Amber and Blood

1

Nightshade traipsed along down the road after Mina, muttering to himself and scuffing his boots in the dust. Mina walked several paces ahead of him, her head held high, her back stiff. She was taking no notice of him, pretending she didn’t know him. Atta trotted along at the kender’s side, though she would stop every so often and look back wistfully down the road, searching for Rhys.

“I hope he’s all right,” Nightshade said for the thousandth time. He glared at Mina and kicked irritably at a rock and said loudly, “If it wasn’t for some people, I could be back there seeing for myself and maybe helping to save him after some people ran away and left him!”

Mina flashed him an angry glance over her shoulder, and stubbornly kept on walking.

At least they had managed to escape the battle in Temple Row.

The brutality of the fighting, the sight of so many dead and wounded had completely overwhelmed Mina. She was confused by the noise, horrified by the carnage. Nightshade and Atta finally located her crouched under a bush, her eyes squinched shut, her hands over her ears to drown out the screams.

Nightshade persuaded her with some difficulty to come with him, only to nearly lose her to a black-robed, hooded priest of Chemosh, who stumbled across them by accident. Nightshade recited his rhyme for his exhaustion spell and the last he’d seen of the priest, he was lying on his back in the middle of the street taking an unexpected snooze.

Running around the back of the temple of Zeboim and cutting through an alley, they found themselves in the relative quiet of a residential area. The citizens, hearing the sounds of battle and fearing it might spill over into their neighborhood, had all barred their doors and were staying inside.

Nightshade stopped to catch his breath and get rid of a painful stitch in his side and try to figure out what to do. He decided to take Mina to the Inn and leave her in the care of Laura, then go back to find Rhys. Nightshade and Atta started off in the Inn’s direction, only to find Mina going the opposite way.

“Where are you going?” Nightshade demanded, halting.

Mina stood in the middle of the road, holding fast to the scrip with the artifacts in it. The scrip was dirty and stained, for when it grew heavy, she let it drag on the ground. Her face was covered in grime and soot, her hair was wet with sweat, her red braids starting to come undone. Her dress was splattered with blood stains.

“Godshome,” Mina replied.

“No, you’re not,” Nightshade scolded her. “You’re going back to the Inn. We have to wait for Rhys!”

“I won’t.” Mina returned. “I have to go to Godshome or the fighting will only get worse.”

Nightshade didn’t see how matters could get much worse than they already were, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he said crossly, “Then you’re going the wrong direction. Godshome is north, and you’re going west. We’re on the road to Haven.” He pointed. “That’s the road north.”

“I don’t believe you,” Mina told him. “You’re lying, trying to trick me.”

“I am not,” Nightshade returned angrily.

“Are so.”

“Am not!”

“Are so—”

“You’ve got the map,” Nightshade shouted at last. “Look for yourself.”

Mina blinked at him. “I don’t have the map.”

“You do too,” Nightshade said. “Remember? I spread it out on the rock back there near Flotsam and then you decided we were going to go for a fast walk and—”

He stopped talking. Mina was biting her lip and digging the toe of her shoe into the dirt.

“You didn’t!” he said, groaning.

“Shut up,” she said, glowering.

“You left my map back there! Way back there! Halfway around the world back there!”

“I didn’t leave it there. You did. It was your fault!” she flared.

Nightshade was so taken aback by this accusation that he was reduced to spluttering.

“You were supposed to pick up the map and bring it with us,” Mina continued. “The map was your responsibility because it was your map. Now I don’t know which road to take.”

Nightshade looked to Atta for help, but the dog had flopped onto her belly in the dirt and lay there with her chin between her paws. When Nightshade calmed down enough to speak without spitting all over himself, he stated his case.

“I would have taken the map, but you ran away with me so fast I didn’t have a chance.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Mina said petulantly. “You lost the map so what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. You’re going back to the Inn and I’m going to find Rhys and then we’re all going to have a good dinner. After all, it is chicken and—”

But Mina wasn’t listening. She walked over to a group of idlers hanging about the street outside a tavern with mugs of ale in their hands, arguing drunkenly about whether they should or should not go to see what the ruckus was about.

“Excuse me, sirs,” Mina said. “Which road do I take to go north?”

“That way, sis,” one of the young men told her with a belch and a vague wave of his hand.

“Told you,” Nightshade said.

Mina picked up the scrip, slung it over her shoulder, and walked off.

Nightshade immediately realized he’d made a mistake. What he should have said was that he didn’t know the way north and they should wait for Rhys. Too late for that now. He watched her walk off, alone and forlorn, and considered leaving, but he knew Rhys wouldn’t want him to abandon her. Though Nightshade didn’t know what good he could do. She never listened to him anyway.

He looked at Atta, who was sitting on her haunches, looking at him. The dog offered no advice. Heaving a deep sigh, Nightshade trudged after Mina and now here they were together, heading north towards Godshome without Rhys.

Nightshade continued to try to persuade Mina to go back to the Inn, but she continued to adamantly refuse. The argument carried them several miles out of Solace, at which point Nightshade finally gave up and saved his breath for walking. He was at least thankful for one mercy—since they didn’t have the map, Mina couldn’t very well run off at a god’s pace. She had to walk like an ordinary person.

Nightshade could only hope that Rhys would find them eventually, though the kender didn’t see how. Rhys would believe they were hurt or dead or hiding somewhere… Maybe Rhys himself was hurt or dead…

“I won’t think about that,” Nightshade told himself.

They walked a long, long time. Nightshade hoped Mina would eventually grow tired and want to rest and, whenever they came to a wayside inn, he hinted strongly that they should stop. Mina refused and pressed on, dragging the scrip along in the dirt behind her.

Travelers they met along the way stopped to stare at the odd trio. If anyone tried to approach Mina, Atta would growl at them, warning strangers to keep their distance. Nightshade would roll his eyes and spread his hands to indicate he was helpless in the matter.

“If you meet a monk of Majere named Rhys Mason, tell him you saw us and we’re going north,” he would call out.

The road went on, and so did they. Nightshade had no idea how far they’d come, but he couldn’t see Solace anymore. The highway had dwindled to a road and not a very good road at that, and then, without warning, the road heading north ended. A large mountain stood in the way, and the road went around it, branching off to the east and the west.

“Which way do we go?” Mina asked.

“How should I know?” Nightshade grumbled. “You lost the map, remember? Anyway, this is a good place to stop to rest—What are you doing?”

Mina put her hand over her eyes and began twirling around and around in the middle of the road. When she made herself dizzy, she staggered to a stop and thrust out her hand, her fingers pointing east.

“We’ll go this way,” she said.

Nightshade stood staring at her, dumbfounded.

“For a gnome nickel, I’d leave you to be eaten by bugbears,” he told her, then added in a mutter, “But that would be mean to the bugbears.”

He glanced to the west, where the sun was sinking rapidly out of sight, as though it couldn’t get away fast enough. Shadows were slithering over the road.

Nightshade began wandering up and down the side of the road, looking for largish rocks. When he found one, he picked it up and lugged it over to where Mina was standing and dropped it down at her feet.

“What are you doing?” Mina demanded, after he came back with the fourth rock.

“Marking the trail,” Nightshade said, hauling over rock number five. He threw it down, then began arranging the rocks, stacking four on top of each other and placing the fifth to the east of the stack. “This way Rhys knows which direction we’ve taken at the crossroads, and he can find us.”

Mina stared at the stacked rocks, and suddenly she ran at them and began to kick at them in frenzy, knocking Nightshade’s neat pile all askew.

“What you are doing?” Nightshade cried. “Stop that!”

“He’s not going to find me!” Mina shouted. “He’s never going to find me. I don’t want him to find me.”

She picked up a rock and threw it, almost hitting Atta, who leaped to her feet in shock.

Nightshade grabbed hold of Mina and hauled off and swatted her a good one on the rear portion of her anatomy. The blow couldn’t have hurt very much, because he encountered nothing but petticoat. His swat shocked her immensely, however. She stood gaping at him, and then she burst into tears.

“You are the most spoiled, selfish little kid I ever met in my life!” Nightshade yelled at her. “Rhys is a good man. He cares about you more than you deserve, because you’ve been a real brat. And now you’ve run off, and he’s probably worried sick—”

“Thats why I ran away,” Mina gulped between sobs. “That’s why he must never find me. He is a good man. And I almost got him killed!”

Nightshade gaped at her. She had not run off to escape Rhys. She’d run off to protect him! Nightshade sighted. He was almost sorry he’d spanked her. Almost.

“There now, Mina.” Nightshade began to thump her on the back to help her quit crying. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. I understand why you did it, but you still shouldn’t have run away. As for almost getting Rhys killed, that’s nothing. I’ve almost gotten Rhys killed a couple of times and he’s almost gotten me killed a bunch. It’s what friends are for.”

Mina looked extremely startled at this, and even Nightshade had to admit his explanation didn’t sound as good when it came out of his mouth as it had when it was in his head.

“What I mean, Mina, is that Rhys cares about you. He won’t stop caring just because you’ve run off. And now you’ve added worrying and wondering to caring. As for you putting him in danger”—Nightshade shrugged—“he’s known all along that he would be in danger when he decided to take you to Godshome. The danger doesn’t make any difference to him. Because he cares.”

Mina regarded him intently, and it seemed to Nightshade that her tear-shimmering amber eyes would swallow him whole. She reached out a tentative hand.

“Is it the same with you?” she asked meekly. “Do you care about me?”

Nightshade was bound to be truthful. “I’m not as good a person as Rhys, and maybe for a moment or two back there I didn’t care much at all, but only for a moment… Or two.”

He took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “I do care, Mina. And I am sorry I spanked you. So help me stack up these rocks up again.”

Mina helped him arrange the rocks and then they continued on, heading east. The road led through fields of tall grass, past a small pond, over a couple of creeks. By this time, the sun was barely a red smear in the sky. From the top of a hill, they could see the road dip down into a valley and disappear into a forest.

