ask the name of the person, and he was of two minds whether he should tell her or not. She did not ask him, however, and for that he was grateful, for he had not yet decided to seek out the Walking God.

Mina continued to sit quietly. Nightshade sighed in his sleep and flung his arm over his head and nearly rolled off his bench. Rhys carefully repositioned him. Atta stretched out on her side and closed her eyes.

Rhys allowed the soothing quiet to seep into his soul. He gave his burdens, his cares, his worries and his fears to the god. He was with Majere, seeking to attain the unattainable—the god’s perfection—when a scream shattered the peacefulness of the morning. Atta leapt to her feet with a bark. Nightshade rolled over and tumbled off the bench.

The scream was followed by shouts, all coming from Temple Row. Voices cried out in anger or fear or astonishment. Rhys heard someone yell, “Fire!” and he smelled smoke. Then came the sound of many voices chanting—a cold and unearthly sound—and more screams and wails of fear and dread, clashing steel, and the angry bellowings of minotaurs calling upon Sargonnas, and human voices shouting battle cries to Kiri-Jolith.

The smell of smoke grew stronger, and now he could see ugly black billows rolling through the temple gardens in the back, starting to drift between the columns. Atta sniffed the air and sneezed. Shouts of alarm were growing louder, coming closer.

The priests of Majere, roused from their meditations, came from various parts of the temple or the gardens where they had been working. Even in this emergency, the priests maintained their calm demeanor, moving at a walk with no sense of haste or panic. Several smiled and nodded to Rhys, and their calm was reassuring. The priests gathered around the Abbot, who had emerged from his office. He sent two out to see what was going on, kept the rest with him.

Whatever was happening in the street outside the temple, the safest place to be was in Majere’s hands.

Rhys could hear more screams now and a deep voice overriding them, shouting commands.

“That’s Gerard,” said Nightshade. Rubbing his elbow, he peered out between the columns. “Can you see? What’s going on?”

A line of trees and a tall hedgerow growing in front of the temple blocked Rhys’ view of the street, but he could see bright orange flames through the screen of leaves. Nightshade climbed on his bench.

“A building’s on fire,” he reported. “I can’t tell which one. I hope it’s not the Inn,” he added worriedly. “It’s chicken and biscuit night.”

“The fire is too close to be the Inn,” said Rhys. “It must be one of the temples.”

Mina crowded close to Rhys, keeping hold of his hand. The sound of raised voices and clashing steel was growing louder. The smoke was thicker and caught at the throat. The two priests returned to make their report. Their expressions were grave, and they spoke rapidly. The Abbot listened for a moment, then issued orders. The priests dispersed to their cells. When they returned, they carried staves and chanted prayers to Majere. Moving together, they walked at a slow and measured pace out of the temple, heading toward what now sounded like a pitched battle taking place in the street.

The Abbot came to speak to Rhys. “You and your friends should remain here within our walls, Brother. As I am sure you can hear, there is trouble in Temple Row. It is not safe to venture out.”

An unusually loud cry caused Mina to flinch. Her face went pale, and she gave a little whimper. The Abbot looked at her and his grave expression deepened.

“What’s happening, Your Monkship, sir?” Nightshade asked. “Are we at war? The Inn’s not on fire, is it? It’s chicken and biscuit night.”

“The Temple of Sargonnas is burning,” replied the Abbot. “The priests of Chemosh set it ablaze and now they are attacking the temples of Mishakal and Kiri-Jolith. Rumors have it that the priests have summoned fiends from the grave to fight for them.”

“Fiends from the grave!” Nightshade repeated excitedly. He jumped down from the bench. “You’ll have to excuse me. I almost never get the chance to talk to fiends from the grave. You have no idea how interesting they can be.”

“Nightshade, no—” Rhys began.

“I won’t be gone long. I just want to have a quick word with these fiends. You never know, I might be able to talk them into redemption. I’ll be right back, I promise—”

“Atta! Guard!” Rhys ordered, and pointed at the kender.

The dog took a stance in front of Nightshade and fixed him with her intense stare. When he moved, she moved. She never took her eyes from him.

“Rhys! It’s fiends!” Nightshade wailed. “Fiends from the grave! You wouldn’t want me to miss that, would you?”

The smoke was thicker and they could hear the crackle of flames. Mina began to cough.

“I think perhaps you should take your charges to my chambers, Brother,” said the Abbot. “The air is clearer there.”

A priest came up to the Abbot and spoke to him in urgent tones. The Abbot gave Rhys a reassuring smile, then left with the priest. Mina continued to cough. Rhys’ eyes were beginning to sting. Cinders and ash and soot rained down onto the garden outside the loggia, touching off small grass fires.

Rhys picked up his emmide. “Come with me, both of you—”

“Rhys, I honestly think I could help against the fiends,” Nightshade argued. “Depending on what sort of fiend it is, of course. There’s your Abyssal fiend and your—”

“Mina!” called a harsh voice.

She turned toward the sound of her name to see a fearsome figure clad in bone armor emerge from the coils of smoke.

“I’ve come for you,” Krell intoned. “Chemosh sent me.”

Rhys understood immediately what was going on. The battle in the street, the fire started by priests of Chemosh—all a diversion. Mina was the prize. Rhys lifted his emmide and placed himself between Krell and Mina.

“Nightshade, take Mina and run!”

The kender leaped off the bench and grabbed hold of Mina’s hand. The shouts and screams, the smoke and the fire confused and frightened her. She clung to Rhys.

Clinging to his robes, she shouted at Krell, “I won’t go!”

“Mina, we have to run,” Nightshade urged, trying to pry her loose.

She shook her head and only held more tightly to Rhys.

Krell displayed an iron ball decorated with golden bands.

“See this, Mina? This little toy is magic. When the ball strikes you, the magic will bind you tight. You won’t be able to move, and you’ll have to come with me. I’ll show you how it works. Watch this.”

Krell flung the iron ball. Nightshade made a desperate attempt to deflect it by jumping in front of Mina. The sphere had not been aimed at Mina, however.

The ball struck Rhys on the chest.

“Bind!” Krell shouted.

Golden bands uncoiled, springing out from the sphere, and encircling Rhys, clamping over his arms and legs. He struggled against the binding bands, trying to free himself, but the more he struggled, the tighter the bands clamped down on him.

Krell, smirking beneath his skull-face helm, strode toward Mina. Atta barked at him savagely and made a lunge for him. Krell grabbed hold of one of the sharp bony protuberances from his shoulder, broke it off, and made a swipe at the dog with the sharp bone. Nightshade grabbed hold of her by the scruff of her neck and dragged the snarling dog underneath a bench.

