“You think so?” Galdar asked, and a smile flickered on his lips. “You should have more faith, Monk.”
Rhys had no idea what the minotaur meant, but before he could ask, Galdar’s smile vanished. He glanced back into the valley of stone and black crystal.
“Mina went with him, didn’t she? She went with the Walking God.”
“I hope so,” Rhys replied. “I pray so.”
“I’m not much for praying,” Galdar said. “And if I did pray, I’d pray to Sargas, and I would guess the Horned God is not feeling kindly disposed toward me at the moment.”
He paused, then added somberly, “If I did pray, I would pray that Mina finds whatever it is she seeks.”
“You forgive her for what she did to you?” Rhys was astonished. Minotaurs were not known as a forgiving people. Their god was a god of vengeance.
“I suppose you could say I got into a habit of forgiving her.” Galdar rubbed the stump of his arm, grimacing. Strange that the pain of a missing arm was worse than the pain of cracked bones. He added half-ashamed, half-defiant, “What about you, Monk? Do you forgive her?”
“I walked my road once with hatred and revenge gnawing at my heart,” Rhys said. His gaze went to the minotaur who was carrying the small body, to the green cloak that fluttered in the still air. “I will not do so again. I forgive Mina and my prayer is the same as yours—that she finds what she seeks. Though I am not certain I should be praying for that.”
“Why not?”
“Whatever she finds will tip the scales of balance one way or the other.”
“The scales might tip in your direction, Monk,” Galdar suggested. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Rhys shook his head. “A man who stares at the sun too long is as blind as one who walks in pitch darkness.”
The two fell silent, saving their laboring breath for the climb out of the valley. The minotaur under Galdar’s command stood waiting for them among the foothills of the Lords of Doom. The minotaur looked grim, for the Faithful were also waiting there. Led by silent Elspeth, they had come to the valley, though too late to find Valthonis.
Galdar scowled at the elves. “You gave your oath,” he told them.
“We did not break faith with you,” said one of the elves. “We did not try to rescue Valthonis.”
The elf pointed to the cloak that covered the body of the kender. “That belongs to Valthonis! Where is he?” The elf glared at Galdar. “What have you done with him? Have you basely murdered him?”
“On the contrary. The minotaur saved Valthonis’ life,” Rhys replied.
The elves scowled in disbelief.
“Do you doubt my word?” Rhys asked wearily.
The leader of the Faithful bowed.
“We mean no offense, Servant of Matheri,” the elf said, using the elvish name for the god, Majere. “But you must understand that we find this difficult to comprehend. A monk of Matheri and a minotaur of Kinthalas walk together out of the Valley of Evil. What is going on? Is Valthonis alive?”
“He is alive and unharmed.”
“Then where is he?”
“He helps a lost child find her way home,” Rhys replied.
The elves glanced at other, mystified, some clearly still disbelieving. And then silent Elspeth walked over to stand in front of Galdar. One of the elves sought to stop her, but she thrust him aside. She reached out her hand to the minotaur.
“What’s this?” he demanded, frowning. “Tell her to stay away from me.”
Elspeth smiled in reassurance. As he watched, tense and frowning, she lightly brushed her fingers across the stump of his arm.
Galdar blinked. The grimace of pain that had twisted his face eased. He clasped his hand over the stump and stared at her in astonishment. Elspeth walked past him and came to kneel beside the body of the kender. She tucked the cloak around him tenderly, as a mother tucks a blanket around her child, then lifted the body in her arms. She stood waiting patiently to depart.
Galdar glanced at Rhys. “I told you help would find you.”
The elves were now more mystified than before, but they obeyed Elspeth’s silent command and made preparations to leave.
“I hope you will honor us with your company, Servant of Matheri,” said the leader to Rhys, who gave his grateful assent.
Galdar held out his left hand, grasped Rhys’ hand in a crushing grip. “Farewell, Brother.”
Rhys clasped the minotaur’s hand in both his own. “May your journey be a safe one and swift.”
“It will be swift, at least,” Galdar stated grimly. “The faster we’re away from this accursed place, the better.”
He bellowed orders that were quickly obeyed. The minotaur soldiers marched off, as eager as their commander to leave Neraka.
But Galdar did not immediately follow them. He stood still for a moment, gazing west, deep into the mountains.
“Godshome,” he said. “It lies in that direction.”
“So I have been told,” Rhys said.
Galdar nodded to himself and continued to stare into the distance, as if trying to catch some last glimpse of Mina. Sighing, he lowered his gaze, shook his horned head.
“Do you think we will ever find out what happens to her, Brother?” he asked wistfully.
“I don’t know,” Rhys answered evasively.
In his heart, he feared very much that they would.
9
Valthonis and Mina walked slowly to Godshome, taking their time, for each knew that no matter what happened, what choice Mina made, this would be their final journey together.
The two had talked of many things for many hours, but now Mina had fallen silent. Godshome was only about ten miles from Neraka, but the road was difficult, steep and winding and narrow—a rock-strewn, desolate track forced to pick its way among steep canyon walls, constrained by strange rock formations to take them in directions they did not want to go.
The sky was dark and overcast, obscured by the steamy snortings of the Lords of Doom. The air stank of sulfur and was hard to breathe, drying the mouth and stinging the nostrils.
Mina soon grew weary. She did not complain, however, but continued walking. Valthonis told her she could take her time. There was no hurry.
“You mean I have all eternity before me?” Mina said to him with a twisted smile. “That is true, Father, but I feel compelled to go on. I know who I am, but now I must now find out why. I can no longer rest easy in the twilight.”
She carried with her the two artifacts she had brought from the Hall of Sacrilege. She held them fast in her hand and would not relinquish them, though their burden sometimes made traversing the steep trail difficult for her. When she finally gave in and sat down to rest, she unwrapped the artifacts and gazed down at them, studying them, taking up each in turn and holding it in her hands, running her fingers over them as would a blind man trying to use his hands to see what his sightless eyes cannot. She said nothing about her thoughts to Valthonis, and he did not ask.
As they drew nearer Godshome, the Lords of Doom seemed to release their hold on the travelers, sanctioning their going. The path grew easier to walk, led them down a gentle slope. A warm breeze, like spring’s breath, blew away the sulfur fumes and the steam. Wild flowers appeared along the trail, peeking out from beneath boulders, or growing in the cracks of a stone wall.
“What is wrong?” Valthonis asked, calling a halt, when he noticed that Mina had begun to limp.
“I have a blister,” she answered.
Sitting down on the path, she drew off her shoe, looking with exasperation at the raw and bloody wound.
“The gods play at being mortal,” she said. “Chemosh could make love to me and receive pleasure from the act—or so he convinced himself. But in truth, they can only pretend to feel. No god ever has a blister on his heel.”
She held up the blood-stained shoe for him to see.