Nightshade considered their options. They could camp here, by the roadside, out in the open. Rhys would be able to find them, but then, so would anyone else including thieves and brigands, and while Mina, being a god, could take care of herself, would she take care of Nightshade and Atta? Having seen her in action in the temple, Nightshade didn’t much like the odds.

If they camped in the forest, there would be lots of places—hollowed logs, thickets, and so forth—where they could rest close to the road and yet remain hidden. Atta would alert them if Rhys came along.

Having made up his mind, Nightshade started down the road leading into the forest. Mina, being on her best behavior after their fight, kept close to his side and Atta padded behind them. The sun slipped away to wherever it went to spend the night and left the world a lot darker than one might have imagined it could be. Nightshade had hoped for a moon or two to give some light, but the moons were apparently off on other business, for they didn’t make an appearance and the stars were obscured by the thick leaves of the overarching tree branches.

Nightshade had been in a lot of forests, and he couldn’t recall having been in one quite this dark or this gloomy. He couldn’t see hardly anything, but he could hear quite well and what he heard was a lot of slinking, skulking, and sneaking noises. Atta didn’t help matters by glaring into the woods and growling, and once she made a lunge at something and snapped her teeth and the something growled and snapped back, but it went away.

Mina took hold of his hand, so as not to lose him in the darkness. She was obviously frightened, but she never said a word. She seemed to be trying to make up for being a brat, which gesture touched Nightshade. He was thinking that his idea of camping in the forest had not been one of his best. He had been keeping an eye out for a place to spend the night, but he couldn’t find anything, and the forest was growing darker by the moment. Something dove at them from a tree and soared over their heads with a cawing shriek, causing Mina to scream and crouch into a ball and Nightshade fell and twisted his ankle.

“We have to stop and make camp,” he said.

“I don’t want to stop here,” said Mina, shivering.

“I can’t see my nose in front of my eyeballs,” Nightshade told her. “We’ll be safe enough—”

Atta gave a blood-curdling bark and attacked something and wrestled with it briefly. Whatever it was yelped and loped off. Atta stood panting and Mina’s lower lip quivered. So did Nightshade’s heart.

“Well, maybe just a little farther,” he said.

The three continued on along the road; Mina walking close to Nightshade and Nightshade shuffling along in the dark, with Atta growling at every other step.

“I see a light!” said Mina, stopping suddenly.

“No, you don’t,” Nightshade said crossly. “You couldn’t. What would a light be doing out here in a dark old forest?”

“But I do see a light,” Mina insisted.

And then Nightshade saw it, too—a light shining amongst the trees. The light shone from a window and a window meant a house and a house with a light in the window meant someone living here in the woods in a house with a light in the window. What’s more, he smelled the most wonderful smell—the tantalizing scent of bread or cake or pie hot out of the oven.

“Let’s go!” said Mina excitedly.

“Wait a moment,” said Nightshade. “When I was a little kender, my mother told a story about a horrible old witch who lured the children into her house and stuffed them into her oven and baked them into gingerbread.”

Mina made a gasping sound and clutched his hand so tightly he lost all feeling in his fingers. Nightshade sniffed the air again. Whatever was being cooked smelled really, really good, not at all like baked children. And spending the night in a soft bed would be far preferable to sleeping in a hollow log, providing he could find one.

“Let’s go see,” he said.

“Go see a horrible old witch?” Mina quavered, hanging back.

“I’m pretty sure I was wrong about that,” Nightshade replied. “It wasn’t a witch. It was a beautiful lady and she baked gingerbread/or the children, not the other way around.”

“Are you sure?” Mina wasn’t convinced.

“Positive,” said Nightshade.

The odd thing was, however, that he could have sworn the moment he mentioned it that he did smell gingerbread.

Mina made no further argument. Keeping tight hold of his hand, they walked up to the house. Nightshade ordered Atta to stay by his side, since he was forced to admit privately that they were far more likely to find horrible witches living in dark and gloomy forests than beautiful ladies. Atta had quit growling, and Nightshade took that for a good sign.

As they drew closer to the light, Nightshade grew more and more hopeful. He could see the light came from a snug little cabin of maybe two or three rooms. A candle stood in the window, gleaming through white curtains and lighting their way along a neat flagstone path lined with flowers whose petals drooped drowsily and filled the air with sweet perfume.

All this boded well, but Nightshade was a cautious kender, and he had a spell prepared for use, just in case.

“If this turns out to be a horrible witch,” he whispered to Mina, “I’ll yell ‘run’ and you run. Don’t worry about me. I’ll catch up with you.”

She nodded nervously. He had to pry her hand loose, because he was going to need one of his hands to knock at the door and the other hand to cast his spell in case a witch answered.

“Atta, you be ready,” he warned the dog.

Reaching the door, Nightshade gave it a brisk rap.

“Hullo!” he called out. “Is anyone home?”

The door opened and light poured out. A woman stood in the doorway. Nightshade couldn’t see her very well, for bright light dazzled his eyes. She was dressed all in white, and he had the impression she was kind and gentle and loving and yet strong and powerful and commanding. He didn’t know how anyone could be all these things at once, but he felt it was so, and he was a little fearful.

“How do you do, madam,” he said. “My name is Nightshade and I’m a kender Nightstalker and I know some very powerful spells, and this is Mina and this is Atta, a biting variety of dog. Her teeth are quite sharp.”

“How do you do, Mina and Nightshade and Atta,” the woman said, and she held out her hand to the dog. Atta sniffed at her and then, to Nightshade’s immense astonishment, the dog stood up on her hind legs and put her paws on the woman’s chest.

“Atta! Don’t do that!” Nightshade commanded, shocked. “I’m sorry, ma’am. She’s not supposed to jump on people.”

“She’s all right,” said the woman, and she smoothed the fur on Atta’s head with a gentle hand and smiled at Nightshade. “You and your little friend look tired and hungry. Won’t you come in?”

Nightshade hesitated, and Mina wasn’t budging.

“You’re not going to shove us in your oven, are you?” she asked warily.

The woman laughed. She had wonderful laughter, the sort that made Nightshade feel good all over.

“Someone has been telling you fairy tales,” the woman said, with an amused glance at the kender. She held out her hand to Mina. “By a strange chance, however, I have baked some gingerbread. If you come in, you can share it with me.”

Nightshade thought this a wry strange chance, maybe a sinister strange chance. Atta had already accepted the invitation, however. The dog trotted into the house and, finding a place near the fire, she curled up, wrapped her tail around her feet, buried her nose in her tail, and settled herself comfortably. Mina took hold of the woman’s hand and allowed herself to be led inside, leaving Nightshade by himself on the stoop with the tantalizing aroma of fresh-baked gingerbread pummeling his stomach.

“We can only stay a little while,” he said, inching his way across the threshold. “Just until our friend, Rhys Mason, finds us. He’s a monk of Majere and quite handy with his feet.”

The woman cut a piece of gingerbread, placed it in a bowl and handed it to Mina, along with a spoon. The woman poured sweet cream over the gingerbread. She cut another large piece and held it out to the kender.

Nightshade gave in.

“This is remarkably good, ma’am,” he mumbled, his mouth full. “It may be the best gingerbread I’ve ever eaten. I could tell for certain if I had another piece.”

The woman cut him another slice.

“Definitely the best,” said Nightshade, wiping his mouth with his napkin and accidentally stuffing the napkin and the spoon in his pocket.

Mina had fallen asleep with her gingerbread half-eaten. She lay with her head pillowed on her arms on the table. The woman gazed down at her, smoothing the auburn hair with a gentle hand. Nightshade was feeling sleepy himself. One of the first rules of traveling was that you didn’t fall asleep in a strange house in the middle of a dark forest, no matter how good the gingerbread. His eyes kept trying to close, and so he propped the eyelids open with his fingers and began to talk, hoping the sound of his own voice would help keep him awake.

“Do you live here by yourself, ma’am?” he asked.

“I do,” she replied. She walked over to a rocking chair that stood near the fire and sat down.

“Isn’t it kind of scary?” Nightshade asked. “Living in the middle of a dark forest? Why do you do it?”

“I give shelter to those who are lost in the night,” said the woman. She reached down to pet Atta, who lay beside the chair. Atta licked her hand and rested her nose on the woman’s foot.

“Do many people find their way here?” Nightshade asked.

“Many do,” the woman said, “though I wish more would find me.”

She began to rock back and forth in her chair, humming a soft song.

Nightshade felt warm and safe and peaceful. He couldn’t hold up his head any longer, and he lay it down on the table. His eyelids seemed determined to close no matter what. He realized that he didn’t know the woman’s name, but that didn’t seem important now. Not important enough to wake out of his warm comfort to ask her.

He was dimly aware of the woman standing up from the chair and walking over to Mina. He was dimly aware of the woman gathering the slumbering child up in her arms and holding her close and kissing her.

As sleep stole over Nightshade, he thought he heard the woman whisper lovingly, “Mina… My child… My own…”

2

Rhys walked the highway leading north out of Solace, confident he was on the trail of his friends. Not only had the matron seen the kender and the child and the dog, he’d met others along the route who had also seen them. The three were together and well and they were traveling north.

He was cheered to learn that although the three had been on the road several hours before he had started in pursuit, they were not far ahead of him. He had been afraid that Mina might take it into her head to walk to Godshome at a god’s pace, but apparently she and the kender and the dog were ambling along, moving slowly. He half-expected to find them sitting somewhere alongside the road, footsore and tired of arguing.

Time passed, and he did not run into them. He began to wonder if they were still ahead of him. He had no way to know for sure. He no longer ran into many travelers. Night was coming on and he’d seen no sign of them. Thinking he might have to search for them after dark, he had borrowed a lantern from Laura, and now he lit the candle inside and flashed it about as he went along. He knew from past experience with lost sheep that searching done by night was tedious and difficult and often fruitless. He might walk right past them in the dark and never know.

