Clouds of the flying, jumping insects whirred into the air. They had been living in the weed patch, and they were furious at being thus rudely disturbed. Grasshoppers were in Nightshade’s eyes, up his nose and crawling down his neck and into his pants. He rolled away from the weed patch, swatting, slapping and squirming. Atta was racing about in circles, snapping and biting at the insects. Nightshade frantically brushed several out of his eyes and then saw, to his astonishment, the hoppers had the Beloved under assault.
The two men were literally crawling with insects. Grasshoppers clung to every part of them. The grasshoppers were inside their mouths and swarming around their eyes and clogging up their nostrils. The buzzing, frantic insects crawled through their hair and festooned their arms and covered their legs, and still more grasshoppers were converging on the Beloved, flying up with angry, whirring sounds from the weeds all along the side the road.
The Beloved flailed their arms and did their own hopping as they fought to drive off the insects but, the more they fought, the more the grasshoppers seemed to take offense and attack them in a frenzy.
The grasshoppers that had been annoying Nightshade seemed to realize they were missing out on all the sport, for they buzzed off to join their fellows. Within moments, the Beloved were lost to sight, trapped inside a whirling cloudburst of insects.
“Golly!” said Nightshade in awe, and then he added, speaking to Atta, “Now’s our chance! Run for it!”
He had one more little burst of energy left in him, and he put his head down, pumped his feet, and went haring off down the road.
He was running, running, running, not watching where he was going, and Atta was panting along beside him when he ran headlong into something—blam!
The kender bounced off and went head over heels to land on his back on the road. Shaking his head groggily, he looked up.
“Golly,” said Nightshade again.
“I am sorry, friend,” said the monk, and he reached down a solicitous hand to assist Nightshade to his feet. “I should have been watching where I was going.”
The monk looked at Nightshade, then the monk looked down the road to where the Beloved were fleeing in the opposite direction, trying to rid themselves of the grasshoppers, which were still attacking them. The monk smiled slightly, and he regarded the kender in concern.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did they harm you?”
“N-no, Brother,” Nightshade stammered. “It’s a lucky thing those hoppers came along. . . .”
The kender had a sudden thought.
The monk was gaunt, slender, and all muscle, as Nightshade had reason to know, for crashing into the monk had been like crashing into the side of a mountain. The monk had iron-gray hair that he wore in a simple braid down the back of his neck. He was dressed in plain robes of a burnished orange color, trimmed with a rose motif around the hem and the sleeves. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw and dark eyes that were smiling now, but which could probably be very fierce if the monk chose.
Nightshade allowed the monk to lift him to his feet. He let the monk brush the dust off his clothes and pluck an errant and stubborn hopper from his hair. He saw that Atta was hanging back, cringing, not approaching the monk, and then and only then did the kender free his voice, which had gotten stuck in his throat.
“Did Majere send you, Brother? What am I saying? Of course, he sent you, just like he sent those hoppers!” Nightshade grabbed hold of the monk’s hand and tugged. “C’mon! I’ll take you to Rhys!”
The monk stood immovable. Nightshade couldn’t shift him and ended up nearly yanking himself off his feet.
“I am searching for Mina,” said the monk. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“Mina! Who cares about her?” Nightshade cried.
He fixed the monk with a stern look. “You’ve got this mixed up, Brother. You’re not looking for Mina. I never asked Majere about Mina. You’re looking for Rhys. Rhys Mason, follower of Majere. Mina works for Chemosh—another god entirely.”
“Nevertheless,” said the monk, “I am searching for Mina and I must find her quickly, before it is too late.”
“Too late for what? Oh, too late for Rhys! That’s why we should hurry! C’mon, Brother! Let’s go!”
The monk did not move. He cast a frowning glance skyward.
“Yeah, peculiar color, isn’t it?” Nightshade craned his head. “I was noticing that myself. Kind of a weird amber glow. I think it must be the Aura Boolyris or whatever they call it.”
The kender grew stern and quite serious. “Now see here, Brother Monk, I’m grateful for the grasshoppers and all, but we don’t have time to stand around blathering about the strange color in the night sky! Rhys is in danger. We have to go! Now!”
The monk did not seem to hear. He gazed off into the distance, as though he was trying to find something, and then he shook his head. “Blind!” he murmured. “I am blind! All of us . . . blind. She is here, but I can’t see her. I can’t find her.”
Nightshade heard the agony in the monk’s voice, and his heart was wrung. He saw something else, too, something about the monk that, like the Beloved, he should have noticed before now. He looked at Atta, cringing and cowering—something the gallant dog never did.
No life light shone from the body of the monk, but unlike the Beloved, the body had an ethereal, insubstantial quality about it, almost as if the monk had been painted on night’s canvas. The pieces of the puzzle started to fall together for Nightshade, falling so hard they smacked him a good one to the side of the head.
“Oh, my god!” Nightshade gasped, then, realizing what he’d said, he clapped his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, sir!” he mumbled through his fingers. “I didn’t mean to take your name in vain. It just slipped out!”
He sank down on his knees and hung his head.
“It’s all right about Rhys, Your Godship,” the kender said miserably. “I know now why you have to go to Mina. Well, maybe I don’t know, but I can guess.” He lifted his head to see the monk regarding him strangely. “It’s all so sad, isn’t it? About her, I mean.”
“Yes,” said the monk quietly. “So very sad.”
Majere knelt down beside Nightshade and rested his hand on his head. He put his other hand on Atta, who lowered her head at the god’s gentle touch.
“You have my blessing, both of you, and Rhys Mason has my blessing. He has faith and he has courage, and he has the love of true friends. Go back to him. He needs your help. My duty lies elsewhere this night, but know that I am with you.”
Majere stood up and looked toward the castle, its walls bathed in the eerie, lurid glow. He began to walk toward it.
Nightshade leaped to his feet. He felt refreshed, as though he’d slept for a week and eaten fourteen enormous dinners into the bargain. His body hummed with renewed strength and energy. He cast a glance down the ridgeline in the direction of the cave, and his joy slipped.
“Brother God!” Nightshade cried. “I’m sorry to bother you again, after everything you’ve done for us. Thank you for the hoppers, by the way, and for your blessing. I feel lots better. There’s just one more thing.”
He waved his hand. “These boulders are difficult to climb over and they’re awfully hard, sir,” he said meekly, “and sharp.”
The monk smiled, and as he smiled, the boulders disappeared and the hillside was awash in lush green grass.
“Wahoo!” Nightshade cried. Waving his arms and shouting, he dashed down the hill. “Rhys, Rhys, hold on! We’re coming to save you! Majere blessed us, Rhys! He blessed me, a kender!”
Atta, glad to be finally heading the right direction, skimmed over the ground, passing the whooping kender with ease and soon leaving him far behind.