“What are all you people doing there?” Mina cried angrily. “This is my tower.”
She gave the rudder a twitch, took the boat out of the wind. The sail sagged and flapped, and the boat glided on its own momentum into the rock-bound shore. Rhys feared for a moment they would crash, but Mina proved a deft sailor, and she guided them to a safe landing among the rocks and coral and dripping seaweed.
“Hand me that line,” Mina said, jumping lightly onto shore, “so I can tie up the boat.”
“Rhys! What are you doing?” Nightshade cried, aghast. “Cast off! Sail away! We can’t stay here! They’ll kill us!”
The emmide was still warm in Rhys’s hand. He remembered his thought: her madness held a terrible wisdom. This was something she needed to do, seemingly. And he had promised. She was in no danger. She could not die. He wondered if she understood that he and Nightshade could.
From his vantage point, Rhys could see his reflection in the tower’s glistening black crystal walls. The entrance to the tower was only about a hundred paces away and the door stood open. Many of the Beloved must already be inside. Several hundred Beloved remained on the island, milling about aimlessly. Some of these, catching sight of the boat, turned to stare with their empty eyes.
“Too late!” Nightshade groaned. “They’ve seen us.”
Rhys hurriedly tied up the boat and, taking his staff, went to stand beside Mina. Nightshade helped Atta out of the boat, then he grabbed a boat hook and slowly and reluctantly followed Rhys.
“I could be in some nice graveyard about now,” the kender said dolefully, “visiting with any number of pleasant dead people …”
“Mina!” One of the Beloved cried out her name and “Mina!” said another. The name spread among them. The Beloved began running toward the boat.
“How do they know me?” Mina quavered. She shrank back fearfully, pressing up against Rhys. “Why do they stare at me with their horrible eyes?”
The Beloved thronged around her, reaching out their hands to her, calling her name.
“I hate them! Make them go away!” Mina pleaded, turning away and burying her head in Rhys’s robes. “Make them go away!”
“Mina! Mina, touch me,” the Beloved begged her, stretching out their hands to her. “You made me what I am!”
One of the Beloved grabbed Mina’s arm, and she shrieked in a frenzy of panic. Rhys could not keep hold of Mina and, at the same time, fight off the Beloved. He had all he could do to retain the writhing, screaming child. He flung the emmide to Nightshade.
“It’s blessed by the god!” Rhys cried.
The kender understood. He dropped the boat hook and caught the staff. Swinging it like a club, he brought it down with all his might on the Beloved’s wrist.
At the staff’s touch, the flesh on the Beloved’s hand blackened and dropped off from the bone, leaving behind a skeletal hand that unfortunately retained its grasp. Bony fingers still clawed at Mina’s arm.
“That was a big help!” Nightshade shouted, casting the heavens an irate glance. “I should think a god could do better than that!”
More Beloved began crowding about. Nightshade struck at them with the staff, trying to beat them off and not having much luck. The fact that globs of flesh were turning black and falling off their bones didn’t seem to bother them in the least. They kept coming and Nightshade kept swinging. His arms were starting to ache, his palms were sweating and he was sick to his stomach at the gruesome sight of fleshless hands and arms flailing about him.
Atta snapped and barked and made darting runs at the Beloved, sinking her teeth into any part of them that came within her reach, but the dog bites had less effect on them than the staff.
“Back to the boat!” Rhys gasped, endeavoring to keep hold of Mina and fend off the Beloved. They paid no attention to him or the kender or the dog. They were desperate to seize Mina.
Her piercing shriek, right in his ear, startled Nightshade so that he dropped the emmide.
Skeletal fingers grabbed Mina’s wrist. Rhys smashed the Beloved in the face with the heel of his hand, breaking its nose and shattering its cheek bones. Mina stared in horror at the bony fingers digging into her flesh, and, screaming shrilly, she struck at the Beloved with her fist.
Flame—amber, incandescent—consumed the Beloved utterly, leaving nothing, not even ashes, behind. The heat of the blast washed over Rhys and Nightshade and then was gone.