The search would have been easier if he’d had Atta with him. Without his dog, he wondered if it wouldn’t be safest to stop and wait to resume his search in the morning. Then he thought of the three of them alone and benighted in the wilderness, and he pressed on.

He came to the place where the road split. The stacked-up rocks were clearly visible in the lantern light, and Rhys breathed easier. He could reasonably assume that they had been left by the kender to indicate the direction they were traveling, an assumption born out by the fact that Rhys saw Atta’s paw prints at one point and a smallish boot print at another.

He took the road east and entered the forest and soon came to the house, although he did not immediately know it was a house. He was walking slowly, keeping watch on the road, looking for signs of the missing. Every so often he would pause and during one of these times he saw the tiny pinprick of light, shining in the night like a steadfast star.

He continued on until he came to a place where trampled brush and broken sticks indicated his friends had left the road and gone into the woods. They were traveling in the direction of the light, which he judged came from a candle in a window, a beacon left to guide those who wander in the night.

He walked the flagstone path. The flowers had closed up in slumber. The small house was wrapped in stillness. On the road, he had heard the sounds of animal movement in the forest, the calls of night birds. Here all was silence, sweet and restful. He felt no unease, no sense of threat or danger. As he came closer, he saw the curtains in the window had been drawn aside. The candle stood in a silver candle holder on the window sill. By the light of a dying fire, he could see a woman sitting in a rocking chair, holding in her arms a slumbering child.

The woman rocked slowly back and forth. Mina’s head lay upon the woman’s breast. Mina was too big to be rocked like a baby and she would have never permitted it, had she been awake. But she was deep in sleep and would never know.

The expression on the woman’s face was one of such unutterable sorrow that it struck Rhys to the heart. He saw Nightshade asleep with his head on the table and Atta slumbering by the fire. He was loath, suddenly, to knock, not wanting to disturb any of them. Now that he knew his friends were in safe-keeping, he would leave them here and return for them in the morning.

He was starting to withdraw when Atta either heard his footfall or sniffed his scent, for she gave a welcoming woof. Leaping to her feet, she ran to the door and began to whine and scratch on it.

“Come in, Brother,” the woman called. “I have been expecting you.”

Rhys opened the door, which had no lock, and entered the house. He patted Atta, who wagged not only her tail, but her entire back end in joyous greeting. Nightshade had jumped at Atta’s bark, but the kender was so worn out that he went back to sleep without waking.

Rhys came to stand before the woman and bowed deeply and reverently.

“You know me, then,” she said, looking up at him with a smile.

“I do, White Lady,” he said softly, so as not to wake Mina.

The woman nodded. She stroked Mina’s hair and then kissed her gently on the forehead. “Thus I would comfort all the children who are lost and unhappy this night.”

Rising to her feet, the White Lady, as some knew the goddess Mishakal, carried Mina to bed. Mishakal laid the child down and covered her with a quilt. Rhys tapped Nightshade gently on the shoulder.

The kender opened one eye and gave a large yawn. “Oh, hullo, Rhys. I’m glad you’re alive. Try the gingerbread,” Nightshade advised, and went to back to sleep.

Mishakal stood gazing down at Mina. Rhys was overcome with emotion, his heart too full for speech, even if he knew what words to say. He felt the sorrow of the goddess, forced to place the child born of joy in the moment of the world’s creation in eternal slumber, knowing her child would never see the light that had given her birth. And then had come the more terrible knowledge that when her child had first opened her eyes, she had not looked on light, but on cruel darkness.

“It is not often a mortal pities a god, Brother Rhys. It is not often a god deserves a mortal’s pity.”

“I do not pity you, Lady,” Rhys said. “I grieve for you and for her.”

“Thank you, Brother, for your care of her. I know you are weary, and you will find rest here as long as you require. If you can stave off your weariness for a little longer, Brother, we must talk, you and I.”

Rhys sat down at the table on which were still scattered crumbs of gingerbread.

“I am sorry for the destruction and loss of life in Solace, White Lady,” Rhys said. “I feel responsible. I should not have Mina brought there. I knew Chemosh was seeking her. I should have foreseen he would try to take her—”

“You are not responsible for the actions of Chemosh, Brother,” Mishakal said. “It was well you and Mina were in Solace when Krell attacked. Had you been alone, you could not have fought off him or his Bone Warriors. As it was, my priests and Majere’s and those of Kiri-Jolith and Gilean and others were there to assist you.”

“Innocents died in that battle…” Rhys said.

“And Chemosh will be made to account for their lives,” Mishakal said sternly. “He flouted the decree of Gilean by trying to abduct Mina. He has brought the wrath of all the gods down upon him, including the anger of his own allies, Sargonnas and Zeboim. A minotaur force is already marching on Chemosh’s castle near Flotsam with orders to raze it. The Lord of Death has fled this world and is now entrenched in the Hall of the Dead. His clerics are being hunted and destroyed.”

“Will there be another war?” Rhys asked, appalled.

“None can say,” Mishakal replied gravely. “That depends on Mina. Upon the choices she makes.”

“Forgive me, White Lady,” Rhys said, “but Mina is not fit to make choices. Her mind is deeply troubled.”

“I am not so sure of that,” Mishakal said. “Mina herself made the decision to go to Godshome. None of us suggested that to her. Her instinct draws her there.”

“What does she hope to find?” Rhys asked. “Will she truly meet Goldmoon, as she expects?”

“No,” said Mishakal, smiling. “The spirit of my blessed servant, Goldmoon, is far from here, continuing her soul’s journey. Yet Mina does go to Godshome in search of a mother. She seeks the mother who brought her into joyous being, and she seeks the dark mother, Takhisis, who brought her to life. She must choose which she will follow.”

“And until she makes her decision, this religious strife will continue,” Rhys said unhappily.

“That is sadly true, Brother. If Mina could be given an eternity of time to decide, eventually she would find her way.” Mishakal sighed softly. “But we don’t have eternity. As you fear, what has started as strife will devolve into all-out war.”

“I will take Mina to Godshome,” said Rhys. “I will help her find her way.”

“You are her guide and her guardian and her friend, Brother,” said Mishakal. “But you cannot take her to Godshome. Only one may do that. One with whom her fate is inextricably bound. If he chooses to do so. He has the power to refuse.”

“I don’t understand, White Lady.”

“The gods of light made this promise to man: mortals are free to choose their own destiny. All mortals.”

Rhys heard the gentle emphasis on the word “all” and thought it strange, as if she were including one mortal who might otherwise be singled out as exceptional. Wondering what she meant, he thought back on her words and suddenly he understood her.

“All mortals,” he repeated. “Even those who were once gods. You speak of Valthonis!”

“As Mina goes to Godshome seeking her mother, so she also seeks her father. Valthonis, who was once Paladine, is not bound by the edict of Gilean. Valthonis is the only one who can help her find her way.”

“And Mina has sworn to kill him—the one person who could save her.”

“Sargonnas is clever, far more clever than Chemosh. He plans to give Mina a choice—darkness or light. Gilean cannot very well interfere with that. And Sargonnas gives Valthonis a choice, as well. A bitter dilemma for Mina, for Valthonis, for you, Brother,” said Mishakal. “On the morrow, I can send you and Mina and those who choose to go with you to meet with Valthonis if you are still resolved upon this course. I will give you the night to consider, for I may well be sending you to your death.”

“I do not need the night to think about this, White Lady. I am resolved,” said Rhys. “I will do what I can to help both Mina and Valthonis. And do not fear for him. He does not walk alone. He has the Faithful, self-appointed guardians, who are sworn to protect him…”

“True,” Mishakal said with a radiant smile. “He is watched over by many who love him.”

And then she sighed and said softly, “But the choice is not theirs. The choice must be Valthonis’ choice and his alone…”

3

The Wilder elf named Elspeth had been with Valthonis since the beginning. She was one of the Faithful, though one who was often overlooked.

When Valthonis had elected to exile himself from the pantheon of gods, he had done so to maintain the balance, disrupted after the banishment of his dark counterpart, Takhisis. Choosing to be mortal, he had taken the form of an elf, joining these people in their own bitter exile from their ancestral homelands. He did not ask for followers. He meant to walk his hard road alone. Those who accompanied him did so of their own accord, and people called them the Faithful.

All the Faithful had vivid memories of their first meeting with the Walking God—recalling even the hour of the day and whether the sun was shining or the rain was falling, for his words had touched their hearts and changed their lives forever. But they had no memory of meeting Elspeth, though they knew she must have been with him then, simply because they could not recall a time she hadn’t been.

A woman of indeterminate age, Elspeth wore the simple, rough tunic and leather breeches favored by the Wilder elves, those elves who have never been comfortable in civilization and live in lonely and isolated regions of Ansalon. Her hair was long and white and hung down about her shoulders. Her eyes were blue crystal. Her face was lovely, but impassive, rarely showing emotion.

Elspeth maintained her isolation even in company with the other Faithful. The Faithful understood the reason why—or thought they did—and they were gentle with her. Elspeth was mute. Her tongue had been cut out. No one knew how she had come by this terrible injury, though rumors abounded. Some said she had been assaulted, and her attacker had cut out her tongue so that she could not name him. Some said the minotaur rulers of Silvanesti had mutilated her. They were known to cut out the tongues of any who spoke out against them.

The most terrible rumor, and one that was generally discounted, was that Elspeth had cut out her tongue herself. No one knew why she would do such a thing. What words did she so fear to speak that she would mutilate herself to prevent their utterance?

The members of the Faithful were always kind to her and tried to include her in their activities or discussions. She was painfully shy, however, and would shrink away if anyone spoke to her.

