Amber and Blood

by Margaret Weis

  Mina snatched up the fallen crystal.

  “Well,” she said. “What did you see?”

  “Spots,” Nightshade said, rubbing his eyes.

  Mina was disappointed. “Spots? You must have seen something else.”

  “I didn’t!” Nightshade returned irritably. “Maybe it’s not working.”

  “Maybe you just didn’t know what you were looking at!” Mina chided.

  “Oh, I knew,” said Nightshade. Thankfully the spots were starting to fade. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. It seemed odd to be sweating when he could still see the gooseflesh on his arms.

  Mina stuffed the artifacts into her pockets and then smiled at him.

  “Your turn,” she said.

  “For what?”

  She waved her hand. “You came with me. You can pick out an artifact. Any one you want.”

  Nightshade could see Basalt lying bloody on the floor and he could hear Caele’s shrieks of terror. Nightshade thrust his hands into his pockets.

  “No. Thank you, though.”

  “ ’Fraidy cat,” scoffed Mina.

  Walking over to the altar of Majere, she picked up something shiny and held it out to Nightshade.

  “Here,” she said. “You should have this.”

  In her hand was a gold cloak pin in the shape of a grasshopper. Nightshade remembered the time he and Atta had been set upon by two of the Beloved, only to be saved by an army of grasshoppers. The cloak pin had rubies for eyes, and was so skillfully crafted it looked as if it could have jumped away at any moment. Nightshade was quite charmed with it, and he wanted it more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. His hand quivered in its pocket.

  “Are you sure Majere won’t mind if I take it?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to make him mad.”

  “I’m sure,” said Mina, and before Nightshade could protest, she fastened the pin onto his shirt.

  Nightshade stiffened in fright, half-expecting the pin to fly up his nose or knock him on the head. The grasshopper sat quite tamely on his shirt. It seemed to Nightshade, as he marveled over it, that the red eyes winked at him.

  “What does it do?” he asked.

  “It’s a hopper, ninny,” said Mina. “What do you think it does?”

  “Hop?” Nightshade ventured a guess.

  “Yes,” she said, “and it will make you hop, too. As high and as far as you want to go.”

  “Whoo, boy!” Nightshade breathed.

  Rhys had not heard or seen anything. The dwarf howled and Caele swore and Atta barked and Rhys was oblivious. The only sound he heard was the voice of the god.

  And then Rhys felt a hand tapping his shoulder and he raised his head. The voice of the god ceased.

  “Mister Monk, I have my presents for Goldmoon,” Mina said, showing him the two objects. “We can go now.”

  Rhys stood up. He had been kneeling on the floor a long time, seemingly, for his knees hurt and his legs were stiff. Looking about, he was astonished to see the two Black Robes lying on the floor—one trussed and shrieking, the other bloody and unconscious.

  He looked to Nightshade for an explanation.

  “They made the gods mad,” the kender replied.

  Rhys was considerably mystified by this pronouncement, but before he could ask, Mina shouted impatiently that she was ready to leave.

  “What do we do with weasel-face and furball?” Nightshade asked.

  “Leave them here,” Mina said, glowering. “Seal them up inside to die. That will teach them a lesson.”

  “We can’t do that!” Rhys said, shocked.

  “Why not? They were going to kill us,” Mina returned.

  Rhys looked down at Caele, bound up in the blessed rope, wriggling about on the floor. The half-elf’s fury warred with his fear. One moment he gnashed his teeth and snarled threats and the next he was whining to be saved. The other wizard, Basalt, had regained consciousness and moaned that his head hurt.

  “I know how he feels,” Nightshade said with a glance at Mina. “She does have a point, Rhys. The weasel was going to kill you with a magic spell if whatever god that is with the rope hadn’t stopped him. We shouldn’t turn them loose.”

  “I’m not going to leave anyone to die,” Rhys said sternly, in a tone that brooked no argument. “We can at least carry them out of here. You grab that end.”

  “Ugh!” said Nightshade, wrinkling his nose as he picked up Caele’s bare feet. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m sorry there’s no more water in here.”

