Caele and Basalt were run down by a cascade of furniture sliding across the floor. Both ended up slammed against the wall, Basalt trapped by a desk and Caele pinned by a bed frame.
The shaking ceased. Basalt had the strangest feeling that whatever was causing this upheaval was resting, catching its breath.
He shoved aside the bed frame, and ignoring Caele’s pleas for help, ran back to the window and looked out.
His nose pressed against the crystal, Basalt could see, amidst the swirling muck and bits of seaweed and frantically darting fish, a coral reef that snaked up from the ocean floor. Basalt had often enjoyed looking at this reef, for it reminded him of the formations of the underground world in which he’d lived for so long and which, on occasion, he still missed.
From this vantage point, he should be gazing directly across at the reef.
Now, instead, he stared down at the reef. It was several hundred feet beneath him. He looked up and saw moonlight and stars. . . .
“Master,” Basalt breathed, and then he howled, “Master! Nuitari! Save us!
The Tower began to shake again.
14
Mina stood alone on the battlements of the castle of the Lord of Death. An eerie amber glow lit the sky, the water and the land. She was darkness within its center and none could see her, though they were searching. Gods, mortals, all were searching for the reason the earth trembled.
Mina gazed out upon the water. Her love, her longing, her desire flowed from her and became the water. She willed it to be, and the Blood Sea began to boil and bubble. She willed it to be, and the motion of the water grew erratic. Waves crossed and criss-crossed and were flung back on each other.
Mina thrust her hands into the blood-red water and seized hold of the prize, the object of her lord’s desire, the gift that would make him fall in love with her. She shook it loose, then wrenched it from its moorings. Her exertions exhausted her, and she had to stop to rest and recover, then she began again.
The water of the Blood Sea started to slowly swirl around a central point. The Maelstrom—created by the gods to serve forever as warning to mankind in the Fourth Age—returned, moving sluggishly at first, then swirling faster and faster around the vortex that was Mina. Waves crashed against the cliffs, spewing foam and seawater. She felt the salt spray cool on her face. She licked her lips and tasted the salt, bitter, like tears, and the water, sweet, like blood.
Mina raised up her hand, and out of the center of the vortex came an island of black volcanic rock. Seawater poured off the island as it burst from the midst of the maelstrom, the water cascading down shining black crags. Mina placed her prize upon the island, and like a precious jewel on a black salver. The Tower of High Sorcery that had once been beneath the waves now rose above them.
The Tower, with its faceted, crystal walls, caught and held the amber light of Mina’s eyes, as the amber of her eyes caught and held the Tower.
The maelstrom ceased to swirl. The sea calmed. Water ran down the black rocks of the newly born island and poured in sheets down the smooth crystal walls of the Tower.
Mina smiled. Then she collapsed.
The amber glow vanished. Only the light of the two moons, silver and red, gleamed in the walls of the Tower, and these godly eyes no longer winked.
They were wide with shock.
15
Nightshade woke to cold water in his face and a thumping pain in his head. This led him to erroneously conclude that he was a young kender again, back in his bed, being roused by his parents, who had discovered that only a combination of water and a good smack to the cheek would wake the son who spent his nights roaming graveyards.
“It’s still dark, Mother!” Nightshade mumbled irritably and rolled over.
His mother barked.
Nightshade found this strange behavior in a mother, even a kender mother, but his head hurt too much for him to think about it. He just wanted to go back to sleep, so he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the cold water seeping into his britches.
His mother nipped him quite painfully on the ear.
“Now, really, Ma!” Nightshade exclaimed, indignant, and he sat up and opened his eyes.
“Mother?” He couldn’t see a thing, but he could tell by the feel that he wasn’t in bed. He was sitting on a lot of extremely sharp rocks that were poking him in tender places: the rocks were wet and getting wetter.
A bark answered him, a rough tongue licked his face, a paw with sharp nails scratched at him, and Nightshade remembered.
“Rhys!” He gasped and reached out to touch Rhys’s hand. Rhys was only lukewarm, and he was also wet.
Nightshade had no idea why a previously bone-dry grotto should now be filling up with seawater, but that was apparently what was happening. He could hear the water gurgling among the rubble that littered the cavern floor. It wasn’t very deep yet; thus far it was only a trickle. The water might stick to trickling, but again, it might not. It might decide to start flooding. If the grotto flooded, there was nowhere for them to go. The water would keep getting deeper and deeper....
“Rhys,” said Nightshade firmly, and this time he meant it. “We have to get out of here.”
He slammed his hand down on the rocks to emphasize his determination and said, “Ouch!” following that up with a “Damn!”
He had slammed his hand down on a splinter of wood that had buried itself in the soft, fleshy part of his palm. He plucked it out and was about to toss it away, when it occurred to him that finding a splinter of wood here in a grotto was an odd thing. Being a kender, Nightshade was naturally curious—even in such a dire situation—and he ran his hand over the splinter, and noticed it was long and smooth and had a sharp point at both ends.
“Ah, I know. It’s part of Rhys’s staff,” said Nightshade sadly, clasping his hand over it. “I’ll save it for him. A memento. He’ll like that.”
Nightshade heaved a sigh and rested his aching head in his arms, wondering how they were ever going to get out of this horrible place. He felt sick and drowsy and once more he was a little kender, only this time his father was trying to show him how to pick a lock.
“You do it by feel and by sound,” his father was explaining to him. “You put the lock pick in here, and you wiggle it around until you feel it catch—”
Nightshade jerked his head up so fast that blazing pain burst on the backs of his eyeballs. He didn’t notice. Much. He looked down at the splinter in his hand, except he couldn’t see it, what with the grotto being so very dark, but he didn’t need to be able to see. It was all done by feel and sound.
The only problem was that Nightshade had never successfully picked a lock in his life. In many ways, he had been, as father often lamented, a failure as a kender.
“Not this time,” Nightshade vowed, determined. “This time I’ll succeed. I have to,” he added silently. “I just have to!”
He groped about with his hands until he found one of the manacles clamped around Rhys’s bony wrists. The water level was continuing to rise, but Nightshade put that out of his mind.
Atta whimpered softly and licked Rhys’s face and flopped down on her belly alongside him. The fact that she splashed was somewhat disconcerting. Nightshade didn’t let himself think about that. He had other things to think about, the first being to convince his hand to stop shaking. This took a few moments, then, holding his breath and thrusting out his tongue, which is essential to successful lock picking, he inserted the splinter of wood into the lock on the manacle.
“Please don’t break!” he told the splinter, then he remembered the staff had been blessed by the god, so perhaps the splinter was also blessed.
And so, Nightshade remembered suddenly, am I!
“I don’t suppose,” Nightshade muttered, speaking to the god, “that you ever helped anyone pick a lock before, or that you ever wanted to help anyone pick a lock before, but please, Majere, please help me do this!”