“Keep moving,” Rhys said to the kender.
Nightshade kept moving, crowding close behind Rhys. The Beloved paid no attention to monk, kender or dog.
“Mina!” cried the Beloved, reaching out to her. “Mina.”
She shook her head and kept her face hidden. Rhys placed his foot on the last stair. He raised himself slowly. Ascending the last stair, he stood on the landing beneath the archway.
The Beloved blocked his way.
Nightshade closed his eyes and hung onto Rhys’ robes with one hand and the emmide with the other.
“We’re dead,” said Nightshade. “I can’t look. We’re dead. I can’t look.”
Rhys, holding Mina in his arms, took a step forward into the throng of Beloved.
The Beloved hesitated, then, their eyes fixed on Mina, they fell back to let him pass. Rhys heard them move in behind him. He continued to walk at a slow and even pace, and they passed beneath the archway and into the main hall. He halted, overwhelmed with dismay. Nightshade made a choking sound.
The Beloved had invaded the tower. The spiral staircase continued upward to the very top of the tower and the Beloved stood on every stair. The Beloved massed in the hallway, their bodies pressed against each other, jostling and shoving, as each tried to glimpse Mina. And more Beloved were pushing their way through the entrance, shoving their way inside.
“There are thousands!” Nightshade gulped. “Every Beloved in Ansalon must be here.”
Rhys had no idea what to do. The Beloved could kill them even without meaning to. If they surged forward to seize Mina, the press of bodies would crush them.
“Mina,” said Rhys, “I have to set you down.”
“No!” she whimpered, clinging to him.
“I have to,” he repeated firmly and he lowered her to the floor.
Nightshade handed Rhys the emmide. Rhys took it and held it out horizontally in front of them.
“Mina, get behind me. Nightshade, take hold of Atta.”
Nightshade caught the dog by the scruff of her neck and hauled her close. Atta snarled and snapped whenever the Beloved drew too near, leaving her tooth marks in more than one, but they paid no heed. Mina pressed against Rhys, clinging to his robes. Rhys stood in front of them, holding his staff in both hands, keeping the Beloved at bay. He started walking toward the double doors.
The Beloved surged around him, vying with each other to try to touch Mina. Her name resounded through the tower. Some whispered “Mina,” as though the name was too holy to say aloud. Others repeated “Mina” over and over frantically, obsessively. Others wailed her name in pleading tones. Whether they whispered her name or spoke it, the voices seemed laden with sorrow, lamenting their fate.
“Mina, Mina, Mina.” Her name was a mournful wind sighing in the darkness.
“Make them stop!” Mina cried, her hands covering her ears. “Why do they call my name? I don’t know them! Why are they doing this to me?”
The Beloved moaned and surged toward her. Rhys struck at them with his staff, but it was like trying to beat back the endless waves. The mournful lamenting had taken on a different tone. It was now tinged with anger. The eyes of the Beloved had at last turned to him. He heard the scrape of steel.
Atta yelped in pain. Nightshade struggled against the massing bodies and pulled the dog out from under trampling feet and hauled her up in his arms. Atta’s eyes were wide with terror, her mouth open, panting. Her paws scrabbled against his chest, trying to keep hold.
The air was fetid, stank of decay. Rhys’ strength was flagging. He could not hold the Beloved back much longer and once he dropped the staff, he would be overwhelmed.
Light flared off a knife blade. Rhys struck at the blade with the end of the staff and managed to deflect the killing stroke, though the knife raked over Nightshade’s arm, slicing a deep cut. Nightshade cried out and dropped Atta, who crouched, quivering at his feet.
Mina stared at the blood, and her face went ashen. “I don’t want to be here,” she said in a trembling voice. “I don’t want this to be happening… I don’t know them… We’ll go away, far away…”
“Yes!” cried Nightshade, clasping his hand over his bleeding arm.
“No,” said Rhys.
Nightshade gaped at him.
“Mina, you do know them,” Rhys told her in stern tones. “You can’t run away. You kissed them and they died.”
Mina was at first bewildered, then understanding lit the amber eyes.
“That was Chemosh!” she cried. “Not me! It wasn’t my fault.”
She glared at the Beloved and clenched her fist and screamed at them, “I gave you what you wanted! You cannot be hurt. You can never feel pain or sickness or fear! You will always be young and beautiful-”
“-and dead!” Nightshade cried. He thumped himself on the chest. “Look at me, Mina. This is life! Pain is life! Fear is life! You took all that from them! And worse than that. You locked them up inside death and threw away the key. They have nowhere to go. They’re stuck, trapped.”