“Rhys,” quavered Nightshade, after a moment, “do I have any eyebrows left?”
Rhys managed to cast him a reassuring glance, but that was as much as he had time to do. Mina, keeping hold of Rhys’s hand, turned to face the Beloved.
The heat of Mina’s holy rage had driven them back. They no longer tried to grab her. They still surrounded her, watching her with empty eyes and repeating her name over and over. Some spoke “Mina” in soft and sad and pleading tones. Others snarled “Mina,” desperate, angry.
“Stop saying that!” Mina screamed shrilly.
The Beloved hushed, fell silent.
“I’m going to my tower,” said Mina, glowering. “Get out of my way.”
“We should go back to the boat,” Nightshade urged. “Make a run for it!”
“We’d never reach it,” said Rhys.
The Beloved would not allow Mina to leave. They had been waiting here for her. Perhaps it was her command that had driven them to this island.
“Our lives are in her hands,” Rhys said. Moving slowly, he reached down and picked up his staff.
Nightshade groaned and muttered, “No meat pie is worth this.”
ina, tugging Rhys with her, walked forward. The Beloved drew back, giving her room to pass. She walked through the throng of the dead, watching them warily with frightened eyes, clinging to Rhys’s hand so tightly that her fingertips left red marks. Nightshade crowded close behind them, tripping on Rhys’s heels. Atta kept near Rhys’s side, her body quivering, her lip curled back from her teeth, a constant growl rumbling.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this,” Nightshade said.
“Shush!” Rhys warned. He had seen the empty eyes shift from Mina to the kender and the flash of sunlight off steel. The Beloved did not attack, however. Rhys guessed they would not, as long as they were with Mina.
“Rhys,” whispered Nightshade, “she doesn’t remember them! And she created them!”
Rhys nodded and kept walking. The Beloved had been wandering about the island in their aimless fashion until catching sight of Mina. After that, they saw nothing else. They gathered around her, speaking her name in reverent tones. Some reached out to her, but she shrank back from them.
“Go away!” she said sharply. “Don’t touch me.”
One by one, they fell back.
Mina kept walking toward the tower, holding onto Rhys’s hand. When they reached the tower entrance, they found the double doors locked.
“All this way and she forgets the key,” Nightshade muttered.
“I don’t need a key,” said Mina. “This is my tower.”
Letting go of Rhys’s hand, she walked up to the great doors and, pushing on them with all her strength, gave them a shove. At her touch, the massive doors swung slowly open.
Mina bounded inside, looking about her with a child’s wonder and curiosity. Rhys followed more slowly. Though the tower was constructed of crystal, some magic in the walls blocked the light. The morning sun could not even enter the door, but was swallowed up at the threshold. Inside, all was darkness. He halted just inside the doorway.
Slowly, as his eyes grew accustomed to the cool, damp darkness, he became aware that the tower’s interior was not as dark as it had first seemed. The crystal walls diffused the sunlight, so that the interior was illuminated with a pale, soft light, reminiscent of moonglow.
The entrance hall was cavernous. A spiral staircase carved into the crystal walls wound round the interior, leading upward, out of sight. Globes of magical light were placed at intervals along the stairway, t
o guide the way of those who walked it. Most of the globes flickered like guttered candles, as though their magic was starting to wane. Some had gone out completely.
Long ago, the entry hall of the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar must have been magnificent. Here the wizards of Istar would have welcomed fellow wizards and other guests and dignitaries. Here, they must have waited for the Kingpriest, handing over to him the keys to their beloved tower, agreeing in sorrow to surrender rather than risk the lives of innocents in battle.
Perhaps the Kingpriest was the very last mortal to walk this hall, Rhys thought. He pictured the Kingpriest, splendid in his misguided glory, taking a triumphant victory lap, congratulating himself on having driven out his enemies before he locked and sealed the great doors behind him. Locked and sealed Istar’s doom.
Nothing of glory or magnificence was left. The walls were wet and grimy, covered in sand and silt. The floor was ankle-deep in sludge, dead fish, and seaweed.