The golden bands constricted, digging painfully into Rhys’ arms, pinning his arms against his body and cutting off the circulation to his legs. Mina tried pulling and tugging on the bands with all her might, but her might was that of a child, not a god. Atta quivered in fury and continued to lunge at Krell.

Krell leered at Nightshade and jabbed at him with the spear. Laughing to see the kender cringe and the dog try to bite him, Krell stood over Mina, who was still tugging on Rhys’ bands. Krell watched her with amusement.

“Never a god around when you need one, eh, Monk?” Krell jeered. He reached out with his index finger and, roaring with laughter, poked Rhys in the chest.

Rhys tottered. With his legs and arms bound, he could not keep his balance. Krell poked him again, harder this time, and Rhys went over backward. He had no way to break his fall and he landed hard, striking his head on the stone floor. Pain flared. Bright light burst behind his eyes.

He felt himself spiraling downward into unconsciousness and he fought against it, but when he hit bottom, darkness closed over him.

7

Nightshade lost his grip on Atta. The enraged dog charged out from beneath the bench and went for Krell’s throat. Using the bone bracer on his forearm, Krell backhanded her across the muzzle. She slumped down beside Rhys and lay there, shaking her head, dazed. At least she was still breathing. Nightshade could see her ribs move. He couldn’t say as much for Rhys.

Mina was on the floor beside him, shaking him and begging him wake up. Rhys’ eyes were closed. He lay quite still.

Krell stood over Mina. He had tossed the bone spear onto the floor, and he flourished another iron ball in his hand. “Are you ready to come with me now?”

“No,” Mina cried, raising her hand to ward him off. “Go away! Please go away!”

“I don’t want to go away,” said Krell. He was enjoying this. “I want to play catch. Catch the ball, little girl!”

He threw the iron ball at Mina. The ball struck her on the chest. Golden coils whipped out, fast as slithering snakes, and wrapped around her arms and legs. Mina lay helpless on the floor, staring up at Krell with terror-filled eyes.

“Mina, you’re a god!” Nightshade cried. “The magic won’t work on you! Get up!”

Krell whipped around to glare at the kender, who shrank down as small as he could manage, using the bench as cover.

Mina either didn’t hear him or, more likely, she didn’t believe him. She lay on the floor, sobbing.

“A god! Hah!” Krell leered at her, as she screamed in terror and tried pathetically to wriggle away from him. “You’re nothing but a sniveling brat.”

Nightshade heaved a resigned sigh. “I guess it’s up to me. I’ll bet this is the first time in the history of the world a kender had to rescue a god.”

“We’ll leave in a moment,” Krell said to Mina. “First I have a monk to kill.”

Krell broke off another bone spear and stood over Rhys. “Wake up,” he ordered, jabbing Rhys in the ribs with the spear. “It’s no fun killing someone who’s unconscious. I want you to see this coming. Wake up!” He jabbed Rhys again. Blood stained the orange robes.

Nightshade wiped away a trickle of sweat that was rolling down his neck and then, stretching forth his sweat-damp fingers in Krell’s direction, the kender began to softly sing.

“You’re growing tired. You cannot smile.

You feel as though you’ve walked a mile.

Your muscles ache.

You start to shake.

And very soon you’ll start to quake.

And as you ease down to your knees

now’s the time

I end my rhyme,

you great big sleaze.”

The “sleaze” term wasn’t really part of the mystical spell, but Nightshade added the word because it rhymed and was expressive of his feelings. His chant had been interrupted a couple of times when smoke went down his windpipe and he had to cough, and he worried this might ruin the spell. He waited a tense moment as nothing happened, and then he felt the magic. The magic came from the water and seeped through his shoes. The magic came from the smoke and he breathed it in. The magic came from the stone, and it was cold and made him shiver. The magic came from the fire, and it was warm and exciting.

When all the parts of the magic had mixed together, Nightshade cast his spell.

A ray of dark light shot from his fingers.

This was Nightshade’s favorite part—the ray of dark light. He liked it because there could be no such thing as “dark” light. But that was how the spell was named, or so his mother had told him when she taught it to him. And, in point of fact, the light wasn’t really dark. It was a purplish light with a white heart. Still Nightshade could see how one might describe it as being a “dark” light. If he hadn’t been so worried about Rhys and Atta, he would have really enjoyed himself.

The dark light struck Krell in the back, enveloping him in purplish white, and then the light evaporated.

Krell gave a spasmodic jerk and nearly dropped the spear. He shook his helmed head, as though wondering what had come over him, then glared suspiciously at Mina.

She lay where he’d left her, bound in the magical coils. She had quit crying and was staring in wide-eyed amazement at Nightshade.

“Don’t say anything!” Nightshade mouthed. “Please for once, keep your mouth shut!” He crawled back even farther under the bench.

Krell apparently decided he’d been imagining things. He hefted his spear, getting a better grip, preparing to drive it into Rhys’ chest. Nightshade knew then that his spell had failed, and he gnashed his teeth in frustration. He was about to hurl his own small body at Krell in what would probably be a fatal attempt to knock him down, when Krell suddenly swayed on his feet. He took a few staggering steps. The bone spear slipped from his hand.

“That’s it!” Nightshade cried gleefully. “You’re feeling tired. Really, really tired. And that armor is really, really heavy…”

Krell sagged to his knees. He tried to stand up again, but the bone armor weighed him down, and he toppled to the floor. Encased in the bone armor, he lay helpless on his back, feebly flapping his arms and legs like an overturned turtle.

Nightshade crawled out from his hiding place. He didn’t have much time. The spell would not last long.

“Help!” he shouted, coughing in the smoke. “Help me! I need help! Rhys is hurt! Abbot! Someone! Anyone!”

No one came. The priests and the Abbot were out in the street, fighting a battle that was, by the sounds of it, still raging and growing worse. The fire, too, appeared to be spreading, for the chamber was now obscured in smoke, and he could see flames shooting up over the tops of the trees.

Nightshade grabbed hold of the bone spear. Krell was glaring at him from out of the eye sockets of his helm and cursing him roundly. Nightshade searched for a fleshy place he could skewer with the spear, but the bone armor covered every bit of the man’s body. In desperation, Nightshade struck Krell on his helmed head. Krell blinked at the blow and snarled a nasty word and flailed about, trying to grab the kender. Krell was still under the effects of the mystic spell, however, and he was too exhausted to move. He sank back weakly.

Nightshade bashed Krell in the head again, and Krell groaned. The kender hit Krell until he quit groaning and quit moving. Nightshade would have continued hitting Krell except the spear broke. Nightshade eyed him. The kender didn’t think his foe was dead, just knocked senseless, which meant that Krell would come around eventually and when he did, he’d be in an extremely bad mood. Nightshade knelt beside Rhys.

