“And what happens when Mina tries to leave?”
“I don’t know, my friend,” Rhys said. “We must have faith that—”
He paused, his eyes narrowed. “Nightshade, where did you get that golden pin?”
“I didn’t take it,” the kender said promptly.
“I’m sure you didn’t intend to take it,” Rhys hinted. “I imagine you found it lying on the floor—”
“—where a god dropped it?” Nightshade grinned at him. “I didn’t steal it, Rhys. Honest. Mina gave it to me.”
He looked down with pride at the grasshopper. “Remember when Majere sent the hoppers to save me? I think it’s his way of saying thank you.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Mina volunteered. “The god wanted him to have it. Just like the gods wanted me to have my gifts for Goldmoon. Which reminds me, could you carry them for me?” Mina held the two artifacts them out to Rhys. “I’m afraid I’ll lose them.”
“Whatever you do,” Nightshade warned, “don’t put on the necklace!”
“I think Goldmoon will like them,” Mina continued, handing first the crystal pyramid, then the necklace, to Rhys. “When the gods left, Goldmoon told me she was very sad. Even though years and years had passed, she still missed the gods. I promised her I would find the gods and bring them back to her. And I did.”
Mina smiled, pleased with herself.
Rhys shivered. Mina had not found a god. The god, Takhisis, had found her. Takhisis lied to Mina and corrupted her and made her a slave of darkness when she should have been rejoicing in the light. Had Mina been an unwitting victim, or had she known right from wrong and deliberately chosen the darkness? And now, was she blotting out the memories, trying to forget the terrible crimes she had committed? Or had she truly forgotten? Was this play acting? Or was it madness?
Perhaps even Mina did not know the answer. Perhaps that was why she going to Godshome. And he was to make this strange journey with her, guard her, guide her, protect her.
Rhys placed the artifacts—the prism and the necklace—in his scrip. If anyone discovered he was carrying such valuable treasures, he and those with him would be in deadly peril. He thought of saying something to Mina and Nightshade, warning them that they must keep the artifacts secret. He discarded that idea, decided the less fuss he made over them the better. Hopefully, both kender and child would forget about them.
That is exactly what Mina appeared to do. Now that she was free of her burden, she began to tease Nightshade, asking him with a giggle if he’d like to go swimming again. When he said loudly, “No!” she punched him in the arm and called him a baby, and he punched her in the arm and called her a brat, and the two ran off, kicking at each other’s ankles, trying to trip each other. Atta, at a gesture from Rhys, dashed after to keep an eye on them.
The shards of glass had disappeared, as had the sea water, presumably at Mina’s command.
Rhys lingered near the Hall, reluctant to leave. Majere had spoken to him in the Solio Febalas, spoken not to his head, but to his heart. He saw clearly the road he must walk and it was a long one. Mina had chosen him to be her guide, her teacher. He did not understand why, for not even the gods understood. His position was difficult and dangerous for he was a guardian whose charge was far stronger and more powerful than he was. He was a guide who could only follow, for Mina alone had to find the road she must walk. He had accepted the trust placed in him and prayed that he would not be found wanting.
“Mister Monk, hurry up!” Mina shouted impatiently. “I’m ready to go to Godshome now!”
The door to the Solio Febalas swung slowly shut. The green emerald glowed with a soft radiance. Rhys bowed in profound reverence, and turned and hastened off to catch up with Mina.
Nuitari lurked about the Hall of Sacrilege. The God of the Dark Moon had one heavy-lidded eye on the door that was now sealed and locked and the other eye upon his fellow god, Chemosh, Lord of Bones, who was also hanging about the Hall.
Both gods had been forced to wait until Mina opened the door to enter the tower, which Nuitari had found particularly galling, since this was, by rights, his tower. His cousins had agreed that he should have it. He had given up the Tower of Wayreth and the Tower of Nightlund to obtain it. And since the Solio Febalas was located inside the tower, he considered the Hall belonged to him, as well. After all, sunken treasure belonged to whoever found it.
True, the Hall of Sacrilege was not a ship that had gone down in a storm, but to his mind the law of the sea applied. Chemosh could not be made to accept this perfectly logical view of the matter, and he was proving to be a damned nuisance. His holy artifacts were his, Chemosh claimed, and he wanted them back.
Neither god had been able to enter while Mina was inside with her rag-tag monk and kender. The latter had both gods in agony, envisioning valuable artifacts capable of producing untold miracles disappearing inside the kender’s pouches and pockets, to be lost along the way or traded for six pine cones and a trained cricket.
Each had experienced a profound sense of relief to see Mina and company depart with apparently only two artifacts, and a gold bug of small value.
When the monk left, the door had swung shut. Chemosh suspected Nuitari of having shut it and Nuitari suspected Chemosh. Both gods waited for the other to make the first move. At last, Nuitari could stand it no longer.
“I will take a look inside to make certain the kender didn’t rob the place blind.”
“I will go with you,” said Chemosh immediately.
“No need,” Nuitari said in oily tones.
“But I insist,” Chemosh replied.
Both gods hesitated, eyeing each other balefully, then both headed for the door. Both reached out their hands to grab open the door of the castle made of sand.
An immortal voice, stern and angry, spoke to each of them.
“Once each grain of sand was a mountain. Thus, all things of seeming might and importance are reduced to insignificance. All things.”
A wave rolling forward from the beginning of time smashed into the Solio Febalas, washed over it, and, withdrawing, carried it into the vast ocean of eternity.
Shaken to the core of their immortal beings, the gods shrank into the wet sand, neither daring to move or look, lest he draw down upon him the wrath of the High God. Finally Chemosh lifted his head and Nuitari opened his eyes.
The Hall of Sacrilege was gone, washed away.
Chemosh stood up and brushed the sand off his lace sleeves and stalked off with what dignity remained. Nuitari rose to his feet and shook out his black robes. He did not leave, but lingered, gazing at the smooth sand where the Hall had once stood. He had spent years studying the history of and cataloging every one of the artifacts. He knew them all, knew what each did, knew how dearly the other gods would have paid to obtain them. Not in gold or steel or jewels, of course; Nuitari had little care for that. But in other ways. Zeboim would have been convinced to leave his tower unmolested. Kiri-Jolith’s blasted paladins would have quit harassing his black robes. Sargonnas would have been forced to allow his minotaurs to practice magic freely, and so on.
But the High God, who never spoke, had spoken. Perhaps it was just as well. The artifacts and the Hall itself belonged to a time and a place that were now long gone. The world had moved on. Better to leave them in the dust of the past. Still, Nuitari could not help but wonder sulkily why Mina had been permitted by the High God to enter the Hall while he and the others had been barred.
The God of Dark Magic withdrew from the place where the Hall had stood, but he did not leave. He conceded the Solio Febalas to the High God.
In return, Nuitari wanted his tower back.