“Ugh! Your tower stinks, Mina!” said Nightshade loudly. Catching hold of Rhys’s sleeve, the kender added in low, urgent tones, “Be careful! I thought I heard voices whispering. Over there.” He jerked his thumb.
Rhys looked intently into the shadows in the direction Nightshade had indicated. Rhys saw nothing, but he could feel eyes watching him and he could hear someone sucking in gasping breaths, as though he or she had run a long distance.
Exertion did not bother the Beloved. Whoever was lurking in the shadows must be a living being. Rhys had assumed the tower to be vacant—after all, it had been dragged up from the bottom of the sea. He started to think his assumption was wrong. Nuitari had built the tower of his magic; he would have almost certainly found a way for his wizards to inhabit it, even though it had rested on the bottom of the ocean.
Rhys looked at Atta, who usually warned him of peril. She was aware of something in the shadows, for she would occasionally turn her head to glare in that direction. The Beloved represented the greatest danger to her, however, and her attention was fixed on them. She barked a sharp warning.
Rhys turned to see the Beloved crowding around the open door. They did not enter, but hesitated, dead eyes watching Mina.
“Keep them out!” she told Rhys. “I don’t want them in here.”
“The brat’s right,” snarled a high-pitched, nasal whine from the shadows. “Don’t let those fiends in! They’ll murder us all. Shut the doors!”
Rhys would have liked nothing better than to obey the command, but he had no idea how the doors operated. Constructed of blocks of obsidian, red granite and white marble, the double doors were four times the height of a man, and must each weigh as much as a small house.
“Tell me how to close them,” he shouted.
“How in the Abyss should we know?” a deeper voice boomed irascibly. “You opened the blasted doors! You shut them!”
But Rhys had not opened the doors. Mina had, and she was too terrified of the Beloved to go back. The Beloved continued to mass around the entrance, but they could not find a way inside, and that appeared to be frustrating them.
“Some force seems to be blocking them,” Rhys called out to the strangers in the shadows. “I presume you two are wizards. Do you have any idea what the force is or how long it will last?”
He heard snatches of a whispered consultation, then two wizards dressed in black robes emerged from the shadows. One was tall and thin with the pointed ears of an elf and the face of a savage mongrel. His hair was ragged and disheveled, his robes were tattered and filthy. His slanted eyes darted about like the head of a striking snake. Once, by accident, the eyes met Rhys’s gaze and immediately slithered away.
The other wizard was a dwarf, short of stature with broad shoulders and a long beard. The dwarf was cleaner than his companion. His eyes, barely visible beneath shaggy brows, were cunning and cold.
Both wizards appeared to have gone through some traumatic ordeal, for the half-elf’s face was bruised. He had a black eye and he had tied a dirty rag around his left wrist. The dwarf’s head was swathed in bloody bandages and he was limping.
“I am Rhys Mason,” Rhys announced. “This is Nightshade.”
“I’m Mina,” said the girl, at which the dwarf gave a perceptible start and stared at her narrowly.
The half-elf sneered.
“Who gives a rat’s ass who you are, twerp,” he said in loathing.
The dwarf cast him a baleful glance, then said, “I am called Basalt. This is Caele.” He was speaking to Rhys, but he kept staring at Mina. “How did you get into our tower?”
“What is the force blocking the door?” Rhys persisted.
Basalt and Caele exchanged glances.
“We think it might be the Master,” Basalt said reluctantly. “Which means he allowed you to come inside and he’s keeping the fiends out. What we want to know is why he let you in here.”
Mina had been staring at the wizards. Her brow furrowed, as though trying to recall where she’d seen them before.
“I know you,” she said suddenly. “You tried to kill me.” She pointed to the half-elf.
“She’s lying!” Caele yelped. “I never saw this brat before in my life! You have five seconds to tell me why you are here or I’ll cast a spell that will reduce you to—”
Basalt thrust his elbow into his companion’s ribs and said something to him in a low voice.
“You’re daft!” Caele scoffed.
“Look at her!” Basalt insisted. “That could be why the Master—” The rest was lost in whispering.