Mina was wriggling about on the floor, trying to claim his attention, but he’d get to her in a minute.

“How did you do that?” Mina demanded. “How did you make that purple light?”

“Not now,” Nightshade snapped. “Rhys, wake up!”

Nightshade shook his friend by the shoulder, but Rhys lay unmoving. His skin was ashen. Nightshade took hold of Rhys’ scrip, intending to use it as a pillow. But when he lifted Rhys’ head, Nightshade saw a pool of blood on the floor. He drew back his hand. It was covered in blood. Nightshade knew another mystical spell with healing properties and he tried calling it to mind, but he was flustered and upset and couldn’t remember the words. The Dark Light chant kept running through his head, like an annoying song that once you’ve heard it, you keep on hearing it no matter how hard you try not to.

Hoping the words might pop unexpectedly into his head if he thought about something else, Nightshade turned to Atta, who lay on her side, her eyes closed. He rested his hand on Atta’s chest and felt her heart beating strongly. She lifted her head and rolled over. Her tail thumped the floor. He gave her a hug and then sat back on his heels and looked sorrowfully at Rhys and tried desperately to remember his healing spell.

“Nightshade—” Mina began.

“Shut up!” Nightshade told her, sounding quite savage. “Rhys is hurt really bad and I can’t remember my spell and… and it’s all your fault!”

Mina began to cry. “These bands are pinching me! You have to get them off.”

“Get them off yourself,” Nightshade returned shortly.

“I can’t!” Mina wailed.

Yes you can, you’re a god! Nightshade wanted to shout back at her, but he didn’t because he’d already tried that and it hadn’t worked. But there might be another way…

“Of course you can’t!” Nightshade said disdainfully. “You’re a human, and humans are too fat and too stupid for words. Any kender could do it. I could wriggle out of those bonds like that!” He snapped his fingers. “But since you’re a human and a girl, I guess you’re stuck.”

Mina quit crying. Nightshade had no idea what she was doing, and he didn’t care. He was too worried about Rhys. Then Nightshade thought he heard Krell move or snort, and he cast a fearful glance at him, afraid he was waking up. Krell continued to just lay there like a big bone-covered lump, but it was only a matter of time. He shook his friend on the shoulder and called out his name.

“Rhys,” he said anxiously, “can you hear me? Please, please wake up!”

Rhys moaned. His eyelids fluttered, and Nightshade felt encouraged. Rhys opened his eyes. He winced and gasped in pain, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Oh, no!” Nightshade cried, and he grabbed hold of Rhys’ robes. “Don’t go passing out on me again! Stay with me.”

Rhys gave a wan smile and his eyes remained open, though they looked odd; one pupil was bigger than the other. He seemed to have trouble focusing.

“How do you feel?” Nightshade asked.

“Not too well, I’m afraid,” Rhys answered weakly. “Where’s Mina? Is she all right?”

“I’m here, Rhys,” Mina answered in a small voice.

Nightshade jumped at the sound, which had come from over his shoulder. His ploy had worked. The golden bands were still in place, still coiled on the floor, but Mina was no longer inside them.

She stood gazing down sorrowfully at Rhys. Her face was puffy from crying, her cheeks grubby with tears and soot.

“You’re right, Nightshade,” she said. “This is my fault.”

She looked so frightened and unhappy that Nightshade felt lower than a worm’s belly.

“Mina, I didn’t mean to yell at you—” he began.

Mina wasn’t listening. She knelt down and kissed Rhys on his cheek. “You’ll feel better now,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. So sorry. But you won’t have to take care of me anymore.”

And, before Nightshade could do or say anything, she grabbed up the scrip with the blessed artifacts and ran off.

“Mina!” Nightshade cried after her. “Don’t be stupid!”

Mina kept running, and he lost sight of her in the smoke.

“Mina!” Rhys called. “Come back!”

His voice was strong. His eyes were alert and clear, and he was gaining some color back into his face.

“Rhys! You’re better!” Nightshade cried gleefully.

Rhys tried to stand up, but he was still bound by the magical golden bands and he fell back, frustrated.

“Nightshade, you have to go after Mina!”

Nightshade just stood there.

Rhys sighed. “My friend, I know—”

“She’s right, Rhys!” Nightshade stated. “The fire, the fiends from the grave, Krell hurting you—-it’s all her fault. The fighting, the dying—that’s her fault, too! And I’m not leaving you to go after her. Krell will wake up any minute and even though your head’s healed, you’re still stuck in these magical bands. And Krell said he was going to kill you!”

Rhys looked up at him. “You’re the only one I can count on, my friend. The only one I can trust. You must find Mina and bring her back here to the temple. If I’m… not around… the Abbot will know what to do.”

Nightshade’s lower lip started to tremble. “Rhys, don’t make me—”

Rhys smiled. “Nightshade, I’m not making you do anything. I’m asking you—as a friend.”

Nightshade glared at him.

“That’s not fair!” he said crossly. “All right, I’m going.” He shook his finger at Rhys. “But before I go chasing after that brat, I’m going to find someone to help you! Then I’ll look for Mina. Maybe,” he added under his breath.

He cast a quick glance at Krell, who was still unconscious, but probably wouldn’t be for much longer. Once the spell wore off, Krell would feel strong as ever and twice as mad, and three times more determined to kill Rhys.

“Atta, you stay with him,” Nightshade said, petting the dog.

“Atta, go with Nightshade,” Rhys ordered.

The dog sprang to her feet and shook herself all over. Nightshade cast Rhys one last glance, begging him to reconsider.

“Don’t worry about me, my friend,” Rhys said, reassuring. “I am in Majere’s care. Go find Mina.”

Nightshade shook his head and then ran off. He followed the direction Mina had taken, which was, of course, the very worst direction possible. She’d run out the front of the temple, heading right for the street and the battle.

Nightshade raced heedlessly through the garden, with Atta running behind, both of them trampling the flowers and vegetables that were all covered with soot anyway. He could barely see anything in the smoke, and it made him cough. He kept running, coughing and waving his hand at the smoke. Atta was snorting and sneezing.

When he reached the street, he was thankful to find the air was clearer. The wind was blowing the smoke in a different direction. Nightshade searched for Mina and, more important, someone to save Rhys.

That was going to prove difficult. Nightshade came to a dead stop and stared in dismay. Temple Row was clogged with people fighting, and things were in such confusion he couldn’t make out which side was which. Men wearing the livery of the town guard were trying to bring down a raging minotaur. Not far from them, paladins of Kiri-Jolith in their shining armor battled spell-chanting clerics wearing black robes and hoods. All around him, people lay on the ground, some of them shrieking in pain, others not moving.

