The chain slid through Nightshade’s hands, and the kender sat down on his bottom.
He repeated the bad word. Standing up, he tried again and this time he kept hold of the chain.
The iron ring didn’t budge.
Nightshade gave up. Following the chain, he made his way back to where Rhys lay on the ground, and kneeling beside his friend, he smoothed back the blood-gummed hair from the still face. Atta lay down beside him and began, again, to assiduously lick Rhys’s cheek.
“We’re not leaving, Rhys,” Nightshade told him. “Are we, Atta? You see—she says no, we’re not. Not this time.” He tried to strike a cheerful note. “Maybe the next time the ground shakes, the wall will split right open and knock those iron rings loose!”
Of course, Nightshade said to himself, if the wall does split open the ceiling will crash down on top of us and bury us alive, but I won’t mention that.
“I’m here, Rhys.” Nightshade took hold of his friend’s limp hand and held it tight. “And so’s Atta.”
13
Beneath the red-tinged water of the Blood Sea, inside the Tower of High Sorcery, Basalt and Caele were hard at work scrubbing and polishing, making ready for an influx of wizards —the twenty or so chosen Black Robes who were going to be leaving their homes on land to join Nuitari.
The Tower of the Blood Sea was now open and ready for business.
Following the meeting between the cousins, Nuitari realized there was no longer any need to keep his Tower secret. He gave the news to Dalamar, Head of the Black Robes, and told the elven archmage to issue an invitation to any Black Robes who wanted to come study in the new Tower.
The invitation included Dalamar, who had respectfully declined, saying it was necessary for the Black Robes to maintain their representation in Wayreth. Privately Dalamar thought that he would just as soon be shut up in a tomb as buried beneath the sea, away from the wind and the trees, blue skies and bright sunlight. He said as much to Jenna.
As Head of the Conclave, she was not at all happy about the decision made by the gods. She was opposed to separating the Robes again. The same had been done in the days before the Kingpriest, each Robe claiming its own Tower, with tragic results. Jenna made her opposition known to Lunitari, but the goddess of the Red Moon was so inordinately pleased with having the magnificent Tower of Wayreth all to herself that she would not listen. As for Solinari, his chosen, Coryn the White, was already putting together an expedition of White Robes to go forth to recover the accursed Tower that had formerly been in Palanthas and was now inside the heart of the dark land of the undead, Nightlund.
As for Dalamar, his reservations had nothing to do with the Tower itself, just its location. He considered that a Tower for the Black Robes was long overdue. Only Jenna had serious reservations, and she could not really take time to pursue them as she might have done. The Conclave was in the throes of a bitter argument over how to handle the situation with the Beloved—now that the horrible means of destroying them had become known. The Black Robes were all for recruiting armies of children and sending them forth to do battle. Rumor had it some had done just that.
As the news and the fear spread, any person who had the misfortune to be different from his neighbors or had fallen out with the townspeople, or who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time might be accused of being a Beloved and either arrested or attacked by mobs. Since wizards tended to be mysterious folk who kept to themselves and were generally feared, they became easy targets. Jenna was now hard at work trying to find a magical spell to put a stop to the Beloved, thus far to no avail. A Tower beneath the sea was the least of her worries, so she dropped the argument.
Nuitari had won and he had Chemosh to thank, which the God of the Dark Moon thought extremely ironic.
Inside the Tower, Basalt was making up beds, while Caele mostly stood around watching Basalt. A large pile of mattresses had been hauled up from the storage room. The apprentice mages had to carry each mattress into each room, wrestle it onto the wooden bed frame, then cover it with linens and a blanket.
The two were working in the chambers where the high-ranking Black Robes would reside—each in his or her own private quarters. The mattresses for these beds were made of goose down, the sheets were fine linen, the blankets softest wool. Rooms for lower ranking wizards were smaller and had mattresses of straw. Apprentice wizards shared rooms and in some cases shared mattresses. Thus far, only high-ranking wizards had been invited by the god. They were due to arrive tomorrow morning.
“You’re going to have to help me shift this,” Basalt said. He indicated a mattress on the top of the pile that was out of the reach of the dwarf’s short arms. “I can’t reach it.”
Caele heaved the long-suffering sigh of the overworked and took hold of the ends of the mattress. He gave a half-hearted attempt, then he moaned and clutched his back.
“All this bending and lifting. I’ve torn a muscle.”
Basalt glowered at him. “How did you tear a muscle? The heaviest thing you’ve lifted thus far is a glass of the Master’s best wine, and don’t think I won’t tell him!”
“I was tasting it to see if it had gone bad,” said Caele sullenly. “You wouldn’t want to serve the archmagi bad wine, now, would you?”
“Just help me lift the damn mattress,” growled Basalt.
Caele raised his hands, and before Basalt could stop him, the elf waved his hands and muttered a few words. The mattress floated up off the pile and hung suspended in the air.
“What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be using magic for housekeeping chores!” Basalt cried, scandalized. “What if the Master should see you? End that spell!”
“Very well,” said Caele, and he withdrew the magic, with the result that the mattress crashed down on top of the dwarf, flattening him.
Caele sniggered. Basalt gave a muffled howl. The dwarf emerged from beneath the mattress with murder in his eye.
“You told me to end the spell.” Caele’s lip curled. “I was merely obeying orders. You are the Caretaker, after all—”
Caele stopped talking. His eyes widened. “What is that?”
Basalt’s eyes were white-rimmed. He shivered at the terrible sound. “I don’t know! I’ve never heard anything like it.”
The low rumbling noise, like enormous boulders all being tumbled about, grinding together, came from far, far below their feet. The noise grew louder and louder, coming nearer and nearer. The stack of mattresses began to jiggle. The floor started to shake. Desks and bed frames began to skitter and dance across the floor. The walls quivered.
The shaking entered Basalt’s feet and went from there into his bones. His teeth clicked together, and he bit his tongue. Caele staggered into the pile of mattresses and stood braced against them.
The shaking ceased.
Basalt gave a gasping croak and pointed.
The floor, which had been perfectly level, was now pitched at a steep angle. A bed frame came sliding slowly down the hall with a desk right behind it. Caele pushed himself off the mattresses.
“Zeboim!” he snarled. “The sea bitch is back!”
Basalt staggered across the canting floor, walking uphill, and entered one of the rooms. All the furniture was piled up in a heap against the far wall. Basalt ignored the destruction and headed for the crystal window, which provided a spectacular view of the Tower’s underwater kingdom. Caele followed close at the dwarf’s heels.
Both of them stared out into the water that was thick with red silt churned up from the floor. The silt swirled about the Tower like tides of blood.
“I can’t see a thing in this murk,” Caele complained.
“Nor can I,” said Basalt, frustrated.
The Tower started to shake again. This time the floor canted in the other direction.