“I agree with Mina for once,” said Nightshade. “I don’t trust these two as far as I can stand the stink of them. Who’s this Master they’re talking about?”
“Nuitari, God of the Black Moon,” Rhys answered.
Nightshade gave a dismal groan. “More gods. Just what we need.”
“I have to find the way downstairs,” Mina told Rhys. “You two stay here, keep an eye on them.”
She pointed at the wizards, then, casting them one last baleful glance, started walking about the great hall, poking and peering into the shadows.
“If it is Nuitari, I wish he’d just shut the door,” Nightshade stated, watching the Beloved, who were watching him back.
“If he did, we might not be able to get back out,” said Rhys.
Caele and Basalt had been conferring all this time.
“Go on,” Caele said, and he gave Basalt a shove. “Ask them.”
“You ask them,” Basalt growled, but in the end he came shambling up to Rhys.
“What are those fiends?” he asked. “We know they’re some sort of undead. Nothing we tried seems to stop them. Not magic, not steel. Caele stabbed one through the heart and it fell down, then it got back up and tried to strangle him!”
“They are known as the Beloved. They’re undead disciples of Chemosh,” Nightshade explained.
“Told you,” Basalt growled at Caele. “That’s her!”
“You’re full of it,” Caele muttered back.
“How did your tower come to be here in the Blood Sea?” Nightshade asked curiously. “It wasn’t here yesterday.”
“You’re telling us!” Basalt grunted. “Yesterday we were in our tower safe at the bottom of the ocean, minding our own business. Then there was an earthquake. The walls started shaking, the floor was the ceiling and the ceiling was the floor. We didn’t know if we were on our heads or our feet. Everything broke, all our vials and containers. Books went flying off the shelves. We thought we were dead.
“When everything stopped shaking, we looked out and found ourselves stuck on this rock. When we started to crawl out through a side door, those fiends tried to murder us.”
Rhys thought of the power that had wrenched this tower from the bottom of the sea and he looked at the little girl, wandering about, searching behind pillars and tapping on the walls.
“What’s she doing? Playing hide-and-seek?” Nightshade cast a nervous glance at the Beloved and another at the two wizards. “Let’s
get out of here. I don’t like this talk about stabbing people in the heart—even if it was a Beloved.”
“Mina—” Rhys began.
“Found it!” she announced triumphantly.
She stood beneath an arched entryway, hidden in the shadows, that led to another, smaller spiral staircase.
“Come with me,” ordered Mina. “Tell the bad men they have to stay here.”
“This is our tower!” Caele snarled.
“Is not!” Mina retorted.
“Is so—”
Basalt intervened, clamping his hand over Caele’s arm.
“You’re not going anywhere without us,” Basalt said coldly.
Caele growled in agreement and snatched his arm from his partner’s grasp.
“Atta and I will keep an eye on them,” Rhys promised, thinking it better to have the wizards where he could see them rather than having them skulking along behind.
Mina gave a nod. “They can come, but if they try to hurt us, I’ll tell Atta to bite them.”
“Go ahead. I like dog,” Caele sneered. His lip curled. “Baked.”
Mina entered the archway and started to descend the stairs. Nightshade followed after her, with Atta at his heels. Rhys came last, keeping watch out of the corner of his eye on the two wizards. The half-elf was talking rapidly into his cohort’s ear, making jabbing gestures with his hand, emphasizing a point by stabbing it with a dirty finger. The dwarf didn’t like whatever the half-elf was proposing, apparently, for he drew back, scowling, and shook his head. The half-elf whispered something else and the dwarf appeared to consider this. At length, he nodded and called out.
“Wait, Monk! Stop! She’s leading you to your death,” Basalt warned. “There’s a dragon down there!”
Nightshade missed his footing, slipped on a stair, and landed hard on his backside.
“Dragon? What dragon?” The kender rubbed his sore tailbone. “I didn’t agree to a dragon!”
“The dragon is the guardian of the Solio Febalas,” said Basalt.
“The Solo Feebleness?” Nightshade repeated. “What’s that?”
Amber and Blood Page 7