  While Mina watched in disapproval, Rhys and Nightshade hauled first Caele, then Basalt, out of the Hall of Sacrilege and dumped the two wizards down onto the damp sand.

  “Atta, guard!” said Rhys, pointing at the wizards.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Nightshade said in a low voice. “I think someone’s coming to fetch them.”

  A man clad in sumptuous black robes walked across the wet sand. The man’s moon-round face was pallid with fury, his eyes cold and glinting. Mina grabbed hold of Rhys’s hand. Atta slunk behind Rhys and Nightshade deemed it prudent to return to the Hall. The man’s wrathful gaze skipped over all of them, rested briefly on Mina, then landed full force on the wizards.

  Caele saw what was coming and began to blubber.

  “Master Nuitari, it wasn’t my fault! Basalt forced me to come—”

  “I forced you!” Basalt began, but his shout made his head hurt and he moaned. “Don’t believe him, Master. It was that mongrel elf—”

  The moon face contorted in rage. Nuitari stretched forth his hand, and the two wizards vanished.

  The God of the Dark Moon turned to Rhys. “My apologies, Monk of Majere. These two will not bother you again.”

  Rhys bowed.

  “Excuse me, Nuitari,” Nightshade called from the safety of the doorway, “to make up for the fact that your wizards tried to kill us, could you get rid of the Beloved? I don’t mean to complain, but they’ve invaded your tower and they won’t let us leave.”

  “This is no longer my tower,” Nuitari replied and, with a cold glance at Mina, he disappeared.

  “Then who was keeping them at bay?” Nightshade asked, perplexed.

  “Probably Mina,” said Rhys. “She just didn’t know it.”

  Nightshade grumbled something unintelligible, then said, “So what do we do about the Beloved?”

  “As long as Mina is with us, I don’t think the Beloved will harm us,” Rhys said.

  “And what happens when Mina tries to leave?”

  “I don’t know, my friend,” Rhys said. “We must have faith that—”

  He paused, his eyes narrowed. “Nightshade, where did you get that golden pin?”

  “I didn’t take it,” the kender said promptly.

  “I’m sure you didn’t intend to take it,” Rhys hinted. “I imagine you found it lying on the floor—”

  “—where a god dropped it?” Nightshade grinned at him. “I didn’t steal it, Rhys. Honest. Mina gave it to me.”

  He looked down with pride at the grasshopper. “Remember when Majere sent the hoppers to save me? I think it’s his way of saying thank you.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Mina volunteered. “The god wanted him to have it. Just like the gods wanted me to have my gifts for Goldmoon. Which reminds me, could you carry them for me?” Mina held the two artifacts them out to Rhys. “I’m afraid I’ll lose them.”

  “Whatever you do,” Nightshade warned, “don’t put on the necklace!”

  “I think Goldmoon will like them,” Mina continued, handing first the crystal pyramid, then the necklace, to Rhys. “When the gods left, Goldmoon told me she was very sad. Even though years and years had passed, she still missed the gods. I promised her I would find the gods and bring them back to her. And I did.”

  Mina smiled, pleased with herself.

  Rhys shivered. Mina had not found a god. The god, Takhisis, had found her. Takhisis lied to Mina and corrupted her and made
her a slave of darkness when she should have been rejoicing in the light. Had Mina been an unwitting victim, or had she known right from wrong and deliberately chosen the darkness? And now, was she blotting out the memories, trying to forget the terrible crimes she had committed? Or had she truly forgotten? Was this play acting? Or was it madness?

  Perhaps even Mina did not know the answer. Perhaps that was why she going to Godshome. And he was to make this strange journey with her, guard her, guide her, protect her.

  Rhys placed the artifacts—the prism and the necklace—in his scrip. If anyone discovered he was carrying such valuable treasures, he and those with him would be in deadly peril. He thought of saying something to Mina and Nightshade, warning them that they must keep the artifacts secret. He discarded that idea, decided the less fuss he made over them the better. Hopefully, both kender and child would forget about them.

