Mina swam underwater as though she’d been born to it, darting around them like a minnow, urging them to hurry. Rhys had learned to swim in the monastery, but he was hampered by his robes and by his staff, which he did not want to leave behind, and by his concern for Nightshade.
The kender had never learned to swim. He had never wanted to learn to swim. Now, given no choice in the matter, he thrashed about wildly, making no progress in any direction. He was about to give swimming up as hopeless when Atta passed him, churning the water with her front paws. Nightshade watched the dog and decided to emulate her. Not having paws, he used his hands and arms to paddle, and soon was able to keep up with the rest.
Mina swam excitedly on ahead, motioning for them to hurry. When they reached her, she was floating in the water, making small swirling motions with her hands, hovering above what appeared to be a child’s sand castle.
Simple in design, the castle was constructed of four walls four feet in height and four feet long, with a tall tower at each corner. There were no windows and only one door, though that door was a marvel.
Three feet tall and not very wide, the door was made of myriad pearls that shimmered with a purple luster. A single rune carved out of a large emerald glowed in the center.
Mina motioned to Rhys, and as he swam awkwardly near her, pushing the staff ahead of him. She gestured at the sand castle and eagerly nodded.
“The Hall of Sacrilege,” she mouthed.
Rhys stared in astonishment.
The infamous Hall of Sacrilege-a child’s sand castle. Rhys shook his head. Mina frowned at him and, reaching out, she grabbed hold of his staff and pulled him through the water. She pointed to the emerald rune embedded in the door. Rhys swam closer and caught a watery breath in awe. Carved into the rune was a figure 8 turned on its side, a symbol with no ending and no beginning, the symbol of eternity.
Rhys propelled himself backward. Mina regarded him, puzzled. She pointed at the door.
“Open it!” she commanded in a flurry of bubbles.
Rhys shook his head. This was the Solio Febalas, repository of some of the most holy artifacts ever created by gods and man, and the door was shut and the door was sealed. He was not meant to enter. No mortal was meant to enter. Perhaps not even the gods themselves were meant to enter this sacred place.
Mina tugged at him, urging him. Rhys shook his head emphatically, and drew back. He wished he could explain to her, but he could not. He turned and started to swim off.
She swam after him and grabbed hold of him again. Childlike, she was determined to have her way. Rhys had the feeling that if they’d been on dry land, she would have stamped her foot.
Rhys would have continued to refuse, but at that moment, the decision was taken away from him.
Even deep below the sea, he could hear the one single word dreaded throughout Krynn by anyone traveling with a kender.
“Oops!”
“Hey!” Caele cried, alarmed. “Where did they go?”
The two Black Robes, intent on killing each other, had been muttering arcane words and fumbling about in their pouches for spell components when they realized they were alone. Kender, kid, dog, and monk had disappeared.
“Damn their eyeballs!” Caele swore, seething. “They’ve found a way inside!”
The half-elf dashed down the stairs, skidding to a halt when he reached the bottom. The shards of broken glass were still there, sticking up out of the sand.
“If you hadn’t been so eager to slit my throat, we’d be in there helping ourselves to the riches.” Basalt shook his fist at the half-elf.
“You’re right, of course, Basalt,” said Caele with sudden meekness. “You’re always right. Give the Master my regards.”
The half-elf raised his hand in a flourish and vanished.
“Huh?” Basalt blinked. “What-”
The dwarf suddenly understood. He sucked in a huge breath and let it out in a roar. “He’s gone after them!”
Basalt did a quick mental run-through of his spell catalog and began a feverish rummage through his pouches of spell components to see what he had on hand. He’d come prepared to do battle, not for traveling to an unknown destination across a sea bottom covered with broken glass. He wondered what magic Caele had used, decided most likely the half-elf had cast a spell known as Dimension Door, a favorite of Caele’s, for it required only spoken words, no spell components. Caele disliked casting spells that used components, mainly because he was too lazy to gather them.
Basalt was familiar with the Dimension Door spell himself, but it had one drawback. In order to cast the spell, the wizard had to know where he was going, for he had to visualize the location. Basalt had no idea where the Hall of Sacrilege was or what it looked like. He had never been inside the water-filled globe that protected it.
Caele, on the other hand, had been inside the globe. He had been sent-under duress-to the dragon, Midori, to collect a small amount of her blood which Nuitari had used in the Dragon-sight bowl, allowing him to spy on his enemies. Caele had never mentioned seeing the Hall, but the half-elf was a sneaking, cunning, lying bastard, and Basalt guessed that Caele had done some snooping about while he was down there and simply not mentioned it.
Picturing Caele in the Hall, scooping up treasures right and left, Basalt gnashed his teeth in anger. He glared irately at the broken glass blocking his way and thought wistfully about how wonderful it would be if he could just float over it, and that brought a spell to mind.
Basalt didn’t have the requisite pure components on hand, but he could make do. The spell required gauze; he tore the bandage from his forehead and, using his knife, cut off a piece. He generally carried a bit of candle with him, for flame or wax always came in handy. The candle was beeswax, one he’d made himself and he was quite proud of it, for it was magical.
Holding the gauze in one hand and the candle in the other, he spoke the command word and the candle burst into flame. He held the gauze in the flame until it caught fire, let it burn a moment, then blew it out. A thin wisp of smoke trailed up from the blackened fabric. Basalt spoke a magical word and waited a tense moment to see if the spell would work.
He felt a strange and unpleasant sensation, as though flesh and bone, skin and muscle were being magically rendered into a liquid state and then he oozed away, leaving behind a gaseous, insubstantial form. Basalt had not used this spell in some time and it occurred to him-belatedly-that he wasn’t sure how one managed to get one’s body back again. He would worry about that later, however. Right now he had to catch up with Caele.
Drifting along with the air currents, the gaseous form of Basalt-looking like a hairy cloud of black smoke-wafted over the broken glass and entered what was left of the crystal globe.
10
Nightshade had been understandably miffed at Mina for dunking him in sea water and then nearly drowning him, but, after a while, he forgave her. He liked the novelty of being able to breath under water and swim like a fish-or rather, like Atta. He was paddling along through the sea, enjoying the view, wondering if he had gills on his neck and if they were pulsing in and out, and feeling his neck to see if he did, and being disappointed to discover that he didn’t, when he came to the sand castle.
Rhys and Mina were arguing. Mina apparently wanted Rhys to go inside, and Rhys was having none of it, which Nightshade, as a kender with common sense, approved, for he guessed immediately this building must be the Solo of the Feeble-minded or the Hall of Sacred Litches or whatever it was called.