Valthonis treated Elspeth as he treated the other Faithful—with reserved, gentle courtesy, not aloof from them, yet set apart. A barrier existed between the Walking God and the Faithful that none could cross. He was mortal. Being an elf, he did not age as did humans, but his constant journeying took its toll. He always slept outdoors, refusing shelter in house or castle, and he walked the road every day, walked in wind and rain, sun and snow. His fair skin was weathered and tanned. He was lean and spare, his clothes—tunic and hose, boots and woolen cloak—were travel-worn.

The Faithful regarded him with awe, always mindful of the sacrifice he had made for mankind. In their eyes, he was still almost a god. What was he in his own eyes? None knew. He spoke of Paladine and the Gods of Light often, but always as a mortal speaks of the gods—worshipful and reverent. He never spoke as having been one of them.

The Faithful often speculated among themselves whether or not Valthonis even remembered that he had once been the most powerful god in the universe. Sometimes he would pause in a conversation and look far away, into the distance, and a frown would mar his forehead, as though he was concentrating hard, striving to recall something immensely important. These times, the Faithful believed, he had seen some glimmering of what he had once been, but when he tried to retrieve the memory it slipped away, ephemeral as morning mist. For his sake, they prayed he would never remember.

At such times, the Faithful noted that Elspeth always drew a little nearer to him. Any who chanced to look at her would see her sitting still, unmoving, her eyes fixed upon Valthonis, as if he was all she saw, all she ever wanted to see. His frown would ease, and he would slightly shake his head and smile and continue on.

The numbers of the Faithful changed from day to day, as some decided to join Valthonis on his endless walk and others departed. Valthonis never asked them to remain, nor did he ask them to leave. They swore no oath to him, for he would not accept it. They came from all races and all manner of life, rich and poor, wise and foolish, noble or wretched. No one questioned those who joined, for Valthonis would not permit it.

The Faithful all remembered the day the ogre emerged from the woods and fell into step beside Valthonis. Several clapped their hands to their swords, but a glance from Valthonis halted them. He went on speaking to those around him, who found it hard to listen, for they could not take their eyes from the ogre. The gigantic brute lumbered along, scowling balefully at all of them and snarling if any ventured too close.

Those who knew ogres said he was a chieftain, for he wore a heavy silver chain around his neck and his filthy leather vest was adorned with innumerable scalps and other gruesome trophies. He was huge, topping the tallest among them by chest, head, and shoulders, and he stank to high heaven. He remained with them a week and in all that time he spoke no word to any of them, not even to Valthonis.

Then one evening, while they were sitting around the fire, the ogre rose to his feet and stomped over to Valthonis. The Faithful were immediately on their guard, but Valthonis ordered them to sheathe their weapons and resume their seats. The ogre drew the silver chain from around his neck and held it out to the Walking God.

Valthonis placed his hand upon the chain and asked the gods to bless it and gave the chain back. The ogre grunted in satisfaction. He hung the chain about his neck and, with another grunt, he left them, lumbering back into the forest. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Later, when stories began to filter out of Blöde how an ogre wearing a silver chain was working to ease the misery of his people and trying to bring an end to violence and bloodshed, the Faithful remembered their ogre companion and marveled.

Kender often joined them on the road, jumping about Valthonis like crickets and pestering him with questions, such as why frogs have bumps but snakes don’t and why cheese is yellow when milk is white. The Faithful rolled their eyes, but Valthonis answered all questions patiently and even seemed to enjoy having the kender about. The kender were a trial to his followers, but they strove to follow the example of the Walking God and show patience and forbearance, and they reconciled themselves to the theft of all their possessions.

Gnomes came to discuss schematic layouts of their latest inventions with the Walking God, and he would study them and try as diplomatically as he could to point out the design flaws most likely to result in injury or death.

Elves were always with Valthonis, many remaining with him for long periods. Humans were also among the Faithful, though they tended to stay for shorter periods of time than the elves. Paladins of Kiri-Jolith and Solamnic knights would often come to speak to Valthonis about their quests, asking for his blessing or forming part of his entourage. A hill dwarf traveled with them for a time, a priest of Reorx, who said he came in memory of Flint Fireforge.

Valthonis walked all roads and highways, stopping only to rest and sleep. He ate his frugal meals on the road. When he came to a town, he would walk its streets, pausing to talk to those he met, never remaining in one place long. He was often asked by clerics to give sermons or lectures. Valthonis always refused. He talked as he walked.

Many came to converse with him. Most came in faith, to listen and absorb. But there were also those who came as skeptics, those who wanted to argue, mock, or jeer at him. The Faithful had to practice restraint at these times, for Valthonis would permit intervention only if people became violent, and then he was far more concerned about the safety of those around him than he was for himself.

Day after day, the Faithful came and the Faithful went. But Elspeth was always with him.

This day, as they walked the winding roads through the Khalkist mountains, somewhere in the vicinity of the accursed valley of Neraka, the silent Elspeth startled the Faithful by leaving her customary place on the fringes of the group and, creeping close to Valthonis, fell into step behind him. He took no notice of her, for he was conversing with a follower of Chislev, discussing how to reverse the depredations of the Dragon Overlords on the land.

The Faithful noted Elspeth’s action and thought it odd, but took no further notice of her. Only later did they look back and wish, to their sorrow, that they had paid more heed.

Galdar had mixed feelings about his assignment. He was going to be reunited with Mina, and he wasn’t certain how he felt about that. On the one hand, he was glad. He had not seen her since their enforced separation at the tomb of Takhisis, when she had given herself into the arms of the Lord of Death. He had tried to stop her, but the god had torn him from Mina’s side. Even then, he would have searched for her, but Sargas had given Galdar to understand that he had more important work to do for his god and his people than chase after a silly chit of a human.

Galdar had heard news of Mina after that, how she had become a High Priestess of Chemosh, beloved of the Lord of Bones, and Galdar had scowled and shaken his horned head. Mina’s turning priestess was a grievous waste. Galdar could not have been more shocked if he’d heard that the renowned minotaur war hero, Makel Ogrebane, had become a druid and gone about healing baby bunnies.

Because of this, Galdar was reluctant to meet Mina again. If the woman who had boldly and courageously ridden with him on dragon back to do battle with the dread Dragon Overlord Malys was now a bone-waving, spell-chanting, grave-robbing follower of the sly and treacherous Chemosh, Galdar wanted nothing to do with her. He didn’t want to see her like that. He wanted his memories of her to be of the conquering soldier, not some lying priest.

He disliked this assignment for another reason. It involved gods and Galdar’d had a belly full of gods during the War of Souls. Like his old enemy-turned-friend, Gerard, Galdar wanted as little to do with gods as possible. His feelings were so strong that he had almost refused to take the assignment, even though this would have meant saying “No,” to Sargas, something not even the god’s own children dared.

In the end, Galdar’s faith in Sargas (and his fear of him) and his longing to see Mina won out. He reluctantly agreed to accept the assignment. (It should be noted that Sargas did not tell Galdar the truth—that Mina was a god herself. The Horned God must have considered that too great a test for his faithful follower.)

Galdar and the small minotaur patrol under his command spent considerable time scouting the enemy, determining their numbers, appraising their skill. A cautious and intelligent leader, Galdar did not immediately assume, as did some of his race, that just because they were dealing with elves his soldiers would have an easy time of it. Galdar had fought elves during and after the War of Souls, and he had come to respect them as a warriors even if he didn’t think much of them in any other regard. He impressed upon his troops that elves were skilled and tenacious fighters, who would fight all the more fiercely because of their loyalty and dedication to their Walking God.

Galdar laid his ambush in the wilds of the Khalkist mountains. He chose this region because he calculated that once the Walking God was far from civilization the numbers of his followers would dwindle. When Valthonis traveled the major highways of Solamnia, he might have as many as twenty or thirty people accompanying him. Here, far from any major city, close to Neraka, a region of Ansalon most people still considered cursed, only the most dedicated remained at his side. Galdar counted six elven warriors armed with bow and arrow and sword, a Wilder elf who bore no weapons, and a druid of Chislev clad in moss green robes who would probably attack them with holy spells.

He set the time for the ambush at twilight, when the shadows of night stealing among the trees vied with the last rays of the sun. At this time, tricks of the waning light could fool the eye, make finding a target difficult even for elven archers.

Galdar and his troops hid themselves among the trees, waiting until they heard the party moving along the trail, which was little more than a goatherd’s path. The small band was still some distance away, time for Galdar to give his minotaur band some last-minute whispered orders.

“We are to take the Walking God alive,” he said, laying heavy emphasis on the word. “This command comes from Sargas himself. Remember this—Sargas is the god of vengeance. Disobey him at your peril. I for one am not prepared to risk his wrath.”

The other minotaurs agreed wholeheartedly and some glanced uneasily at the heavens. Sargas’ retribution against those who thwarted his will was known to be as swift as it was brutal.

“What if this so-called Walking God chooses to do battle, sir?” asked one. “Will the Gods of Wimps fight for their own? Should we expect lightning bolts to strike us down?”

“Gods of Wimps, is it, Malek?” Galdar growled. “You lost the tip of your horn to a Solamnic knight. Was she a wimp, or did she kick your sorry ass?”

The minotaur looked chagrined. His fellows grinned at him, and one nudged him with an elbow.

“So long as we threaten no harm to the Walking God, the Gods of Light will not intervene. So the priest of Sargas assured me.”

“And what do we do with this Walking God once we have him, sir?” asked another. “You haven’t told us that yet.”

“Because I don’t want to burden your brain with more than one thought at a time,” Galdar told him. “All you need worry about now is capturing the Walking God. Alive!”

Galdar cocked an ear. The voices and the footfalls were drawing nearer.

“Take up your positions,” he ordered and dispersed his men, sending them running to the ditches on either side of the road. “Don’t move a muscle and keep upwind of them! These blasted elves have a nose for minotaur.”