Mina stared at the kender in perplexity, and Rhys could picture what she was seeing-he and Nightshade, disheveled, bloody, sweating, gasping for breath, shoving at the Beloved with the staff, keeping a grip on the shivering dog. She could hear the kender’s voice shake with terror and exasperation, and his voice filled with desperation, and she could hear, by the contrast, the empty, hollow voices of the Beloved.
The little girl dissolved before Rhys’ startled eyes and the woman, Mina, stood before him as he had seen her in the grotto. She was tall and slender. Her auburn hair was shoulder length and framed her face in soft waves. Her amber eyes were large and shining with anger, peopled with souls. She wore a diaphanous black gown that coiled around her lithe body like the shades of night. She turned to face the Beloved, gazed out at the restless, dreadful sea of her victims.
“Mina…” they chanted. “Mina!”
“Stop it!” she cried.
The sea of dead moaned and wailed and whispered.
“Mina…”
The Beloved closed in around Rhys. He struck at them with the staff, but there were too many, and he was slammed back against the wall. Nightshade was on his hands and knees, trying to avoid the tramping feet, but his hands were bloody and his nose was bleeding. Rhys could not see Atta, though he could hear her whimper in pain. The heaving mass gave another surge, and he was smashed between the wall and the bodies and could not move; he could not breathe.
“Mina! Mina!” Rhys heard her name dimly, as everything started to fade.
Mina clenched her fists and raised her head and shouted into the echoing of her own name.
“I made you gods!” she screamed. “Why aren’t you happy?”
The Beloved went silent. Her name ceased.
Mina opened her hands and amber flames flared from her palms. She opened her eyes and amber flames shot from the pupils. She opened her mouth and gouts of flame poured out. She grew in size, taller and taller, screaming her frustration and pain to the heavens as the fire of her wrath blazed out of control.
One moment Rhys was being crushed beneath bodies and the next moment searing heat washed over him and the bodies were incinerated, leaving him covered in greasy ash.
Blinded by the blazing light, Rhys coughed as smoke and ash flew down his windpipe. He groped about for his friends and grabbed hold of Nightshade at the same time the kender grabbed hold of him.
“I can’t see!” Nightshade choked, clutching at Rhys in a panic. “I can’t see!”
Rhys found Atta and dragged her and Nightshade back through the archway and into the stairwell, away from the heat and flames and the greasy black ash that swirled about the tower in a horrid blizzard.
The kender rubbed his eyes, as the tears streamed down his cheeks, making tracks in the ash that smeared his face.
Rhys watched the wrath of an unhappy god destroy her failure.
The burning went on a long time.
Finally, the amber light g
rew dim and went out, Mina’s rage exhausted. Ashes continued to drift down in a gray cloud. Rhys helped Nightshade to his feet. They left the stairwell and plowed their way through horrible black drifts that nearly buried the dog. Nightshade gagged and covered his mouth with his hand. Rhys held his sleeve over his nose and mouth. He looked for Mina, but there was no sign of her and Rhys was too shaken to wonder what had become of her. He wanted only to escape the horror.
They fled through the double doors and stumbled out into sunlight and the blessed fresh air blowing off the sea.
“Where have you been?” Mina said accusingly. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you!”
The little girl stood in front of them, staring. “How did you get so dirty?” She held her nose. “You stink!”
Nightshade looked at Rhys.
She doesn’t remember, Rhys said quietly.
The sea was unusually calm, he noticed, the waves subdued, as if in shock. Rhys washed his face and hands. Nightshade rinsed off as best he could, while Atta dove into the water.
Mina set the sail on the small boat. The wind blew strong and favorably, as though eager to help them get away, and the boat went bounding over the waves.
They were nearing shore and Rhys was poised to lower the sail, when Nightshade cried out.
“Look, Rhys! Look at that!”
Rhys turned to see the tower being sucked slowly down beneath the waves. The tower sank lower and lower until all that was left were the small crystal fingers at the top, like a hand reaching up to heaven. Then those, too, vanished.
“The Beloved are gone, Rhys,” Nightshade said in an awed voice. “She set them free.”
Mina did not turn around at the kender’s shout. She did not look behind. She was concentrating on sailing the boat, steering it safely to shore.
I made you gods.
I made you gods. Why aren’t you happy?
Book II
The Journey
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 h
aving 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.
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