“Every dog from six shires will be chasing after me,” the kender said grumpily. He pulled on his greasy boots and, grabbing another hunk of salt pork, bent down next to Rhys. “Your turn.”
“Nightshade, look.” Rhys pointed to the manacles that fit close around his bony ankles. He held up the manacles that were clamped tightly over his wrists, so tightly they had rubbed the skin raw.
Nightshade looked. His lower lip quivered. “It’s my fault.”
“No, of course, it isn’t your fault, Nightshade,” said Rhys, shocked. “What makes you think that?”
“If I were a proper kender, you wouldn’t be stuck here to die!” Nightshade cried. “I would have lock-pick tools, you see, and I could pick these locks like that.” He snapped his fingers, or tried to. Due to the grease, the snap didn’t come off very well. “My father gave me my set of lock-pick tools when I was twelve, and he tried to teach me how to use them. I wasn’t very good. Once I dropped the pick and it went ‘bang!’ and woke up the whole house. Another time the pick went right through the lock—I’m still not sure how—and ended up on the wrong side of the door, and I lost that one....”
Nightshade crossed his arms over his chest. “I won’t go! You can’t make me!”
“Nightshade,” said Rhys firmly. “You have to.”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s the only way to save me,” Rhys said in solemn tones.
Nightshade looked up.
“I’ve been thinking,” Rhys continued. “We’re on the Blood Sea. We must be somewhere close to Flotsam. There is a temple of Majere in Flotsam—”
“There is? That’s wonderful!” Nightshade cried, excited. “I can run to Flotsam and find the temple, round up the monks, bring them back, and they’ll kick butt and we’ll all rescue you!”
“That’s an excellent plan,” said Rhys.
Nightshade scrambled to his feet. “I’ll leave right now!”
“You must take Atta with you,” Rhys said. “For protection. Flotsam is a lawless town, or so I’ve heard.”
“Right! C’mon, Atta!” Nightshade whistled.
Atta rose to her feet but didn’t follow. She looked at Rhys. She sensed something wasn’t right.
“Atta, guard,” he said and pointed at the kender.
He often had her “guard” something, which meant she was to watch over an object, not let anyone near it. He’d left her to guard sick sheep while he went to go seek help. He’d often told her to guard Nightshade.
In this case, however, Rhys wasn’t leaving. He was staying, and the object she was supposed to guard was leaving. He didn’t know if she would understand and obey. She was accustomed to watching over the kender, however, and Rhys hoped she would go along with this now as she had done in the past. He had thought of trying to form a leash for her, but she had never known what it was to be tied up. He guessed that she would fight a leash and he didn’t have time for that. Night was coming very fast.
“Atta, here.”
The dog came to him. He put his hands over her head and looked into her brown eyes.
“Go with Nightshade,” he said. “Watch him. Guard him.”
Rhys drew her near and kissed her gently on the forehead. Then he let her go.
“Call her again.”
“Atta, come,” said Nightshade.
Atta looked at Rhys. He gestured toward the kender.
“Walk away now,” Rhys ordered Nightshade. “Quickly.”
Nightshade obeyed, walking toward the grotto’s entrance. Atta cast one more look at Rhys, then she obediently followed the kender. Rhys breathed a soft sigh.
Nightshade paused. “We’ll be back soon, Rhys. Don’t—don’t go anywhere.”
“Be safe, my friend,” Rhys replied. “You and Atta take care of each other.”
“We will.” Nightshade hesitated, then turned and bolted out of the cave. Atta dashed after the kender, just as she’d done many times before.
Rhys sank back against the rock wall. Tears came to his eyes, but he smiled through them.
“Forgive me the lie, Master,” he said quietly.
In all the long history of the monks of Majere, they had never built a temple in Flotsam.
Chemosh was always in the Hall of the Souls Passing and he went there very little—a contradiction that can be explained by the fact that one of the aspects of the Lord of Death was always present in the Hall, seated on his dark throne, reviewing all those souls who had left their mortal flesh behind and were about to embark on the next stage of the eternal journey.
Chemosh rarely returned to this aspect of himself. This place was too isolated, too far removed from the world of gods and men. The other gods were prohibited from coming to the Hall, lest they exert undue interference on the souls undergoing judgment.
The Lord of Death was permitted his final chance to try to sway souls to his evil cause, to prevent them from traveling on, to seize them and keep them. Souls who had learned life’s lessons were easily able to avoid his snares, as were innocent souls, such as those of infants.
One of the gods of Light or Neutrality could intercede on behalf of a soul, but only by casting a blessing on that soul before it entered the Hall. One such soul was standing before the onyx and silver throne now—a soul that was blackened yet shot through with blue light. The man had committed foul deeds, yet he had sacrificed his life to save children trapped in a fire. His soul’s journey would not be easy, for he still had much to learn, but Mishakal blessed him, and he managed to escape the bony, grasping hand of the Lord of Death. When Chemosh snagged a soul, he would seize it and fling it into the Abyss or send it back to inhabit the dead body that would now become its dreadful prison.
The gods of Dark might claim souls as well. Souls already promised to Morgion or cursed by Zeboim would enter the Hall bound in chains to be handed over by the Lord of Death to those gods they had sworn to serve.
Chemosh in his “mortal” aspect came to the Hall only during those times when he was deeply troubled. He enjoyed being reminded of his power. No matter what god a mortal worshipped in life, when that life ended, every soul stood before him. Even those who denied the existence of the gods found themselves here—a bit of a shock for most. They were judged on how they had lived their lives, not by whether or not they had professed a belief in a god during that life. A sorceress who had helped people throughout her life was sent on her way, while the grasping, covetous soul who had regularly cheated customers, yet never missed a Mi prayer service, fell victim to the blandishments of the Lord of Death and ended up in the Abyss.
Some souls could have departed but chose not to. A mother was reluctant to leave her little children; a husband did not want to leave his wife. These remained bound to those they loved until they could be persuaded that it was right for them to continue on, that the living had to go on with their lives and the dead should move forward as well.
Chemosh stood in the Hall watching the line of souls form, a line that was meant to be eternal, and he recalled the terrible time when the line had come to an abrupt and unexpected end. The time when the last soul had appeared before him, and he had looked about in an astonishment that knew no bounds. The Lord of Death had risen from his throne for the first time since he’d taken his place there at the start of creation, and he had stormed out of the Hall in a rage only to find that Takhisis had stolen away the world and taken the souls with her.
Chemosh had then learned the truth of a mortal adage: One never appreciated what one had until it was lost.
One also vowed that one would never lose it again.
Chemosh watched the souls come before him, and he listened to their stories, and wheeled and dealed and passed his judgment, and seized a few and let go a few, and waited to feel the warm glow of satisfaction.