Galdar crouched behind a large oak tree. His sword remained sheathed. He hoped he would not have to use it, and rubbed the stump of his missing arm. The wound was an old one. The arm was fully healed, but sometimes, strangely, he felt pain in the limb that was not there. This evening the arm burned and throbbed worse than usual. He blamed it on the damp, but he had to wonder if it hurt because he was thinking of Mina, recalling their first meeting. She had reached out her hand to him and her touch had healed him, given him back his severed limb.

The limb he’d lost again, trying to save her.

He wondered if she remembered, if she ever thought of their time together, the happiest and proudest time of his life.

Probably not, now that she was a high muckety-muck priestess.

Galdar rubbed his arm and cursed the damp and listened to the voices of elves coming closer.

Hunkering down among the dead leaves and shadows, the minotaur soldiers gripped their weapons and waited.

Two elven warriors walked in front, four came behind. Valthonis and the druid of Chislev walked in the center of the group, absorbed in their conversation. Elspeth kept very close to him, almost at his heels. Usually she would have been far in the rear, several paces behind the rear guard. This sudden change added to the uneasiness the others felt at being so near the accursed valley of Neraka where the Dark Queen had once reigned. They had questioned Valthonis about why he had chosen to come here, to this dread place, but he would only smile and tell them what he always told them in answer to their questions.

“I do not go where I want to go,” he would say. “I go where I need to be.”

Since they could elicit no information from the Walking God, one of the Faithful took it upon himself to question Elspeth, asking her in a low voice what was wrong, what she feared. Elspeth might have been deaf, as well as mute, for she did even glance his way. She kept her gaze fixed upon Valthonis and, as the elf later reported to his fellows, her face was drawn and tense.

Already uneasy and nervous about their surroundings, the elven warriors were not quite caught off guard by the sudden attack. Something struck them as wrong as they passed beneath the leaves of the overhanging tree limbs. Perhaps it was a smell; minotaur have a bovine stench that is not easy to conceal. Perhaps it was the breaking of a stick beneath a heavy boot, or the shifting of a large body in the underbrush. Whatever it was, the elves sensed danger, and they slowed their pace.

The two in front drew their swords and fell back to take up positions on either side of Valthonis. The elves following nocked their arrows and raised their bows and turned to stare intently into the shifting shadows in the trees.

“Show yourselves!” one of the elves shouted harshly in Common.

The minotaur soldiers obeyed his command, clambering up out of the ditches and surging onto the road. Steel clanged against steel. Bowstrings twanged and the druid began to chant a prayer to Chislev, calling on her for blessed aid.

Valthonis’ voice cut through the chaos, ringing out loudly and forcefully. “Stop this! Now.”

He spoke with such authority that all the combatants obeyed him, including the minotaurs, who reacted to the commanding tone out of instinct. A heartbeat later they realized that it was their intended victim who had ordered them to cease and, feeling foolish, sprang again to the attack.

This time Galdar roared, “Stop in the name of Sargas!” The minotaur soldiers, seeing their leader striding forward, reluctantly lowered their swords and fell back.

The elves and the minotaurs eyed each other balefully. No one attacked, but no one sheathed his blade. The druid was still praying. Valthonis placed a hand upon the man’s shoulder and spoke a soft word. The druid cast him a pleading glance, but Valthonis shook his head, and the prayer to Chislev ended in a sigh.

Galdar raised his only hand to show he bore no weapon and walked toward Valthonis. The Faithful moved to interpose their own bodies between the Walking God and the minotaur.

“Walking God,” said Galdar, speaking over the heads of those who blocked him, “I would speak to you—in private.”

“Stand aside, my friends,” said Valthonis. “I will hear what he has to say.”

One of the elves tried to argue, but Valthonis would not listen. He asked the Faithful again to stand aside and this they did, though reluctantly and unhappily. Galdar ordered his soldiers to keep their distance and they obeyed, though with lowering looks at the elves.

Galdar and Valthonis walked into the trees, out of earshot of their followers.

“You are Valthonis, once the god Paladine,” stated Galdar.

“I am Valthonis,” said the elf mildly.

“I am Galdar, emissary of the great god known to minotaur as Sargas, known to those like yourselves as Sargonnas. My god bids me speak these words: ‘You have unfinished business in the world, Valthonis, and because you have chosen to ‘walk’ away from this challenge there is new strife in heaven and among men. The great Sargas wants to bring this strife to an end. This matter must be brought to a swift and final resolution. To facilitate this, he will bring about a meeting between you and your challenger.’”

“I hope you do think I am being argumentative, Emissary, but I am afraid I know nothing about this strife or the challenge of which you speak,” Valthonis replied.

Galdar rubbed his muzzle with the side of his hand. He was uncomfortable, for he believed in honor and in honesty, and in this he was being less than honest, less than honorable.

“Perhaps not a challenge from Mina,” Galdar clarified, hoping his god would understand. “More of a threat. Still,” he went on before Valthonis could reply, “it hangs between the two of you like noxious smoke, poisoning the air.”

“Ah, I understand now,” Valthonis said. “You speak of Mina’s vow to kill me.”

Galdar glanced about uneasily at his minotaur escort. “Keep your voice down when you mention her name. My people consider her a witch.”

He cleared his throat and added stiffly, “I was told by Sargas to say that the Horned God wants to bring the two of you together, that you may resolve your differences.”

Valthonis smiled wryly at this, and Galdar, embarrassed, kept on rubbing his muzzle. Sargas had no intention the two should resolve their differences. Galdar had no love for any elf, but he scorned to lie to this one. He had his orders, however, and so he said what he’d been told to say, though he was making it clear he wasn’t the one to say it.

The two were interrupted by one of the Faithful, who called out, “You have no need to parlay with this brute, sir. We can and will fight to defend you—”

“No blood will be shed because of me,” said Valthonis sharply. He cast a stern glance at the Faithful. “Have you walked the road with me all this time and listened to me speak of peace and brotherhood and yet heard nothing I have said to you?”

His voice rasped, and his followers were abashed. They did not know where to look to avoid his angry gaze, and so averted their faces or stared at the ground. Only Elspeth did not look away. Only she met his gaze. He smiled at her in reassurance and then turned back to Galdar.

“I will accompany you on the condition that my companions be allowed to leave unharmed.”

“Those are my orders,” said Galdar. He raised his voice so that all could hear. “Sargas wants peace. He does not want to see blood spilled.”

One of the elves sneered at this, and one of the minotaurs growled, and the two leaped at each other. Galdar flung himself at the minotaur and socked him in the jaw. Elspeth grasped the sword arm of the elven warrior and pulled him back. Startled, the warrior immediately lowered his weapon.

“If you will walk with us, sir,” Galdar said, shaking out his bruised knuckles, “we will act as your escort. Give me your vow that you will not try to escape, and I will not chain you.”

“You have my word,” said Valthonis. “I will not escape. I go with you of my own free will.”

He bade goodbye to the Faithful, giving his hand to each and asking the gods to bless them.

“Do not fear, sir,” said one softly, speaking Silvanesti elven, “we will rescue you.”

“I have given my word,” said Valthonis. “I will not break it.”

“But, sir—”

The Walking God shook his head and turned away, only to find Elspeth blocking him. It seemed she longed to speak, for her jaw trembled and low, animal sounds came from her throat.

Valthonis touched her cheek with his hand. “You need say nothing, child. I understand.”

Elspeth grasped hold of his hand and pressed it to her cheek.

“Take care of her,” Valthonis ordered the Faithful.

He gently freed his hand from her grasp and walked to where Galdar and the minotaur guard stood waiting for him.

“You have my word. And I have yours,” said Valthonis. “My friends depart unharmed.”

“May Sargas take my other arm if I break my oath,” said Galdar. He entered the forest, and Valthonis followed. The minotaur guard closed in around them both.

The Faithful stood on the path amidst the gathering gloom, watching their leader depart. Their elven sight allowed them to keep track of Valthonis for a long while and, then, when they could not see him, they could hear the minotaur crashing and hacking their way through the brush. The Faithful looked at one another. The minotaur had left a trail a blind gully dwarf could follow. They would be easy to track.

One started after them. The silent Elspeth stopped him.

“He gave his word,” she said, using signs, touching her hand to her mouth, then to her heart. “He made his choice.”

Grieving, the Faithful began to trace their steps, returning the way they had come. It was some time before any of them realized that Elspeth was not with them. Mindful of their promise, they began to search for her and at last they found her trail. She walked the same path the Walking God had been traveling—the road to Neraka. She refused to turn aside, and mindful of their promise to care for her, the Faithful accompanied her.

4

Rhys was dreaming that he was being watched and he woke with an alarmed start to find his dream was true. A face hovered over him. Fortunately, the face was one Rhys knew, and he closed his eyes in relief and calmed his racing heart.

Nightshade, chin in hand, was sitting cross-legged beside Rhys, peering down at him. The kender’s expression was gloomy.

“About bloody time you woke up!” Nightshade muttered.

Rhys sighed and kept his eyes closed a moment longer. Until his dream, his slumber had been deep and sweet and easeful, and he let go of sleep with regret. All the more so since it appeared by the glimpse he’d had of Nightshade’s grim expression that waking would not be nearly so pleasant.

“Rhys.” Nightshade poked at him with his finger. “Don’t you dare go back to sleep. Here, Atta, slobber on him.”

“I’m awake,” said Rhys, sitting up and ruffling Atta’s fur, for the dog was unhappy and she pressed her head into his neck for comfort. Still soothing Atta, Rhys sat up and looked about.

“Where are we?” he asked, amazed.

“I can tell you where we’re not,” stated Nightshade glumly. “We’re not in the house of the pretty lady who makes the best gingerbread in the world. Which is where we both were yesterday, and the day before that and we were there when I went to sleep last night, and that’s where we should be this morning, only we’re not. We’re here. Wherever ‘here’ is. And I don’t mind telling you,” the kender added in a tense tone, “that I’d rather be somewhere else. Here is not a nice place.”