The fires still burned. As Nightshade watched, the temple of Sargonnas collapsed in a heap of burning rubble and flames flared from the roof of the temple of Mishakal.

Nightshade looked for Mina, but what with the crowd and the melee and the confusion and the lamentable fact that he was about eye-level with people’s bellies, he couldn’t see her anywhere.

“If she had any sense, she wouldn’t run out there in the midst of a raging battle. But then,” he reminded himself glumly, “this is Mina we’re talking about.”

And Rhys was lying, bound and helpless, in the temple, and Krell might be awake by now.

A minotaur soldier fighting a black-robed cleric hurtled toward him, making Nightshade scramble backward to avoid being clubbed, and he fell into the gutter. Lying here, he concluded that lying on the ground was safer than standing, and he rolled behind a hedge. Atta hunkered down with him. He was angry with himself. He was supposed to be finding Mina and saving Rhys and instead he was languishing in a gutter. Gerard must be out here somewhere. Or the Abbot. There had to be a way to find help. If only he could get a better view of the street! He might climb a tree. He was starting to think about getting up out of the gutter when he felt something crawling down the back of his neck. He reached around and grabbed hold of it and there was a grasshopper.

And that gave Nightshade an idea. He looked down at the grasshopper pin on his chest.

“Mina said something about jumping. I guess it can’t hurt to try. I wonder if I’m supposed to pray? I hope not, because I’m not very good at it.”

Nightshade unpinned the little golden grasshopper and clasped his hand tightly around it. He bent his knees and jumped.

Looking around, he found himself high above the roof of the temple. He was so astonished and excited that he forgot what he was supposed to be doing, and he was heading downward before he remembered. He was afraid that the landing was going to be rough, but it wasn’t. He landed lightly as a grasshopper.

Nightshade jumped again, finding it immensely exhilarating. He went higher this time, way above the temple roof, and as he looked down on the bloody turmoil in the streets with what he imagined was a god’s-eye view, he thought, “Wow, don’t we look stupid.” He waved at Atta, who was running back and forth below him, barking frantically at him, as he looked for Mina or Gerard or the Abbot.

He didn’t see them, but he did see a person wearing red robes standing calmly beneath a tree, watching the battle with interest.

Nightshade couldn’t see the person clearly, due to the smoke, but he hoped it might be one of the priests. Once back on the ground, Nightshade gave the grasshopper a “thank-you” pat and thrust it into a pocket. Then he dashed toward the person in red, shouting “help” as he ran, and waving his arms.

The person saw him coming and immediately raised both hands. Blue lightning crackled from the fingers, and Nightshade skidded to a halt. This was not a priest of Majere. This was a Red Robe wizard.

“Don’t come any closer, kender,” the wizard warned in dire tones.

The wizard’s voice was a woman’s, deep and melodious. Nightshade couldn’t see her face, which was shadowed by her cowl, but he recognized the sparkling rings on her fingers and the sumptuous red velvet of her robes.

“Mistress Jenna!” he cried, limp with relief. “I’m so glad it’s you!”

“You’re Nightshade, aren’t you?” she asked, astonished. “The kender Nightstalker. And Lady Atta.” She greeted the dog, who growled and wouldn’t come near her.

The lightning shooting from her fingers had ceased to crackle, and she held out her hand to him to shake. But Nightshade regarded her doubtfully and put his hands behind his back, just in case any flesh-sizzling magic was left over.

“Mistress Jenna, I need your help—” he began, when she interrupted him.

“What in the name of Lunitari is going on here?” she demanded. “Have the people of Solace gone stark, raving mad? I was looking for Gerard, and I was told I might find him here. I heard there was trouble, but I had no idea I was walking onto a battlefield…”

She shook her head. “This is quite remarkable! Who is fighting whom over what? Can you tell me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Nightshade. “No, ma’am. That is, I could, but I can’t. I don’t have time. You have to go save Rhys, Mistress! He’s in the temple and he’s tied up with magical gold bands and there’s a death knight who has sworn to kill him. I would help him myself, but Rhys told me I had to find Mina. She’s a god, you know, and we can’t have her running about loose. Thanks so much! Sorry I can’t talk. I have to run now. Bye!”

“Wait!” Jenna cried, grabbing Nightshade by the collar as he was preparing to dash off. “What did you say? Rhys and magical bonds and a what?”

Nightshade had used up all his breath relating his tale once. He didn’t have breath enough to do it again and, just at that moment, he caught a glimpse of what looked like Mina’s dress disappearing in a swirl of smoke.

“Rhys… temple… alone… death knight!” he gasped. “Go save him, Mistress! Run!”

“At my age, I don’t run anywhere,” Jenna said severely.

“Then walk fast. Please, just hurry!” Nightshade cried, and with a twist and a wriggle, he broke free of Jenna’s grip, and went haring off down the street, with Atta racing behind.

“Did you say a death knight?” Jenna called after him.

“Former death knight!” Nightshade yelled over his shoulder, and, pleased with himself, he kept on going, now free to search for Mina.

“Former death knight. Well, that’s a relief,” Jenna muttered.

Thoroughly perplexed, she stood wondering what to make of all this. She might have dismissed Nightshade’s story as a kender tale (a god running around loose?), but she knew him, and Nightshade was not your run-of-the-mill kender. She’d met Nightshade the last time she’d been in Solace—that disastrous time when she and Gerard and Rhys and a paladin of Kiri-Jolith had tried and failed to capture one of the Beloved.

Jenna had come to respect and admire the soft-spoken, gentle monk, Rhys Mason, and she was aware that Rhys himself thought highly of the kender, which was a mark in Nightshade’s favor. And she had to admit that Nightshade had accorded himself well during that last crisis, acting sensibly and rationally, which couldn’t be said for most kender, no matter what the circumstances.

Jenna concluded, therefore, that Rhys might well be in danger as Nightshade claimed (though she did admit to having her doubts as to the existence of a death knight, former or otherwise). Conceding the need for haste, she drew her cowl over her head, spoke a word of magic, and whisked herself calmly and with dignity through time and space.

As Jenna had told the kender, at her age, she didn’t run anywhere.

8

Bound by the magical golden bands, Rhys lay helpless on the Temple floor, unable to do anything except watch the smoke from the fire drift past the columns. The pain in his head was gone, his injury healed by Mina’s kiss. He thought of the strange and terrible irony—the kiss that had slain his brother had healed him.