  That is exactly what Mina appeared to do. Now that she was free of her burden, she began to tease Nightshade, asking him with a giggle if he’d like to go swimming again. When he said loudly, “No!” she punched him in the arm and called him a baby, and he punched her in the arm and called her a brat, and the two ran off, kicking at each other’s ankles, trying to trip each other. Atta, at a gesture from Rhys, dashed after to keep an eye on them.

  The shards of glass had disappeared, as had the sea water, presumably at Mina’s command.

  Rhys lingered near the Hall, reluctant to leave. Majere had spoken to him in the Solio Febalas, spoken not to his head, but to his heart. He saw clearly the road he must walk and it was a long one. Mina had chosen him to be her guide, her teacher. He did not understand why, for not even the gods understood. His position was difficult and dangerous for he was a guardian whose charge was far stronger and more powerful than he was. He was a guide who could only follow, for Mina alone had to find the road she must walk. He had accepted the trust placed in him and prayed that he would not be found wanting.

  “Mister Monk, hurry up!” Mina shouted impatiently. “I’m ready to go to Godshome now!”

  The door to the Solio Febalas swung slowly shut. The green emerald glowed with a soft radiance. Rhys bowed in profound reverence, and turned and hastened off to catch up with Mina.

  Nuitari lurked about the Hall of Sacrilege. The God of the Dark Moon had one heavy-lidded eye on the door that was now sealed and locked and the other eye upon his fellow god, Chemosh, Lord of Bones, who was also hanging about the Hall.

  Both gods had been forced to wait until Mina opened the door to enter the tower, which Nuitari had found particularly galling, since this was, by rights, his tower. His cousins had agreed that he should have it. He had given up the Tower of Wayreth and the Tower of Nightlund to obtain it. And since the Solio Febalas was located inside the tower, he considered the Hall belonged to him, as well. After all, sunken treasure belonged to whoever found it.

  True, the Hall of Sacrilege was not a ship that had gone down in a storm, but to his mind the law of the sea applied. Chemosh could not be made to accept this perfectly logical view of the matter, and he was proving to be a damned nuisance. His holy artifacts were his, Chemosh claimed, and he wanted them back.

  Neither god had been able to enter while Mina was inside with her rag-tag monk and kender. The latter had both gods in agony, envisioning valuable artifacts capable of producing untold miracles disappearing inside the kender’s pouches and pockets, to be lost along the way or traded for six pine cones and a trained cricket.

  Each had experienced a profound sense of relief to see Mina and company depart with apparently only two artifacts, and a gold bug of small value.

  When the monk left, the door had swung shut. Chemosh suspected Nuitari of having shut it and Nuitari suspected Chemosh. Both gods waited for the other to make the first move. At last, Nuitari could stand it no longer.

  “I will take a look inside to make certain the kender didn’t rob the place blind.”

  “I will go with you,” said Chemosh immediately.

  “No need,” Nuitari said in oily tones.

  “But I insist,” Chemosh replied.

  Both gods hesitated, eyeing each other balefully, then both headed for the door. Both reached out their hands to grab open the door of the castle made of sand.

  An immortal voice, stern and angry, spoke to each of them.

  “Once each grain of sand was a mountain. Thus, all things of seeming might and importance are reduced to insignificance.

  All things.”

  A wave rolling forward from the beginning of time smashed into the Solio Febalas, washed over it, and, withdrawing, carried it into the vast ocean of eternity.

  Shaken to the core of their immortal beings, the gods shrank into the wet sand, neither daring to move or look, lest he draw down upon him the wrath of the High God. Finally Chemosh lifted his head and Nuitari opened his eyes.

  The Hall of Sacrilege was gone, washed away.

  Chemosh stood up and brushed the sand off his lace sleeves and stalked off with what dignity remained. Nuitari rose to his feet and shook out his black robes. He did not leave, but lingered, gazing at the smooth sand where the Hall had once stood. He had spent years studying the history of and cataloging every one of the artifacts. He knew them all, knew what each did, knew how dearly the other gods would have paid to obtain them. Not in gold or steel or jewels, of course; Nuitari had little care for that. But in other ways. Zeboim would have been convinced to leave his tower unmolested. Kiri-Jolith’s blasted paladins would have quit harassing his black robes. Sargonnas would have been forced to allow his minotaurs to practice magic freely, and so on.