Rhys gently put Atta aside and rose swiftly to his feet. The forest was gone, as was the small house, where, as Nightshade had said, he and the kender, Atta and Mina had spent two days and two nights—days and nights of blessed tranquility and peace. They had intended to set out upon the final stage of their journey this morning, but it seemed Mishakal had forestalled him.

They looked out upon a desolate, barren valley slung between the charred ridges of several active volcanoes. Tendrils of steam drifted up from the blackened peaks, trailing into a sky that was a stark and empty blue. The air was chill, the sun small and shrunken and impotent, radiating no warmth. Their shadows straggled across the trackless gray stone floor of the valley and dwindled to nothing. The air was thin and sulphurous, difficult to breathe. Rhys could not seem to take in enough to fill his lungs. Most awful was the silence which had a living quality to it, like an inhaled breath. Watchful, waiting.

Strange rock formations littered this valley. Enormous black crystals, jagged-edged and faceted, thrust up out of the stone. Some standing twenty feet high or more, the monoliths were scattered about the valley at random. They were not a natural formation, did not appear to have sprung up out of the ground. Rather, it seemed they had been cast down from heaven by some immense force whose fury had driven them deep into the valley floor.

“The least you could have done is bring the gingerbread with you,”

Nightshade said. “Now we don’t have any breakfast. I know I agreed to come with you to find the Walking God, but I didn’t know the trip was going to be quite so sudden.”

“I didn’t either,” Rhys said, then added sharply, “Where’s Mina?”

Nightshade jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Mina had waited with him beside the slumbering Rhys until she’d grown bored and wandered off to investigate. She stood some distance away, gazing at her reflection in one of the crystalline monoliths.

“Why are you looking all tense like this?” Nightshade demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“I know where we are,” said Rhys, hurrying over to fetch Mina. “I know this place. And we must leave at once. Atta, come!”

“I’m all for leaving. Though leaving doesn’t look to be as easy as coming,” Nightshade stated, breaking into a run to keep up with Rhys’ long strides. “Especially since we have no idea how the ‘coming’ happened. I don’t think it was Mina. She was asleep on the ground when I woke up and when she woke up, she was as startled and confused as I was.”

Rhys was certain the White Lady had sent them to this terrible place, though he could not imagine why, other than that it was said to be close to Godshome.

“So, Rhys,” said Nightshade, his boots thunking on the stone and causing dust to swirl in small, slithering eddies over the floor like side-winding snakes, “where are we? What is this place?”

“The valley of Neraka,” Rhys replied.

The kender gasped, his eyes going round. “Neraka? The Neraka? The Neraka where the Dark Queen built her dark temple and was going to enter the world? I remember that story! There was a guy with a green jewel in his chest who murdered his sister, only she forgave him and her spirit blocked the Dark Queen’s entry, and she lost the war and the brother came back to his sister and together they blew up the temple and… and this is it!” Nightshade stopped to stare with excitement into one of the black monoliths. “These ugly rocks are pieces of Takhisis’ temple!”

“Mina!” Rhys called out to her.

She didn’t seem to hear him. She was staring fixedly at the rock, seemingly mesmerized. Rhys slowed his pace. He didn’t want to startle or alarm her by accosting her suddenly, without warning.

Meanwhile Nightshade was mulling things over. “Neraka had something to do with the War of Souls, too. That war started when Takhisis became the One God and she was going to keep all the souls imprisoned here. Poor souls. I spoke to a good many of them, you know, Rhys. I was glad for them when the war was over and they were finally free to depart, though the graveyard was awfully lonely after that…”

“Mina,” called Rhys softly.

Motioning for Nightshade to keep back, Rhys walked slowly toward her. The kender caught hold of Atta and both of them stopped, both of them panting in the thin air.

“Neraka. War of Souls. Neraka,” Nightshade muttered. “Oh, yes, now I remember it all! Neraka was where the war started and… Omigod! Rhys!” he shouted. “This is where Mina came to start the War of Souls! Takhisis sent her out of the storm…”

Rhys made a stern, emphatic gesture, and Nightshade gulped and fell silent.

“I guess he already knew that,” the kender said and put his arms around Atta’s neck and held onto her tightly—just in case the dog was scared.

Rhys came up to stand behind Mina.

“Who is she?” Mina demanded, frightened. She pointed at her reflection in the black crystal.

Rhys’ breath caught in his throat. He could not speak. The Mina that stood beside him was the child, Mina, with long red braids and freckles on her nose and guileless eyes of amber. The Mina reflected in the black crystal was the woman of the soul-imprisoning amber eyes, the warrior woman who had been born in this valley, the woman who had worshipped the One God, the Dark God, Takhisis.

Mina flung herself in sudden fury at the black rock, kicking it and beating it with her fists.

Rhys seized hold of her. The sharp rock had already cut her hand. Blood trailed down her arm. He hauled her back from the rock. She jerked free of his grip and stood panting and glaring at the rock, and wiped the blood from her cut onto her dress.

“Why does that woman stare at me like that? I don’t like her! What has she done with me?” Mina cried in anguish.

Rhys tried to soothe her, but he was shaken himself by the sight of the hard-faced, amber-eyed woman gazing back at them from the black crystal.

“Woo boy,” said Nightshade. Coming up to stand beside Rhys, the kender stared at Mina, then he stared at the reflection in the crystal monolith and rubbed his eyes and scratched his head. “Woo boy,” he said again.

Shaking his head in perplexity, he turned to Rhys.

“I hate to add to our problems, especially since they appear to be real doozies, but you should probably know that there’s a large group of minotaur soldiers up on that ridge.”

The kender squinted, shaded his eyes with his hand. “And I know this sounds strange, Rhys, but I think they have an elf with them.”

5

Galdar was plagued by ghosts. Not ghosts of the dead, as during the War of Souls. Ghosts of himself, of his own dead past. Here, in Neraka, Mina had walked into this valley and into his life and forever changed him. He had not been in the valley since that night which had been both terrible and wonderful. He had not been back in Neraka until now, and he was not happy to return. Time had healed the wound The scar tissue had grown over his stump. But his memories ached and throbbed and tormented him like the pain of his phantom arm.

“The dwarves call this place Gamashinoch,” Galdar said. “It means ‘Song of Death’. Guess they don’t call it that now, ’cause the singing’s stopped, Sargas be praised,” he added.

He talked to the only person with him—Valthonis—and Galdar wasn’t talking to Valthonis because he enjoyed conversing with the elf. The racial hatred between minotaur and elves went back centuries, and Galdar saw no reason why the hatred shouldn’t last a few more. As for this elf being the ‘Walking God’, Galdar had himself been witness to the transformation so he knew the tale was true. What he didn’t understand was why everyone was making such a fuss over him. So he’d once been a god? What of it? He was a man now and had to take a crap in the woods like everyone else.

Galdar was mainly talking because he had to talk or else listen to the eerie silence that blanketed the valley. At that, Galdar had to admit the silence was better than that horrible singing they’d heard when he’d last been here. The lamenting souls of the dead had finally departed.

Galdar and Valthonis entered the valley alone; Galdar having ordered his men to stay on the ridge. His soldiers protested the decision. They even dared to argue with him, and no minotaur ever argued with his commanding officer. If Galdar insisted upon entering this accursed valley, his men wanted to come with him.

The minotaur soldiers admired Galdar. He was plain-speaking and blunt, and they liked that in a commander. He shared their hardships, and he made no secret of the fact that he didn’t like this assignment any better than they did, especially coming to the accursed valley of Neraka.

Takhisis had been Sargas’ consort, but there had been no love lost between them. Her favored race, the ogres, had long been enemies of the minotaur, at one time enslaving and brutalizing them. Sargas had pleaded their cause, but she had laughed at him and mocked him and his minotaur race. She was now dead and gone, or so people claimed. The minotaurs did not trust Takhisis, however. She’d been banished once by Huma Dragonbane and she’d come back. She might rise again, and no one wanted to walk the dark valley where she had once reigned.

“If you’re not back by noon, we’re coming in to get you, sir,” stated his second-in-command, and the other minotaurs raised their voices in agreement.

“No, you won’t,” Galdar said, glaring around at them. “If I’m not back by sunset, return to Jelek. Make your report to the priests of Sargas.”

“And what do we say, sir?” his second demanded.

“That I did as Sargas commanded,” Galdar answered proudly.

His men understood him, and though they did not like it, they no longer argued. They left the ridge and returned to the foothills, to while away the time with a game of bones, in which none took much pleasure.

Galdar and the elf continued making their way down what was left of a road. Galdar wondered if it was the road he’d walked that night, the night of the storm, the night of Mina. He didn’t recognize it, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d gone out of his way to try to forget that nightmarish march.

“I first came here with a patrol the night of the great storm,” Galdar explained as they left the road and entered the valley. “We didn’t know it at the time, but the storm was Takhisis, announcing to the world that the One God was back and this time she meant to have it all. We were under the command of Talon Leader Magitt, a bully and a coward, the sort of commander that would always run from a battle, only to pull some stupid stunt to try prove how brave he was and get half his men killed in the process.”

Talon Leader Magitt dismounted his horse. “We will set up camp here. Pitch my command tent near the tallest of those monoliths. Galdar, you’re in charge of setting up camp. I trust you can handle that simple task?”

His words seemed unnaturally loud, his voice shrill and raucous. A breath of air, cold and sharp, hissed through the valley, sent the sand into dust devils that swirled across the barren ground and whispered away.

“You are making a mistake, sir,” said Galdar in a soft undertone, to disturb the silence as little as possible. “We are not wanted here.”

“Who does not want us, Galdar?” Talon Leader Magitt sneered. “These rocks?” He slapped the side of a black crystal monolith. “Ha! What a thick-skulled, superstitious cow!”

“We made camp,” said Galdar, his voice low and solemn. “In this valley. Among the blasted ruins of her temple.”

A man could see his reflection in those glossy black planes, a reflection that was distorted, twisted, yet completely recognizable as being a reflection of himself….