Nearby, Krell was groaning, starting to regain consciousness.

The temptation to struggle against his magical bonds was strong, but the struggle would have been futile and wasted his energy. He prayed to Majere, asking the god’s blessing, asking the god to grant him courage and wisdom to fight his foe and the strength to accept death when it came, for Rhys was well aware that although he was determined to fight, he could not win.

His prayer concluded, Rhys maneuvered his prone body into position and then there was nothing more to do except wait.

Krell grunted and raised his aching head. He tried to stand up, slumped over, and groaned in pain. Muttering that his helm was too tight, he wrestled with it and managed after some difficulty to remove it. Flinging it to the floor, he groaned again and put his hand to his forehead. He had a large knot over his left eye, and his left cheek was swollen. The skin was not broken, but he must be suffering from a pounding headache. Krell gingerly touched the bruised areas and swore viciously.

Krell picked up his helm and thrust it on his head, then rose ponderously to his feet. He saw Rhys, still lying bound on the floor, and the empty golden bonds that had once held Mina.

Krell broke off another bone spike from his shoulder and stomped back to confront Rhys.

“Where is she?” Krell raged. “Tell me, damn you!”

He tried to stab the monk, but Rhys flipped his body over and, rolling across the floor, slammed into Krell, driving his shoulder into the man’s bone-covered shins. Krell toppled headlong over Rhys and landed on the stone floor with a thud that shook the columns.

Krell gargled a moment, then clamored onto his hands and knees and, from there, with the help of the stone bench, pushed himself to a standing position. He picked up the bone spear and slowly hobbled about to face Rhys, who lay on the floor, breathing hard.

“Think you’re clever, don’t you, Monk.” Krell picked up his bone spear. “See if you can dodge this!”

He was about to hurl the weapon when a woman dressed in red robes materialized out of the smoke-tinged air right in front of him. Her sudden and unexpected appearance rattled Krell. His hand jerked, throwing off his aim. The spear missed its mark and clattered to the floor.

Mistress Jenna nodded her cowled head at Rhys, who was staring at her with as much astonishment as Krell.

“For a monk, you lead the most interesting life, Brother,” Jenna said coolly. “Please, allow me to assist you.”

Speaking a word of magic, she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and the golden bands that bound Rhys sprang off him, freeing him. A motion from Jenna sent the bands and the iron ball bounding off into the fountain. Freed from his bonds, Rhys grabbed up his emmide and turned to face Krell.

The former death knight had considered himself up to the task of fighting an unarmed monk, a kender, and a little girl. No one had said anything about a wizardess. Seeing that he was outflanked, Krell summoned help. Hearing his master’s urgent call, a Bone Warrior left off battling the clerics of Mishakal and came to Krell’s aid.

Rhys caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and called out a warning.

Jenna turned to see a minotaur warrior come roaring in from the garden. At first startled glance, it seemed as if the minotaur had been turned inside out. He wore his skeleton over his flesh and matted fur. Blood oozed ceaselessly from hideous, gaping wounds. His entrails spewed out. His throat had been cut, and one eye dangled hideously from the eye socket of the minotaur’s skull that was now his helm. He carried a bloody sword in his hand and, shrieking in rage and torment, he came rushing straight at Jenna.

She let go of the spell she had been about to cast, for it would not work against this undead monstrosity.

“A Bone Warrior,” she remarked to herself. “Chemosh must be growing desperate.”

An interesting observation, but not much help. Jenna had never fought a Bone Warrior before and she had only seconds to figure out how to destroy it before it destroyed her.

Confident that the annoying wizardess would no longer be a concern, Krell prepared to finish the monk. He picked up his spear and was disconcerted to see Rhys pick up his staff. Krell remembered that staff, remembered it vividly. When the monk had been Krell’s “guest” on Storm’s Keep, the staff had transformed itself into a praying mantis. The bug had flown at Krell, wrapped its horrid legs around him, and sucked on his brain. Krell had been a death knight at the time, and the staff hadn’t done any real damage, but Krell loathed bugs and the experience had been terrifying. He still suffered nightmares over it.

He snarled in fury. The only way to insure the staff didn’t turn into a bug again was to kill its monk-master. Krell hurled his spear at the monk, and this time his aim was true.

Jenna could not concern herself with the living. She had to concentrate on the dead. She had read about Bone Warriors, but that had been years ago, in the course of her studies. No Bone Warrior had been seen on Krynn since the days of the Kingpriest, and damn few had been around then. She assumed the textbooks must have told how to destroy these undead but, if so, she couldn’t recall it. And she didn’t have time to give the matter a lot of consideration.

The minotaur bone warrior was in front of her now. Raising an enormous battle axe over his head, he brought the blade slashing down, intending to cleave her skull. He would have succeeded, but her skull did not happen to be there at the moment. The minotaur’s sword sliced through an illusion of Jenna.

The real Jenna had swiftly moved to position herself behind the minotaur, as she continued to try to figure out how to slay the fiend. She hoped the minotaur warrior would continue attacking the illusion and give her time to think. Her hope was well founded, for generally undead weren’t very smart and would hack away at an illusion without ever realizing the truth. Chemosh must have found the means to make improvements to his undead, however. When his first blow failed to slay the wizardess, the Bone Warrior whipped around and began searching for his foe.

The minotaur spotted her immediately and, swinging his sword, came roaring in her direction. Jenna stood her ground. The brief respite had given her time to prepare her spell, time to think of the words, time to recall the correct hand motions. Casting this spell was risky, not only to her—if it failed she would have neither the time nor strength to cast another—but also to Rhys, who might suffer residual effects. Hoping to Lunitari she didn’t accidentally blind the monk, Jenna thrust out her hand and began to chant words of magic.

Rhys was dimly aware of Jenna battling the fiendish creature Krell had summoned. The monk could do nothing to help the wizardess, not with his own daunting foe to fight and he guessed she would not appreciate his help anyway. Most likely, he would just get in her way.

Rhys gripped his staff firmly, faced his enemy fearlessly. Krell was armored in bones and, to Rhys’ mind, they were the bones of all those Krell had slain. His hands were stained with blood. He stank of death, his soul as foul and rotting as his body.

Majere is known to be a patient god, a god of discipline, who does not give way to emotion. Majere is saddened by the faults of man, rarely angered by them. Thus he teaches his monk to use “merciful discipline” to stop those who would harm them or others, to prevent those intent on evil from committing acts of violence without resorting to violence. Punish, deter, do not kill.

Yet, there are times when Majere knows rage. Times when the god can bear no longer bear to see the suffering of innocents. His rage is not hot and wayward. His wrath is directed, controlled, for he knows that otherwise it will consume him. Thus, he teaches his followers to use their anger as they would use a weapon.