  But the High God, who never spoke, had spoken. Perhaps it was just as well. The artifacts and the Hall itself belonged to a time and a place that were now long gone. The world had moved on. Better to leave them in the dust of the past. Still, Nuitari could not help but wonder sulkily why Mina had been permitted by the High God to enter the Hall while he and the others had been barred.

  The God of Dark Magic withdrew from the place where the Hall had stood, but he did not leave. He conceded the Solio Febalas to the High God.

  In return, Nuitari wanted his tower back.

  ina led the way, for Rhys and Nightshade had lost all sense of direction. She was happy and laughing, skipping along ahead of them, turning around to scold them for being slow. The distance from the Hall to the tower was not far and a short walk brought them back to the stairs.

  Mina would have dashed up immediately, but Rhys laid a restraining hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, gazing up at him. She pointed up the stairs. “This is the way out.”

  “It is best to be cautious,” he said. “Let me go first. You follow with Nightshade.”

  “But you’re too slow,” Mina complained, as they began to climb the winding staircase. “I have my gifts. I have to get to Godshome right now.”

  “Godshome is a long way off,” Nightshade grumbled. The stairs had not been built for short kender legs, and he was having to work to climb each step, with the result that various parts of him were starting to ache. “A long, long way off.”

  “How long?” Mina asked.

  “Miles,” said Nightshade. “Miles and miles and miles.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Months,” said Nightshade grumpily. “Months and months.”

  Mina stared at him, dismayed, then she laughed. “Don’t be silly!” she said, adding impatiently, “You both are too slow. I’m going on ahead.”

  “Mina, wait! The Beloved—” Rhys cried and made a grab for her, but she wriggled out of his grasp and dashed up the stairs.

  “I’ll wait for you at the top!” she promised.

  “Atta, go with her!” Rhys ordered and, as the dog ran off, he turned back to assist Nightshade, who was groaning with every step and rubbing his aching thighs.

  “Assuming we get past the Beloved alive—which is an awfully big assume—where do we go
now?” the kender asked.

  “We have to find Godshome,” Rhys replied.

  Nightshade scrunched up his face and eyed Rhys intently. “You were having a long conversation with Majere back there in the Solo Flabbiness. Didn’t he tell you where to find Godshome?”

  Rhys shook his head and cast a worried glance up the stairs.

  “Majere should have given you a map. Or pointed out landmarks,” Nightshade persisted. “You know: ‘Take the left fork at the crossroads and walk twenty paces and turn right at the lightning-struck tree.’ That sort of thing.”

  “He didn’t,” said Rhys. “Godshome is not a place one can find on a map.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Nightshade said gloomily. “This is one of those whatchamacallit journeys. You know—the kind that’s supposed to teach you something.”

  “Spiritual journey,” said Rhys.

  “Right. Gods are very big on spiritual journeys. Yet another reason I became a mystic. When I go on a journey, I like it to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. And I like for there to be an inn at the end and something good to eat. Spiritual journeys are noted for their lack of good things to eat.”

  Rhys gripped his friend’s arm and hoisted him up another stair. “You are wise, as always, Nightshade. And you are right. The journey is going to be long and it could be dangerous. You and I have had this talk before, but now you understand how dangerous it can be. If you want to take your road and leave us to take ours, I will understand.”

  “I would leave in a heartbeat,” stated Nightshade, “except for the free food.”

  Rhys sighed. “Nightshade—”

  “Rhys, Mina can magic up meat pies! Just like that!” The kender snapped his fingers. “I’d be crazy to walk away from a person who can do that, even if she is a god and nutty as a fruitcake. Speaking of cake reminds me, it must be way past dinnertime.”

  They rounded a curve in the staircase and saw the landing, but no sign of Mina or the dog. Rhys halted, hushed Nightshade when he would have spoken. They both listened.

  “The Beloved,” said Nightshade.

  “I’m afraid so.” Rhys grabbed the kender and hustled him along.