These men, long since hardened against every good feeling, looked into the shining black plane of the crystals and were appalled by the faces that looked back. For on those faces they could see their mouths open to sing the terrible song.

Galdar glanced at the black crystalline monoliths that littered the valley, and he could not repress a shudder.

“Go ahead, look into one of them,” he said to Valthonis. “You won’t like what you see. The rock twists your reflection, so that you see yourself as some sort of monster.”

Valthonis stopped to stare at one of the rocks. Galdar halted, too, thinking it would be amusing to see the elf’s reaction. Valthonis gazed at his reflection, then glanced at Galdar. The minotaur stepped up behind the elf to see what he was seeing. The elf’s reflection glistened in the rock. The reflection was the same as the reality—an elf with a weathered face and ancient eyes.

“Hunh,” Galdar grunted. “Maybe the curse on the valley has been lifted. I haven’t been here since the war ended.”

He elbowed Valthonis aside and stood before the rock and gazed boldly at himself.

The Galdar reflected in the rock had two good arms.

Galdar stared at his own reflection. He flexed his left hand, his only hand. His reflection flexed both hands. Burning liquid stung his eyes, and he turned swiftly and angrily away and began to scour the valley, searching for some sign of Mina. Now that he was here, he was impatient to get this over with. He wanted to get past the awkward first meeting, endure the pain of disappointment, leave her with the elf, and go on with living.

“I remember when you lost the arm Mina had given you,” Valthonis said, the first words he’d spoken since he’d been taken captive. “You fell defending Mina from Takhisis, who accused her of conspiring against her and would have slain her in a rage. You shielded Mina with your body and the Dark Queen cut off your arm. Sargas offered to restore your arm, but you refused—”

“Who gave you permission to speak, elf?” Galdar demanded angrily, wondering why he’d let the yammering go on so long.

“No one,” Valthonis said with a half-smile. “I will be silent if you like.”

Galdar didn’t want to admit it, but he found the sound of another voice soothing in this place where only the dead had once spoken, so he said, “Waste your last breaths if you want. Your preaching won’t have any effect on me.”

Galdar halted to stare squint-eyed into the valley. He thought he’d caught sight of movement, of people down there. The pale sunlight seemed to be playing tricks on his eyes, and it was difficult for him to tell if he’d actually seen living beings walking about, or ghosts, or only the strange shadows cast by the loathsome monoliths.

Not shadows, he determined. Or ghosts. There are people down there and they must be those I was told to meet.

There was the monk in the orange robes who was said to be Mina’s escort. But, if so, where was Mina?

“Blast and damn this cursed place!” Galdar said in sudden anger.

He’d been assured Mina would be with the monk, but he saw no sign of her. He hadn’t understood why she should be traveling with a monk anyway. He hadn’t liked this from the beginning and he was liking it less and less.

Removing a length of rope from his belt, Galdar ordered Valthonis to hold out his hands.

“I gave you my word I wouldn’t try to escape,” Valthonis said quietly.

Galdar grunted and tied the rope securely around the elf’s slender wrists. Tying the knot wasn’t easy for the one-armed minotaur. Galdar had to use his teeth to finish the job.

“Bound or not, I can’t escape her,” Valthonis added. “And neither can you, Galdar. You’ve always known Mina was a god, haven’t you?”

“Shut up,” Galdar ordered savagely.

Grasping the elf roughly by the arm, Galdar shoved Valthonis forward.

The next lightning flash was not a bolt, but a sheet of flame that lit the sky and the ground and the mountains with a purple white radiance. Silhouetted against the awful glow, a figure moved toward them, walking calmly through the raging storm, seeming untouched by the gale, unmoved by the lightning, unafraid of the thunder.

“What are you called?” Galdar demanded.

“My name is Mina….”

He had sung her name. They had all sung her name. All those like himself who had followed her to battle and glory and death.

“You did this,” Takhisis raved. “You connived with them to bring about my downfall. You wanted them to sing your name, not my own.”

Mina… Mina…

6

Keeping one hand on Mina’s shoulder, Rhys glanced around to where Nightshade was pointing. He could see the minotaur troops, now leaving the ridgeline, marching away. Two people entered the valley. One was a minotaur wearing the emblem of Sargonnas emblazoned on his leather armor. One was an elf whose hands were bound.

Too late to flee, even if there had been any place to go. The minotaur had spotted them.

The minotaur was armed with a sword, which he wore on his right hip, for his right arm—his sword arm—was missing. He had not drawn his weapon, but he kept his left hand hovering near it. His keen eyes fixed a suspicious gaze on Rhys, then left him and flicked over the rest of the group. His scowl deepened. The minotaur was searching for Mina.

The elf wore simple clothing—green cloak and tunic, well-worn boots, dusty from the road. He was not armed, and though he was obviously the minotaur’s prisoner, he walked with his head up, taking long, graceful, purposeful strides, as one who is accustomed to walking many roads.

The Walking God. Rhys recognized Valthonis, and was about to call out a warning, when he was drowned out by the minotaur’s roar.

“Mina!”

Her name rang out across the valley and bounded off the Lords of Doom, who cast it back in eerie echoes, as though the bones of the world were crying out to her.

“Galdar!” Mina gave a glad shout.

She knocked Rhys aside, hitting him a blow that was like being hit by a lightning bolt. He sagged, stunned, to the ground, unable to move.

“Galdar!” Mina cried again, and ran to him with outstretched arms..

She tried to wrench free and when Rhys tried to stop her, she struck him a blow with her hand that was like being hit by a lightning bolt. He crumpled to the ground and lay there, paralyzed and stunned, unable to move.

Mina was no longer a child. She was a girl, seventeen years old. Her head was shorn like a sheep at shearing. She wore the breastplate of those who called themselves Knights of Neraka, and it was charred and dented and stained with blood, as were her hands and arms up to the elbows. Reaching Galdar, she flung her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.

The minotaur clasped her with his good arm, held her close. Two furrows in the fur on either side of his snout marked the overflow of his feelings.

Seeing that they were both occupied, Nightshade crept over to kneel beside Rhys.

“Are you all right?” Nightshade whispered.

“I will be… in a moment.” Rhys grimaced. He was starting to regain some feeling in his hands and feet. “Don’t let go of Atta!”

“I have her, Rhys,” Nightshade said. He had wound his hand in the long fur at her neck. To his surprise, the dog had not tried to attack the grown-up Mina. Perhaps Atta was now as confused as the kender.

Galdar held Mina tightly and glared at them all defiantly, as though daring any of them to try to take her from him.

“Mina!” he said brokenly, “I came to find you—That is, Sargas sent me—”

“Never mind that now!” Mina said sharply. She pulled away from him, looked up at him. “We have no time, Galdar. Sanction is under siege. The Solamnic knights have it surrounded. I must go there, take command. I will break the siege.”

Her amber eyes flared. “Why do you just stand there? Where is my horse? My weapon? Where are my troops? You must fetch them, Galdar, bring them to me. We don’t have much time. The battle will be lost…”

Galdar blinked in astonishment. “Er… don’t you remember, Mina? You won the battle. You broke the siege of Sanction. Beckard’s Cut—”

She frowned at him and said sharply, “I don’t know what’s got into you, Galdar. Stop wasting my time with such foolery and obey my command.”

“Mina,” Galdar said uneasily, “the siege of Sanction happened long ago during the War of Souls. The war is over. The One God lost. Don’t you remember, Mina? The other gods cast Takhisis out, made her mortal—”

“They killed her,” Mina said softly. Her amber eyes glittered beneath sharply slanting brows. “They were jealous of my Queen, envious of her power. The mortals of this world adored her. They sang her name. The other gods couldn’t allow that, and so they destroyed her.”

Galdar tried to speak a couple of times without success, then he said awkwardly, “They sang your name, Mina.”

Her amber eyes shone, illuminated from within.

“You’re right,” she said, smiling. “They did sing my name.”

Galdar licked his lips. He looked about, as though seeking help. Finding none, he cleared his throat with a rumble and launched into a much-rehearsed speech, talking quickly, without inflection, in haste to reach the end.

“This elf is Valthonis. He used to be Paladine, the leader of the pantheon of gods, the instigator of the fall of Queen Takhisis. My god, Sargas, hopes that you will accept Valthonis as his gift and that you will take your just revenge upon the traitor who brought down… your… our Queen. In return, Sargas hopes you will think well of the him and… and… that you will…”

Galdar stopped. He stared at Mina, stricken.

“That I will what, Galdar?” Mina demanded. “Sargas hopes I will think well of him and I will what?”

“Become his ally,” Galdar said at last.

“You mean—become one of his generals?” Mina asked, frowning. “But I can’t. I am not a minotaur.”

Galdar couldn’t answer her question. He looked about again for help, and this time he found it.

Valthonis answered him. “Sargas want you to become the Queen of Darkness, Mina.”

Mina laughed, as though at some rich jest. Then she saw no one else was laughing. “Galdar, why do you look so glum? That’s funny. Me? The Queen of Darkness!”

Galdar rubbed his muzzle and blinked his eyes rapidly and gazed out somewhere over her head.

“Galdar!” said Mina, suddenly angry. “That is funny!”

“Is the minotaur right, Rhys?” Nightshade asked in a smothered whisper. “Is that elf really Paladine? I always wanted to meet Paladine. Do you think you could intro—”

“Hush, my friend,” said Rhys softly. He rose to his feet, moving fluidly, quietly, trying not to draw attention to himself. “Keep hold of Atta.”

Nightshade took a firm grip on the dog. Eyeing the Walking God, the kender whispered into Atta’s ear, “I expected him to be a lot taller—”

Rhys picked up the emmide and the scrip. He tied the scrip to the top of the staff, then padded across the stone floor, the dust slithering beneath his feet. He came to stand to one side and a little in front of Valthonis.

“This man knows the way to Godshome, Mina,” Rhys said.