Do not let your anger master you, his monks are taught. If you do, your aim will be off, your hands will shake, your feet will slip.

Though months had passed since that terrible time, Rhys remembered vividly how he had been consumed by his anger as he stood gazing in horror at the bodies of his murdered brethren. His rage had choked him with its bitter bile. His anger had blinded him, then cast him into hellish darkness. He knew anger now, but this anger was different. The god’s anger was cold and pure, bright and blazing as the stars.

Jenna intoned the last word of her spell. The rampaging minotaur was so close to her that she gagged at the foul odor of corruption from his putrefying body, as she waited tensely for the magic to work.

She reveled in a rush of warmth, a tingling thrill that shot through her body. The magic foamed and bubbled and surged in her blood. She seized it, directed it, cast it forth. The magic splintered. Beams of colored light shot from her fingers.

As though she had grabbed a rainbow from the sky and flung it at the minotaur, seven blazing streams of red and orange, yellow and green, blue, indigo, and violet light splashed over her foe.

The yellow beams shot jolts of energy into his body, disrupting the unholy magic that gave the corpse the hideous semblance of life. His limbs jerked. The minotaur twitched and writhed. The red beam struck his battle axe, setting it ablaze. The orange ray began to devour what was left of his hideous flesh.

The green ray, poison, would have no effect on the minotaur, and apparently the blue failed, as well, for the animated corpse did not turn to stone. Jenna prayed to Lunitari that the power of the violet ray would work, for it was supposed to carry the fiend back to his creator.

The minotaur shrieked hideously, stumbled toward her, and then vanished.

Jenna sank down limply onto the bench. The powerful spell had drained her, leaving her weak and trembling.

She hoped to heaven Rhys Mason managed to finish off the gruesome-looking object he was fighting. She could barely sit upright on the bench, much less fling any more magic.

“At your age, you really should know better,” she scolded herself wearily. Then she smiled. “But that was a beautiful spell you cast, my dear. Truly lovely…”

Krell’s spear flew toward him. Rhys leaped high into the air, and the spear whistled harmlessly beneath his feet. Still in midair, Rhys arched his back, flipped over, and landed lightly on his feet in front of the astounded Krell. Rhys shifted his hold on the emmide. Lunging forward, he struck Krell’s bone breast-plate with the end of his staff. The force of the blow cracked the breastplate and the collarbone beneath, and sent Krell staggering backward.

Armored by his god in the bones of the dead, Krell had smugly thought himself invulnerable to sword and spear and arrow, and now he’d been hurt by a stick-wielding monk. He was in pain and, like all bullies, he was terrified. He wanted this encounter to end. Using his good arm, Krell broke off another sharp spike. Wielding it like a sword, roaring curses, he charged at Rhys, hoping to frighten the monk and overwhelm him by sheer brute strength.

The emmide flicked out and shattered the bone sword. Twirling the staff in his hands, Rhys began to weave a deadly dance around Krell, attacking him from the front and the sides and the back, striking him on the helm and the breastplate, hitting him on the shoulders and the arms, battering his legs and thighs. The emmide sheared off the bony spikes on the shoulders and broke one of the ram’s horns. Everywhere the emmide touched the bone armor, it cracked and split wide open.

Rhys drove the emmide through the cracks, widening them. Parts of the armor began fall off, and the emmide struck the soft, flabby flesh beneath. Bones cracked, but now they were Krell’s bones, not those of some wretched corpse. Another blow split the helm wide open, and it fell off and rolled about on the floor.

Krell’s face was purple and swollen. Blood streamed from his wounds. In agony, bruised and bloodied, he slumped to the floor on his knees and, kneeling in a sodden bloody heap at Rhys’ feet, Krell blubbered and slobbered.

“I surrender!” he cried, spitting up blood. “Spare me!”

Breathing hard, Rhys stood over the hulking brute quivering at his feet. He could be merciful. He could give Krell his life. Rhys had inflicted the lesson of merciful discipline. But Rhys knew with the clarity of the god’s cold anger that being merciful to Krell would be an indulgence on Rhys’ part, one that would make him feel just and righteous, but which would send forth this monster to murder and torture other victims.

Rhys saw Krell watching him from the corner of his swollen eye.

Krell was certain of himself, certain Rhys would be merciful. After all, Rhys was a good man, and good men were weak.

Rhys lifted up the emmide. “We are told that the souls of men leave this realm and travel to the next, learning from mistakes made in this life, gaining in knowledge until we come to the fulfillment of the soul’s journey. I believe that this is true of most men, but not all. I believe there are some like you who are so bound up in evil that your soul has shrunk to almost nothing. You will spend eternity trapped in darkness, gnawing on the remnant of yourself, consuming, yet never consumed.”

Krell stared at him, his eyes wide and terrified.

Rhys struck Krell in the temple with the emmide.

Krell toppled over dead onto the blood-smeared floor. His eyes were wide and staring. A bloody froth drooled from his flaccid lips.

Rhys remained standing over the brute, his emmide poised to strike again. He knew Krell was dead, but he intended to make certain Krell stayed dead. He did, after all, serve a god who was known to bring the dead back to a hideous pretence of life.

Krell did not so much as twitch. In the end, even Chemosh abandoned him.

Rhys relaxed.

“Well done, Monk,” said Jenna weakly.

Her face was haggard, her skin pale. Her shoulders slumped. She seemed too exhausted to move. Rhys hastened to her side.

“Are you hurt, Mistress? What can I do to help?” Rhys asked.

“Nothing, my friend,” she said, managing a smile. “I am not injured. The magic exacts its toll. I just need to rest a little while.”

She regarded him intently. “What about you, Brother?”

“I am not hurt, praise Majere,” he said.

“You did the right thing, Brother. Killing that brute.”

“I hope my god agrees with you, Mistress,” Rhys said.

“He will. Do you know what I was fighting, Brother? A Bone Warrior of Chemosh. Such fiends have not been seen on Krynn since the days of the Kingpriest.”

She pointed to the corpse. “That lump is… or was… a Bone Acolyte. Chemosh seized the minotaur’s wretched soul, using his rage to ensnare him. And there are probably more than one. The Acolyte would have had as many Bone Warriors serving him as he thought he could control. And these warriors are deadly, Brother.

“Perhaps your brethren are fighting them now,” she added somberly. “By slaying the Acolyte, you have made it easier for those fighting the Bone Warriors to destroy them. The Acolyte controls them and once he is dead, the warriors will go berserk and fight in a blind fury.”

