“Yup,” Kronn agreed. “But that’s not what’s troubling me most. You heard what Baloth said about the attack, when it’s happening. We’ve only got three weeks.”
“I know,” Riverwind said. “We can’t get everyone out of Kendermore before then.”
“We might get about three-quarters of the population out,” Kronn said. “Maybe more, if Catt can hurry things up. I’ll talk to her about that. But there’ll still be ten, maybe fifteen thousand of us left when the ogres attack.”
For an instant, Riverwind’s shoulders slumped with defeat, but then he recovered, forcing stoicism back onto his face. “Do you know where Malystryx lives?”
Kronn frowned. “Yes,” he said. “Father told me her lair was at Blood Watch. Why do you ask?”
Riverwind didn’t answer; he pursed his lips and stroked his chin, deep in thought. He knew of Blood Watch: Elistan had told him the story, many years ago. The old cleric, who had been a leader of the Seeker order before Goldmoon turned him to the true gods, had known many such tales from his studies, and had related them to Riverwind and his companions. Now, Riverwind strove to remember his words.
“Blood Watch,” Elistan had said, “was once a monastery devoted to an ancient god of thought-Majere, the Disks of Mishakal call him. Of course, it wasn’t called Blood Watch then. That would come after.”
“After what?” Tasslehoff had asked. It was rare that Elistan would get through an entire story without Tas interrupting at least once.
“Hush, Tas,” Tanis had said.
Elistan, however, had smiled patiently. “I will tell you,” he said. “When the Kingpriest grew corrupt in his own goodness, and the persecutions grew worse all over Istar-inquisitions, burnings, stonings-the people went to the monastery and begged the monks for help. But the monks turned them away. ‘Our duty to our god,’ they told the people, ‘is to watch the world unfold, and to think on it. It is not our place to act.’
“In truth, however, the monks could have acted… and should have,” the old cleric had said. “Who knows what might have been different if they had?”
“Nothing,” Raistlin had hissed. “Nothing would have been different. Larger rocks have been thrown into the river of time before, without changing its course. No group of monks could have changed the Kingpriest’s mind-the Cataclysm would have happened, whatever they did.”
Riverwind had glared at the cynical mage, but Raistlin had only sneered, his disturbing, hourglass eyes glittering as his lip curled in derision.
“The monks thought as you do, Raistlin Majere,” Elistan had continued, his rich voice breaking the brittle silence. There had been no sign of reproach in his kind face. “They believed it was better to contemplate life than to live it, so they ignored the people’s pleas, no matter how loud they became. Instead they remained in their cloisters, meditating. Whether they saw what lay ahead I cannot say, but if they did, they did nothing to stop it, even when the gods sent their Thirteen Signs to thwart the Kingpriest. Perhaps they thought they were being humble, but too much humility can be just as bad as too much pride-as they learned one day, not long after Yule, when the sky began to rain fire.
“The monks gathered in the courtyard of their abbey and watched as destruction fell upon the land. Even then, with the end at hand, they ignored the cries of the people, who pounded upon the doors of the monastery, begging for succor. Then, with a roar, the Cataclysm struck. The burning mountain streaked down from the sky, far to the north, and the ground erupted. The earth dropped away, and the sea poured in, drowning the empire of Istar-but not all of it. The destruction stopped at the edge of the monastery, cleaving the hill on which it stood in two. The northern slope dropped away into the newborn Blood Sea, but the rest remained, leaving the abbey perched upon a clifftop above the surf, on the north shore of what is now the Goodlund peninsula.
“How the monks perished is uncertain,” Elistan had concluded. “In some tellings of this tale, they choked to death on the smoke and ash of Istar’s doom. In others, the desperate peasants broke in at last, murdered the monks, and looted the monastery. And in still others, they took their own lives when they saw the despair their inaction had wrought. In any case, however, they died soon after the Cataclysm, and the ruins of the abbey became known as Blood Watch-both because it overlooks the Blood Sea, and also because of the monks’ belief that it was better to contemplate the suffering of the people than to do anything about it. Some legends even say the monks’ spirits still haunt Blood Watch, doomed forever to look upon the red waters below and never know if they could have done anything to stop the devastation of the world.”
Riverwind became aware that someone was tugging on his arm. He looked down, his gaze still slightly abstracted, and saw Kronn holding his wrist, gazing up at him with concern.
“Riverwind?” the kender asked. “Are you all right?”
The old Plainsman blinked, caught for a moment between memory and reality then nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was thinking.”
“I figured that was it,” Kronn said. “Either that or you were having some kind of fit. What’s the matter?”
Riverwind put a hand to his forehead, feeling tired. “Kronn,” he asked, “do you know the way to Blood Watch?”
The kender nodded, understanding. “I had a feeling you might ask that,” he said. He patted his map pouch. “The tunnels go out that way. I’ve been there once, a while back, to look for the monks’ ghosts. Didn’t find any, which was a pity-and Paxina tells me the ruins are gone now, thanks to Malys. She’s changed the land out there, kind of like she’s doing to the Kenderwood. Built herself a volcano for a lair, from what I hear… hey, where are you going?”
While Kronn was expounding, Riverwind had started to walk, moving down the street with purpose. The kender had to run to catch up.
“Come on,” Riverwind said. “We need to talk to Paxina.”
Riverwind and Kronn were hurrying down Milkweed Avenue, a crooked, tree-lined road that periodically grew so narrow that the Plainsman had to turn sideways to keep from getting stuck between the buildings on either side. All of a sudden it bent sharply to the right, and Kronn and Riverwind came to a sudden stop. Ahead of them, right in the middle of the road, stood a house. It filled the whole street. There wasn’t even enough room between it and the adjacent buildings for Kronn to squeeze through. The kender and the Plainsman stared at it in astonishment.
“Whoa,” Kronn remarked. “That wasn’t here last time I went this way…
“Kronn,” Riverwind rumbled, his voice straining with frustration.
Kronn waved at the house. “This was a perfectly good route until someone put that thing in the way!”
“Damn it!” the old Plainsman exploded. “Kronn, this is important! We can’t be wasting time on this idiocy!”
“I know that!” Kronn snapped back angrily. “But it’s not my fault. Just when I’m starting to know my way around, someone moves a fountain or builds a fence or puts up a whole blessed house. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I got so lost I never found my way out.” He put a hand on his head. “All right, look. It’s only about six blocks back to Shrubbery Road. We can follow that to Straight Street, and that’ll take us to City Hall. All right?” He turned and started back the way they had gone.
“Wait,” Riverwind said.
Kronn stopped, looking back. The Plainsman’s brow was furrowing as he tried to capture an elusive thought.
“Shhh!” Riverwind hissed. “Say that again.”
“It’s only about six blocks back to Shrubbery Road,” the kender repeated. “We can follow-”
“Not that,” Riverwind interrupted. “Before.”
Kronn frowned. “I was just saying I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I got so lost I never found my way out.”
The old Plainsman nodded, thinking hard. Then suddenly he began to laugh.
Kronn looked at him nervously. “Uh,” he said, “are you feeling all right, Riverwind?”