Atta looked at him one more time, then, her head and tail drooping, she obeyed. She allowed Gerard to lead her off. He returned, shaking his head.
“I took her back to the Inn. I hope she’ll be all right. Laura offered her some food, but she wouldn’t take it.”
“She’s a sensible animal,” said Rhys. “Give her work to keep her occupied and she’ll soon come around.”
“She’ll get plenty of work what with all the kender we have flocking here to see the fish kill. So you two are off. When do you leave?” Gerard asked.
“Nightshade and I have to pay a visit to the prisoner first,” said Rhys, “and then we’ll be going.”
“The prisoner?” Gerard was astonished. “The crazy woman? You’re going to see her again?”
“I assume she is still there,” Rhys said.
“Oh, yes. I don’t seem to be able to get rid of her. What do you want to see her for, Brother?” Gerard asked with unabashed curiosity.
“She seems to think that I can be of some help to her,” said Rhys.
“And the kender? Is he helping her, too?”
“I’m a cheering influence,” said Nightshade.
“You don’t need to accompany us, Sheriff,” Rhys added. “We just need your permission to enter her cell.”
“I think I’d better come along,” said Gerard. “Just to make sure nothing happens to you. Any of you.”
Rhys and Nightshade exchanged glances.
“We need to speak to her in private,” said Rhys. “The matter is confidential. Spiritual in nature.”
“I didn’t think you were a monk of Majere anymore,” Gerard said, giving Rhys a shrewd look.
“That does not mean that I can no longer assist those who are troubled,” Rhys replied. “Please, Sheriff. Just a few moments with her alone.”
“Very well,” said Gerard. “I don’t see how you can get into too much trouble locked up in a prison cell.”
“A lot he knows,” Nightshade said gloomily.
Inside the prison, Nightshade had to stop to say a word to the kender. Rhys was concerned to hear Nightshade bidding them what appeared to be a final farewell. When he reached into his pouches, prepared to distribute all his worldly wealth—the kender’s version of a last will and testament—Rhys seized hold of Nightshade by the collar and hauled him off.
Gerard gestured at the cell door. “She’s hasn’t moved from the bed,” he reported. “She won’t eat. Sends back the food untasted. You have visitors, Mistress,” he called out, unlocking the door.
“It’s about time,” said Zeboim, sitting up on the bed.
She drew back her cowl. Sea green eyes glittered.
Rhys gave Nightshade a shove, propelled the kender into the cell, and followed after him.
Gerard shut the cell door and inserted the key into the lock. He did not turn it but left the key where it was. He paused a moment, listening. The three kept their voices low, and anyhow, he’d promised he’d give them privacy.
Shaking his head, Gerard walked off to spend a few moments visiting with the jailer.
“How long you going to give them, Sheriff?” asked the jailer. “The usual. Five minutes.”
A small hourglass stood on the desk. The jailer upended it, much to the fascination of the kender, who stuck heads, arms, hands, and feet between the bars in order to try to get a clearer view of the proceedings, all the while pelting Gerard with questions, the number one being how many grains of sand were in the glass and offering, since he didn’t know, to make a quick count.
Gerard listened to the jailor’s complaints about the kender, which he made on a daily basis, and watched the sand trickle through the hourglass and listened expectantly for sounds of trouble from down the corridor.
All was quiet, however. When the last grain dropped through the narrow neck, Gerard shouted, “Time’s up” and tromped off down the corridor.
He turned the key in the door and shoved it opened. He stopped, stared.
The crazy woman lay on the bed, her cowl over her head, her face to the wall. No one else was with her.
No monk. No kender.
The cell door had been locked. He’d had to unlock it to let himself in. There was only one way out of the corridor and that was past him and no one had passed him.
“Hey, you!” he said to the crazy woman, shaking her by the shoulder. “Where are they?”
The woman made a slight gesture with her hand, as if brushing away an insect. Gerard flew backward out of the cell and into the corridor, where he smashed up against the wall.
“Do not touch me, mortal!” the woman said. “Never touch me.”
The cell door slammed shut with a bang.
Gerard picked himself up. He’d hit his head on the wall and there would be a giant bruise on his shoulder in the morning. Grimacing at the pain, he stood staring at the cell door. Rubbing his shoulder, he turned and tromped down the corridor.
“Let the kender loose,” he called.
The kender began to whoop and holler. Their shrill cries could have cracked solid stone. Gerard winced at the racket.
“Just do it,” he ordered the jailer. “And be quick about it. Don’t worry, Smythe. I have a wonderful dog who’ll help me keep them in line. The dog needs something to do. She’s missing her master.”
The jailer opened the cell door and the kender streamed out joyfully into the bright light of freedom. Gerard cast a glance at the prison cell at the end of the corridor.
“I think she may be missing her master a long, long time,” he added somberly.
6
The Maelstrom of the Blood Sea of Istar. Once sailors spoke of it in hushed tones, when they spoke of it at all. Once the Maelstrom was a spiral of destruction, a swirling maw of red death that caught ships in its teeth and swallowed them whole. Once out of that maw, you could hear the thunder of the voices of the gods.
“Look on this, mortals, and know our might.”
When the Kingpriest of Istar dared, in his arrogance, to deem himself a god, and the people of Istar bowed to him, the true gods of Krynn cast down a fiery mountain upon Istar, destroying the city and carrying it far beneath the sea. The waters of the ocean turned a reddish brown color. The wise claimed that this color came from the sandy soil on the ocean floor. Most people believed that the red stain was from the blood of those who had died in the Cataclysm. Whatever the cause, the color gave the sea its name. It henceforth became known as the Blood Sea.
The gods created a maelstrom over the site of the disaster. The immense, blood-tinged whirlpool was meant to keep away those who might disturb the final resting place of the dead and to serve as a constant reminder to mortals of the power and majesty of the gods. Feared and respected by sailors, the Maelstrom was a horrific, awesome sight, its swirling red waters disappearing into a hell-hole of darkness. Once caught in its coils, there was no escape. Its victims were dragged to their doom beneath the raging seas.
Then Takhisis stole away the world. Without the wrath of the gods to stir it, the Maelstrom spun slower and slower and then it stopped altogether. The waters of the Blood Sea were placid as those of any country mill-pond.
“Now look at what the Blood Sea has become.” Chemosh’s voice was tinged with anger and disgust. “A cesspool.”
Shading her eyes against the morning sun, Mina stared out to where Chemosh pointed, to what had been one of the wonders of Krynn, a sight both terrifying and magnificent.
The Maelstrom had kept the memory and the warning of Istar alive. Now the once-infamous waters of the Blood Sea crept listlessly onto gritty sand beaches littered with filth and refuse. Remnants of broken packing crates and slime-covered planking, rotting nets, fish heads and shattered bottles, crushed shells, and splintered masts floated on top of the oily water, the trash rocking sluggishly back and forth with the slogging of the sea. Only the old-timers remembered the Maelstrom and what lay beneath it—the ruins of a city, a people, a time.