The smoke had died away. The fires were being brought until control, but they could both hear the sounds of battle still raging outside. Rhys worried about Nightshade and Mina being caught in the chaos. He was anxious to go after them, but he did not like to leave Jenna, especially if there were more Bone Warriors about.

She read his thoughts and patted his hand. “You are concerned about your kender friend. He is safe, at least he was the last time I saw him. He was the one who sent me to your aid. Lady Atta was with him, and they were both pursuing Mina.”

Jenna paused, then said, “I have heard some strange tales regarding her, Brother. That is why I came to Solace to seek out Gerard, who once met her, or so I was told. I will not waste your time asking for details. You must go find her, of course. But is there some way I can be of help?”

“You have done more than enough for me, Mistress. I would be dead by now if it were not for you.”

She laughed. “Brother, I would not have missed this for the world. To think—I fought a Bone Warrior of Chemosh! Dalamar will be quite green with envy.”

Jenna gave his hand a mock slap. “Go find your little god, Brother. I will be fine. I can take care of myself.”

Rhys stood up, but still he hesitated.

Jenna raised her eyebrows. “If you do not leave, Brother, I will begin to think that you consider me a helpless and infirm old lady, and I will be extremely insulted.”

Rhys bowed to her in profound respect. “I think you are a very great lady, Mistress Jenna.”

She smiled in pleasure and waved him away.

“And, Brother,” Jenna called after him, as he was leaving, “I still want that kender-herding dog you promised me!”

As Rhys hastened off, he made a promise to himself that Mistress Jenna should have the finest puppy in Atta’s next litter.

9

By the time Rhys made his way through the gardens and across the front lawn to the street, the town guard had managed to regain some semblance of control. Rhys halted, shocked at the sight of the carnage. The street was littered with bodies, many of them stirring and groaning, but some lying dead. The cobblestones were slippery with blood. The fires had been doused, but the stench of burning stung his nostrils. The guards had blocked off the street and now that the battle had ended, they had their hands full holding back frantic friends and relatives seeking their loved ones.

Rhys did not know where to begin to search for Nightshade and Mina and Atta. He roamed up and down the street, calling Nightshade’s name, calling Mina, calling Atta. There was no answer. Everyone he saw was covered in soot and dirt and blood. He could not tell the identity of a victim simply by looking at the clothes and whenever he saw the body of a kender-sized person lying the street, his heart clogged his throat.

Even as Rhys searched, he did what he could to aid the wounded, though—not being a priest—there was little he could do except offer comfort and ease their fear by assuring them help was on the way.

Ordinarily the wounded would have been taken to the temple of Mishakal, for her priests were skilled in healing. Her temple had been damaged by the fire, however, and the Temple of Majere was opened to the victims, as were the Temples of Habbakuk and Chislev. The priests of many gods worked among the injured, ministering to friend and foe alike, making no distinction.

In this the priests were aided by mystics, who had hastened to the site to offer their help, and with them came the herbalists and physicians of Solace. The bodies of the dead were taken to the Temple of Reorx, where they were laid in quiet repose until family and friends came to undergo the sorrowful task of identifying and claiming them for burial.

Rhys came across the Abbot organizing litter-bearers. Many of the wounded were in dire condition, and the Abbot was exceedingly busy, for lives hung in the balance. Rhys hated to interrupt his work, but he was growing desperate. He had still not found his friends. Rhys was about to take a brief moment to ask the Abbot if he had seen Mina, when he caught sight of Gerard.

The sheriff was splattered with blood and limping from a wound to his leg. A guardsman walked alongside him, pleading with him to seek treatment for his wound. Gerard angrily ordered the man off, telling him to help those who were really hurt. The guardsmen hesitated, then—seeing the sheriff’s baleful expression—returned to his duties. Once the man was gone and Gerard thought no one was watching, he sagged against a tree, drew in a deep and shivering breath and closed his eyes and grimaced.

Rhys hurried to his side. Hearing footfalls coming toward him, Gerard abruptly straightened and tried to walk off as though nothing was the matter. His injured leg buckled beneath him and he would have fallen, but Rhys was there to catch him and ease him to the ground.

“Thank you, Brother,” said Gerard grudgingly.

Ignoring Gerard’s insistence that the wound was merely a scratch, Rhys examined the gash in Gerard’s thigh. The cut was deep and oozing blood. The blade had sliced through the flesh and muscle and perhaps cracked the bone. Gerard winced as Rhys’ fingers probed, and he swore softly beneath his breath. His intense blue eyes glinted more with anger than with pain.

Rhys opened his mouth to start to shout for a priest. Gerard didn’t wait to hear him, however.

“If you say one prayer, Brother,” Gerard told him, “if you utter one single holy word, I’ll shove it down your throat!”

He gasped in agony and leaned back against the tree, groaning softly.

“I am a monk of Majere,” Rhys said. “You need not worry. I do not have the gift of healing.”

Gerard flushed, ashamed of his outburst. “I’m sorry I shouted at you, Brother. It’s just that I’m fed up to here with your gods! Look at what your gods have done to my city!”

He gestured to the bodies lying in the street, to the clerics moving among the wounded. “Most of the evil done in this world is done in the name of one god or the other. We were better off without them.”

Rhys could have responded that much good was done in the name of the gods, as well, but this was not the time to enter into a theological argument. Besides, he understood Gerard. There was a time Rhys had felt the same.

Gerard eyed his friend, then heaved a sigh. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Brother. I didn’t mean what I said. Well, not much. My leg hurts like hell. And I lost some good men today,” he added grimly.

“I am sorry,” Rhys said. “Truly sorry. Sheriff, I hate to trouble you now, but I must ask. Did you”—Rhys felt his throat go dry as he asked the question—“did you see Nightshade anywhere—”

“Your kender friend?” Gerard shook his head. “No, I didn’t see him, but that doesn’t mean much. It was sheer bloody chaos out there, what with the smoke and fire and those horrible undead fiends slaughtering every person they came across.”

Rhys sighed deeply.

“Nightshade’s got more sense than usual for a kender,” Gerard said. “Is Atta with him? That dog’s smarter than most people I know. He’s probably back at the Inn. It’s chicken and biscuit night you know—”

He tried to grin, but he drew in a sharp breath and rocked back and forth, swearing under his breath. “That hurts!”

The best place for Gerard would in be one of the Temples, but Rhys knew how that suggestion would be received.

“At least let me help you back to the Inn, my friend,” Rhys suggested, knowing Gerard would be in safe hands with Laura to care for him. Gerard agreed to this, and he reluctantly allowed Rhys to help him to his feet.

“I have a recipe for a poultice that will ease the pain and allow the wound to heal cleanly,” Rhys told him, putting his arm around him.

