“Our lives are in her hands,” Rhys said. Moving slowly, he reached down and picked up his staff.
Nightshade groaned and muttered, “No meat pie is worth this.”
8
Mina, tugging Rhys with her, walked forward. The Beloved drew back, giving her room to pass. She walked through the throng of the dead, watching them warily with frightened eyes, clinging to Rhys’ hand so tightly that her fingertips left red marks. Nightshade crowded close behind them, tripping on Rhys’ heels. Atta kept near Rhys’ side, her body quivering, her lip curled back from her teeth, a constant growl rumbling.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this,” Nightshade said.
“Shush!” Rhys warned. He had seen the empty eyes shift from Mina to the kender and the flash of sunlight off steel. The Beloved did not attack, however. Rhys guessed they would not, as long as they were with Mina.
“Rhys,” whispered Nightshade, “she doesn’t remember them! And she created them!”
Rhys nodded and kept walking. The Beloved had been wandering about the island in their aimless fashion until catching sight of Mina. After that, they saw nothing else. They gathered around her, speaking her name in reverent tones. Some reached out to her, but she shrank back from them.
“Go away!” she said sharply. “Don’t touch me.”
One by one, they fell back.
Mina kept walking toward the tower, holding onto Rhys’ hand. When they reached the tower entrance, they found the double doors locked.
“All this way and she forgets the key,” Nightshade muttered.
“I don’t need a key,” said Mina. “This is my tower.”
Letting go of Rhys’ hand, she walked up to the great doors and, pushing on them with all her strength, gave them a shove. At her touch, the massive doors swung slowly open.
Mina bounded inside, looking about her with a child’s wonder and curiosity. Rhys followed more slowly. Though the tower was constructed of crystal, some magic in the walls blocked the light. The morning sun could not even enter the door, but was swallowed up at the threshold. Inside, all was darkness. He halted just inside the doorway.
Slowly, as his eyes grew accustomed to the cool, damp darkness, he became aware that the tower’s interior was not as dark as it had first seemed. The crystal walls diffused the sunlight, so that the interior was illuminated with a pale, soft light, reminiscent of moonglow.
The entrance hall was cavernous. A spiral staircase carved into the crystal walls wound round the interior, leading upward, out of sight. Globes of magical light were placed at intervals along the stairway, to guide the way of those who walked it. Most of the globes flickered like guttered candles, as though their magic was starting to wane. Some had gone out completely.
Long ago, the entry hall of the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar must have been magnificent. Here the wizards of Istar would have welcomed fellow wizards and other guests and dignitaries. Here, they must have waited for the Kingpriest, handing over to him the keys to their beloved tower, agreeing in sorrow to surrender rather than risk the lives of innocents in battle.
Perhaps the Kingpriest was the very last mortal to walk this hall, Rhys thought. He pictured the Kingpriest, splendid in his misguided glory, taking a triumphant victory lap, congratulating himself on having driven out his enemies before he locked and sealed the great doors behind him. Locked and sealed Istar’s doom.
Nothing of glory or magnificence was left. The walls were wet and grimy, covered in sand and silt. The floor was ankle-deep in sludge, dead fish, and seaweed.
“Ugh! Your tower stinks, Mina!” said Nightshade loudly. Catching hold of Rhys’ sleeve, the kender added in low, urgent tones, “Be careful! I thought I heard voices whispering. Over there.” He jerked his thumb.
Rhys looked intently into the shadows in the direction Nightshade had indicated. Rhys saw nothing, but he could feel eyes watching him and he could hear someone sucking in gasping breaths, as though he or she had run a long distance.
Exertion did not bother the Beloved. Whoever was lurking in the shadows must be a living being. Rhys had assumed the tower to be vacant-after all, it had been dragged up from the bottom of the sea. He started to think his assumption was wrong. Nuitari had built the tower of his magic; he would have almost certainly found a way for his wizards to inhabit it, even though it had rested on the bottom of the ocean.
Rhys looked at Atta, who usually warned him of peril. She was aware of something in the shadows, for she would occasionally turn her head to glare in that direction. The Beloved represented the greatest danger to her, however, and her attention was fixed on them. She barked a sharp warning.
Rhys turned to see the Beloved crowding around the open door. They did not enter, but hesitated, dead eyes watching Mina.
“Keep them out!” she told Rhys. “I don’t want them in here.”
“The brat’s right,” snarled a high-pitched, nasal whine from the shadows. “Don’t let those fiends in! They’ll murder us all. Shut the doors!”
Rhys would have liked nothing better than to obey the command, but he had no idea how the doors operated. Constructed of blocks of obsidian, red granite and white marble, the double doors were four times the height of a man, and must each weigh as much as a small house.
“Tell me how to close them,” he shouted.
“How in the Abyss should we know?” a deeper voice boomed irascibly. “You opened the blasted doors! You shut them!”
But Rhys had not opened the doors. Mina had, and she was too terrified of the Beloved to go back. The Beloved continued to mass around the entrance, but they could not find a way inside, and that appeared to be frustrating them.
“Some force seems to be blocking them,” Rhys called out to the strangers in the shadows. “I presume you two are wizards. Do you have any idea what the force is or how long it will last?”
He heard snatches of a whispered consultation, then two wizards dressed in black robes emerged from the shadows. One was tall and thin with the pointed ears of an elf and the face of a savage mongrel. His hair was ragged and disheveled, his robes were tattered and filthy. His slanted eyes darted about like the head of a striking snake. Once, by accident, the eyes met Rhys’ gaze and immediately slithered away.
The other wizard was a dwarf, short of stature with broad shoulders and a long beard. The dwarf was cleaner than his companion. His eyes, barely visible beneath shaggy brows, were cunning and cold.
Both wizards appeared to have gone through some traumatic ordeal, for the half-elf’s face was bruised. He had a black eye and he had tied a dirty rag around his left wrist. The dwarf’s head was swathed in bloody bandages and he was limping.
“I am Rhys Mason,” Rhys announced. “This is Nightshade.”
“I’m Mina,” said the girl, at which the dwarf gave a perceptible start and stared at her narrowly.
The half-elf sneered.
“Who gives a rat’s ass who you are, twerp,” he said in loathing.
The dwarf cast him a baleful glance, then said, “I am called Basalt. This is Caele.” He was speaking to Rhys, but he kept staring at Mina. “How did you get into our tower?”
“What is the force blocking the door?” Rhys persisted.
Basalt and Caele exchanged glances.
“We think it might be the Master,” Basalt said reluctantly. “Which means he allowed you to come inside and he’s keeping the fiends out. What we want to know is why he let you in here.”
Mina had been staring at the wizards. Her brow furrowed, as though trying to recall where she’d seen them before.
“I know you,” she said suddenly. “You tried to kill me.” She pointed to the half-elf.
“She’s lying!” Caele yelped. “I never saw this brat before in my life! You have five seconds to tell me why you are here or I’ll cast a spell that will reduce you to-”