Sweat dripped down Nightshade’s nose. He wiggled the splinter around in the lock, trying to find the whatever it was that he was supposed to find that would click and make the lock open. All he knew was that he would feel it, he would trip it, and if he was successful, he would hear it go “snick.”
He concentrated, shutting out everything, and suddenly a sweet feeling stole over him—a feeling of joy, a feeling that everything in this world belonged to him, and that if there were no locks, no closed doors, no secrets, this world would be a much better place. He felt the joy of the open road, of never sleeping in the same place twice, of finding a jail that was warm and dry and a jailer as nice as Gerard. He felt the joy of stumbling across interesting things that glittered, smelled good, or were soft or shiny. He felt the joy of full pouches.
The splinter touched what it was supposed to touch, and something went “snick,” and that was the most wonderful sound in the universe.
The manacle fell open in Nightshade’s hand.
“Father!” he cried excitedly. “Father, did you see that?”
He didn’t have time to wait for an answer, which might be long in coming, for his father had long ago gone off to pick locks in some other existence. Crawling over the debris and through the water, keeping fast hold of the splinter, Nightshade found the manacle that was clamped around Rhys’s other wrist and he thrust the splinter into the lock and it went “snick” too.
Nightshade took a moment to lift up Rhys’s head out of the water. He propped Rhys up on a rock and then fished about until he found Rhys’s feet. Nightshade had to dig them out from beneath a pile of rubble, but Atta helped him, and after more expert lock picking, he heard two more immensely satisfying “snicks”, and Rhys was free.
An extremely good thing, for by now the water level in the grotto had risen so high that, even with his head propped up, Rhys was in danger of drowning.
Nightshade squatted down beside his friend. “Rhys, if you could wake up now, it would be really helpful, because my head hurts, my legs are all wobbly, and there are a lot of rocks in the way, not to mention the water. I don’t think I can carry you out of here, so if you could get up and walk . . .”
Nightshade waited hopefully, but Rhys did not move.
The kender gave another deep sigh then, slipping the precious splinter into a pocket, he reached down and took hold of Rhys’s shoulders, intending to drag him across the grotto floor.
He made it about six inches, then his arms gave out and so did his legs. He sat down with a plop in the water and wiped away sweat.
Atta growled.
“I can’t do it, Atta,” Nightshade mumbled. “I’m sorry. I tried. I really did try—”
Atta wasn’t growling at him. Nightshade heard the sounds of feet—a great many feet—sloshing through water. Then there was bright light that hurt his eyes, and six monks of Majere, clad in orange robes and carrying flaming torches, hurried past the kender.
Two of the monks held the torches. Four monks bent down, picked up Rhys gently by his arms and legs, and carried Rhys swiftly out of the grotto. Atta dashed after them.
Nightshade sat alone in the darkness, staring about in dazed wonder.
Torchlight returned. A monk stood over him, looked down on him. “Are you hurt, friend?”
“No,” said Nightshade. “Yes. Maybe a little.”
The monk placed a cool hand on Nightshade’s forehead. The pain disappeared. Strength flowed into his limbs.
“Thank you, Brother,” said Nightshade, allowing the monk to help him to his feet. He still felt a little wobbly. “I guess Majere sent you, huh?”
The monk did not reply, but he continued to smile, so Nightshade, knowing Rhys didn’t talk much either and assuming maybe this was normal with monks, took the monk’s silence for a yes.
As Nightshade and the monk walked toward the entrance, the kender was in deep thought, and just before they left the grotto, Nightshade grabbed hold of the monk’s sleeve and gave it a tug.
“I spoke to Majere in what you might call a sharp tone,” Nightshade said remorsefully. “I was pretty blunt, and I might have hurt his feelings. Would you tell him I’m sorry?”
“Majere knows that you spoke out of love for your friend,” said the monk. “He is not angry. He honors you for your loyalty.”
“Does he?” Nightshade flushed with pleasure. Then he felt overcome with guilt. “He helped me pick the lock. He blessed me. I suppose I ought to worship him, but I can’t. It just doesn’t feel right.”
“What we believe is not important,” said the monk gently. “That we believe is.”
The monk bowed to Nightshade, who was considerably flustered by this show of respect. He made an awkward bow in turn, bending at the waist, which caused several valuable objects he hadn’t remembered he had to tumble out of his shirt pocket. He dropped down to fish about for them in the water, and it was only after he had either retrieved them or admitted they were gone for good, that he realized the monk and the torch had departed.
By this time, though, Nightshade didn’t need the light. He was enveloped in the strange amber glow he’d noticed earlier.
He walked out of the grotto, thinking he’d never in his life been so glad to leave anywhere and vowing he would never set foot in another cave so long as he lived. He looked around, hoping to talk to the monk again, for he didn’t quite understand that stuff about believing.
There were no monks.
But there was Rhys, sitting on a hillock, trying to calm Atta, who was licking his face and his hands and climbing on top of him, nearly bowling him over with her frantic attentions.
Nightshade gave a glad cry and ran up the hill.
Rhys embraced him and held him fast.
“Thank you, my friend,” he said, and his voice was choked.
Nightshade felt a snuffle coming on himself, and he might have let it get the better of him, but at that moment Atta jumped on him and knocked him down, and the snuffle was washed away in dog slobber.
When Nightshade could at last shove the excited dog off him, he saw Rhys stand, staring out to sea, an expression of wonder on his face.
Solinari’s silver light shone coldly on an island in the middle of the sea. Lunitari’s red light illuminated a tower, black against the stars, pointing, like a dark accusation, toward the heavens.
“Was that there before?” asked Nightshade, scratching his head and pulling off another beetle.
“No,” said Rhys.
“Whoa, boy!” exclaimed Nightshade, awed. “I wonder who put it there?”
And, though he didn’t know it, he was echoing the gods.
16
The first thing Chemosh saw on entering his palace was Ausric Krell, alive and well and naked as the day he’d come (ass-first) into this world. The formidable death knight sat huddled in a corner of the grand hall, bemoaning his fate and shivering.
On hearing the entrance of the Lord of Death, Krell jumped to his feet and cried in fury, “Look what she did to me, Lord!” His voice rose to a screech. “Look!”
Chemosh looked and wished he hadn’t. The sight of the flabby, paunchy, fish-belly pale, hairy middle-aged man’s naked body was enough to turn even a god’s stomach. He glared at Krell in disgust mingled with anger.
“So Zeboim caught up with you,” Chemosh said coldly. “Where is she?”
“Zeboim! It was not Zeboim!” Krell clawed the air with his hands in his rage, as though he were clawing someone’s flesh. “Mina did this! Mina!”
“Don’t lie to me, slug,” said Chemosh, but even as he refuted Krell’s claim, the Lord of Death felt a terrible doubt darken his mind. “Where is Mina? Still locked up?”
Krell began to laugh. His face twisted with loathing and fear. “Locked up.” he repeated, mirth gurgling in his throat as though this were the funniest thing in the world.