“You won’t whip a prayer into it, will you, Brother?” Gerard asked gruffly, leaning on his friend.

“I might say a word or two to Majere on your behalf,” Rhys replied, smiling. “But I’ll make sure you don’t hear me.”

Gerard grunted. “Once we reach the Inn, I’ll put out the word about the kender.”

They had gone only a short distance when it became clear that Gerard could not continue without more help than Rhys could give him. Gerard was by this time too weak from loss of blood weak to put up a fight, and Rhys summoned assistance. Three stout young men came immediately to his aid. Hoisting Gerard onto a cart, they drove him to the Inn and carried him up the stairs to a room. Laura bustled about, fussing over him, helping Rhys make the poultice, cleaning and bandaging his wound.

Laura was deeply concerned to hear that Nightshade had gone missing. In answer to Rhys’ question, she replied that the kender had not returned to the Inn. She hadn’t seen him all morning. She was so concerned over the kender that Rhys didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d lost Mina, as well. He said in response to Laura’s worried questions, that Mina was with a friend. This wasn’t quite a lie. He hoped she was with Nightshade.

Gerard complained bitterly about the smell of the poultice, which he swore would kill him if the wound didn’t. Rhys took Gerard’s complaints for a sign the sheriff was feeling better.

“I will let you get some rest,” Rhys said, preparing to take his leave.

“Don’t go, Brother,” Gerard said fretfully. “Between the stink of that glop you put on me, and the pain, I won’t be able to sleep. Sit down and talk to me. Keep me company. Take my mind off things. And stop pacing about the room. We’ll hear word of your kender soon enough. What’s in that goo you put on me anyway?” he asked suspiciously.

“Plantain, bayberry, bark, ginger, cayenne pepper and cloves,” Rhys replied.

He hadn’t realized he’d been pacing, and he forced himself to stop. He felt as though he should be out there, actively searching, though he was the first to admit he had no idea where to begin to look. Gerard had told his guardsmen to be on the lookout for the kender and the dog and to spread the word among the populace. The first news they had of the missing, they would communicate that news to Gerard.

“Once I find the kender, I don’t want to have to go chasing you down,” Gerard told Rhys, who conceded that this was logical.

Rhys drew a chair near Gerard’s bedside and sat down.

“Tell me what happened on Temple Row,” Rhys said.

“The priests and followers of Chemosh started it,” Gerard replied. “They set fire to the Temple of Sargonnas and then tried to burn down Mishakal’s temple by throwing flaming brands inside, while others started killing. They summoned two fiends that were like some horror out of a fever-dream. They wore armor made of bones with their insides falling out, killing anything that moved. A priestess of Chemosh led them. It took the paladins of Kiri-Jolith to finally destroy them, but only after the undead monsters had turned on the priestess and hacked her to pieces.”

Gerard shook his head. “What I find damn odd is why Chemosh’s followers did all this in broad daylight. Those ghouls generally work their evil under the cover of darkness. Almost seems as if it was meant as some sort of diversion…”

Gerard paused, regarding Rhys intently.

“It was a diversion, wasn’t it?” Gerard slammed his hand down on the coverlet. “I knew this must have something to do with you. You owe me an explanation, Brother. Tell me what in the name of Heaven is going on.”

“That’s a good way to put it. I will explain”—Rhys gave a rueful sigh—“though you will find my story difficult to believe. The tale does not start with me. It starts with the woman you know as Mina…”

He related the story, as much as he knew. Gerard listened in amazed silence. He remained quiet until Rhys had reached the end of his tale, telling how he had killed Krell, and then Gerard shook his head.

“You’re right, Brother. I’m not sure I do believe it. Not that I doubt your word,” he added hastily. “It’s just… so implausible. A new god? That’s all we need! And a god who’s gone crazy at that! So what—”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Rhys opened it to find one of the town guard in company with an older woman dressed in traveling clothes.

The guardsman touched his forehead respectfully to Rhys, then spoke to Gerard, “I have some information on that kender you were looking for, Sheriff. This lady saw him.”

“I did, Sheriff,” said the woman briskly. “I’m a recent widow. My husband and I had a farm north of here. I sold it—too much for me to handle, and I am moving to Solace to live with my daughter and her husband. We were on the road this morning, and I saw a kender like the one described. He was traveling with a black-and-white dog and a little girl.”

“Are you sure it was them, Madam?” the sheriff asked.

“I am, Sheriff,” said the woman, complacently folding her hands beneath her cloak. “I remember because I thought it was odd to see such a strange trio, and the kender and the girl were standing in the middle of the road arguing about something. I was going to stop to see if I could help, but Enoch—he’s my son-in-law—he said I shouldn’t speak to kender, not unless I wanted to be robbed blind. Whatever the kender was up to, it was probably no good and none of our affair.

“I wasn’t sure about that. I’m a mother, and it looked to me like the little girl was running away from home. My daughter did the same when she was that age. She packed up her little things in a gunny sack and set out. She didn’t go far before she got hungry and came back, but I was half dead with fright. I remember how I felt, and the first thing I did when we reached Solace was to tell the guard what I’d seen. He said you were searching for this kender, and so I figured I’d come tell you what I saw and where I saw it.”

“Thank you, Madame,” said Gerard. “Did you happen to see if they continued on the road north?”

“When I looked back the little girl was walking along the highway, heading north. The kender and the dog were trailing behind.”

“Thank you again, Madame. May Majere’s blessing be on you,” Rhys said, and he picked up his staff.

“Good luck, Brother Rhys,” said Gerard. “I won’t say it’s been a pleasure knowing you, because you’ve brought me nothing but trouble. I will say it’s been an honor.”

He reached out his hand. Rhys took it, pressing it warmly.

“Thank you for all your help, Sheriff,” he said. “I know you don’t believe in the gods, but—as someone once told a friend of mine—they believe in you.”

Rhys stopped on his way out to tell Laura that Nightshade had been located and that he, the kender, and Mina were going to resume their travels.

“She’s a dear, sweet child. Try to see to it that she has a bath every now and then, Brother,” Laura told him, and she sent him on his way with a hug and tears and as much food as he could carry and would consent to take.

Gazing out his window, Gerard watched the monk in his shabby orange robes make his unobtrusive way among the crowds, taking the highway that led north.

“I wonder if I’ll ever know how this strange tale ends?” Gerard asked himself. He sighed deeply and lay back among the pillows. “I don’t see any good coming of it, that’s for sure.”

He was just about to try to get some sleep when a guardsmen came to inform the sheriff that an angry mob was taking out their fury on the Temple of Chemosh.