Mina’s amber eyes, laden with trapped souls so that they were almost black, shifted to Rhys. Her lip curled in scorn. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

Rhys smiled. “Those are the very questions you asked of me, Mina, when we first met. The riddle the dragon posed to you. ‘Where did you come from?’ You told me that I knew the answers. I did not know then, but I know now. And so do you, Mina. You know the truth. You have to accept it. You can no longer hide from it. Valthonis is your father, Mina. You are his child. You are a god. A god born of Light.”

Mina went livid. Her amber eyes widened, grew large.

“You lie,” she breathed. The words were soft, barely a whisper.

“Men sang your name, Mina. As did the Beloved. If you kill this man, commit this heinous crime, you will take your place among the Dark Pantheon,” Rhys told her. “The balance will shift. The world will slide into darkness and be consumed. That is what Sargonnas wants. Is that what you want, Mina? You have walked the world. You have met its people. You have seen the misery and destruction and upheaval that is war. Is that what you want?”

Mina’s form altered again and this time she was the Mina of the Beloved, the Mina who had given them the lethal kiss. Her auburn hair was long. She wore black and blood red. She was confident, commanding, and she regarded Valthonis with frowning intensity. Her expression hardened, her lips compressed.

“He killed my Queen!” Mina stated coldly.

She brushed past Galdar, who stared at her with gaping mouth and white-rimmed eyes, his frame trembling in fear. Mina walked over to Valthonis and gazed at him for a long moment, trying to draw him, another insect, into the amber.

He stood calmly under her scrutiny.

Does his mortal mind retain something of the mind of the god? Rhys wondered. Does some part of Valthonis remember that burst of joy at creation’s dawning that brought forth a child of joy and light? Does he remember the searing pain he must have felt upon realizing he had to sacrifice the child for the sake of that very creation?

Rhys did not know the answer. What he did know, what he could see on the elf’s ravaged face, was the grief of the parent who sees a loved child succumb to dark passions.

“Let me help you, Mina.” Valthonis held out his hands to Mina: his bound hands.

Mina stood over him. She held out her hand. “Galdar, give me your sword.”

Galdar looked uneasily at the fallen Valthonis. The minotaur’s hand went to his sword’s hilt. He did not draw the weapon.

“Mina, the monk is right,” Galdar said, anguished. “If you slay this man, you will become Takhisis. And that’s not who you are. You prayed for your men, Mina. Wounded and exhausted, you walked the battlefield and prayed for the souls of those who gave their lives for the cause. You care about people. Takhisis didn’t. She used them, just as she used you!”

“Give me your sword!” Mina repeated angrily.

Galdar shook his horned head. “And at the end, when Takhisis had been cast out of heaven, she blamed you, Mina. Not herself. Never herself. She was going to kill you in a spiteful, vindictive rage. That was Takhisis. Spiteful and vindictive, cruel and vicious and self-serving. Nothing mattered to her except her own aggrandizement, her own ambition. Her children hated her and worked against her. Her consort despised and distrusted her and rejoiced in her downfall. Is this what you want, Mina? Is this what you want to become?”

Mina stood regarding him scornfully. When Galdar paused for breath, she said with a sneer, “I don’t need a sermon. Just give me the damn sword, you stupid, one-armed cow!”

Galdar paled, the pallor visible even beneath his dark fur. A spasm of pain wrenched his body. He cast a glowering glance at heaven, then he drew his sword. He did not give it to Mina. Going to the unconscious Valthonis, the minotaur sliced the bonds that bound the elf’s wrists.

“I’ll have nothing to do with murder,” Galdar said with quiet dignity.

Slamming his sword into the sheath, he turned and started to walk away.

“Galdar! Come back!” Mina shouted furiously.

The minotaur kept walking.

“Galdar! I command you!” Mina cried.

Galdar did not look around. He wound his way among the black monoliths, remnants of dark ambition.

Mina glared at his retreating back, then suddenly sprang after him, running swiftly across the windswept floor. Rhys called out a warning. Galdar turned, just as Mina caught up with him. Ignoring him, she grasped the hilt of the sword and yanked it out of its sheath.

Galdar caught hold of her wrist and tried to wrench his sword from her hand. Mina lashed out in a blind rage, striking him with the hilt of the sword and with the flat of the blade.

Galdar tried to fend her off, but he had only one hand and Mina fought with the strength and fury of a god.

Rhys ran to the minotaur’s aid. Dropping his staff, he grabbed hold of Mina and tried to drag her off Galdar. The big minotaur collapsed, bloodied and groaning, onto the ground. Mina jerked free of Rhys. Shoving him backward, off-balance, she returned to the assault on Galdar, kicking him and hitting any part of him still moving. The minotaur quit groaning and now lay still.

“Mina—” Rhys began.

Mina snarled and slammed her fist deep into Rhys’ diaphragm, so deep the blow stopped his breathing. He tried to draw in air, but the muscles were in spasm and he could only gasp. Mina smashed him in the jaw with her fist, shattering his jawbone. His mouth flooded with blood. Mina stood over him, the minotaur’s heavy sword in her hand, and there was nothing Rhys could do. He was choking on his own blood.

Nightshade tried his best to keep hold of Atta, but the sight of Rhys being attacked was more than the dog could bear. She wrenched free of the kender’s grasp. Nightshade made a grab for her and missed, went sprawling onto his belly. Atta launched herself into the air and smashed bodily into Mina, knocking her down, knocking the sword from her grasp.

Snarling, Atta went for Mina’s throat. She fought the dog, using her hands to try to fling her off. Blood and saliva flew.

Nightshade staggered to his feet. Rhys was spewing up blood. The minotaur was either dead or dying. Valthonis lay unconscious on the ground. The kender was the only man standing, and he didn’t know what to do. His brain was too flustered to think of a spell, and then he realized that no spell, even the most powerful spell cast by the most powerful mystic, could stop a god.

The cold, pale sun flashed off steel.

Mina had managed to grab hold of the sword. Raising it, she slashed at the dog.

Atta collapsed with a pain-filled yelp. Her white fur was stained with blood, but she still struggled to get up, still snapped and snarled. Mina raised the sword to stab her again, this time going for the kill.

Nightshade clasped hold of the little grasshopper pin and gave a galvanized leap. He sailed over one of the black monoliths, and smashed into Mina, knocking the sword from her grasp.

Nightshade landed hard on the ground. Mina recovered herself and both of them dove for the sword, each scrabbling to seize hold of it. Rhys spit out blood and half-crawled, half-flung himself into the fray.

But he was too late.

Mina seized hold of the kender’s topknot of hair and gave a sharp, twisting jerk. Rhys heard a horrible snapping and crunching sound. Nightshade went limp.

Mina let loose his hair and the kender slumped to the ground.

Rhys crawled to his friend’s side. Nightshade stared at him, unseeing. Tears filled Rhys’ eyes. He did not look for Mina. She was going to kill him, too, and he couldn’t stop her. Atta whimpered. The sword had laid open her shoulder to the bone. He gathered the suffering, dying dog close to him, then reached out a blood-stained hand to close Nightshade’s eyes.

A little girl with red braids squatted down beside the kender.

“You can get up now, Nightshade,” said Mina.

When he did not move, she shook him by the shoulder.

“Stop pretending to be asleep, Nightshade,” she scolded. “It’s time to leave. I have to go to Godshome, and you have the map.”

Mina’s voice quivered. “Wake up!” the child gulped. “Please, please wake up.”

The kender did not move.

Mina gave a heart-broken wail and flung herself on the body.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” she cried over and over in a paroxysm of grief.

“Mina…” Rhys mumbled her name through the blood and bone and broken teeth, and her name echoed back from the Lords of Doom.

“Mina, Mina…”

She stood up. The little girl gazed down sorrowfully at Nightshade, but it was the woman, Mina, who gently closed the staring eyes. The woman, Mina, walked over to Galdar. She laid a hand on him and whispered to him. The woman came back to Atta and petted her gently. Then Mina knelt down beside Rhys. Smiling sadly, she touched him on the forehead.

Amber, warm and golden, slid over him.

7

Mina, the woman, sat next to Valthonis on the hard, windswept stone. She was not wearing armor, nor the black robes of a priestess of Chemosh. She wore a simple gown that fell in folds about her body. Her auburn hair was gathered in soft curls at the back of her neck. She sat quietly, watching the Walking God, waiting for him to regain consciousness.

Valthonis finally sat up, looked about, and his expression grew grave. Rising swiftly, he went to tend to the wounded. Mina watched him dispassionately, her face impassive, unreadable.

“The kender is dead,” she said. “I killed him. The monk and the minotaur and the dog will live, I think.”

Valthonis knelt beside the kender and, gently arranging the broken body into a more seemly form, he spoke a quiet blessing.

“Shake off the dust of the road, little friend. Your boots have star-dust on them now.”

Removing his green cloak, he laid it reverently over the small corpse.

Valthonis bent over Atta, who feebly wagged her tail and gave his hand a swipe with her tongue. He brushed back the black fur that was covered with blood, but he could not find a wound. He stroked her head and then went to see to her master.

“I think I know the monk,” Mina said. “I’ve met him before. I was trying to recall where, and now I remember. It was in a boat… No, not a boat. A tavern that had once been a boat. He was there and I came in and he looked at me and he knew me… He knew who I was…” She frowned slightly. “Except he didn’t….”

Valthonis raised his head and looked into her amber eyes. He saw no longer the countless souls, trapped bug-like within. He saw in her clear eyes terrible knowledge. And he saw himself, reflected off the shining surface.

“The monk was sitting next to a man… He was a dead man. I don’t know his name.” Mina paused, then said with a catch in her voice, “So many of them… and I didn’t know any of their names. But I know the monk’s name. He is Brother Rhys. And he knows my name. He knows me. He knows who and what I am. And yet, he walked with me anyway. He guided me.” She smiled sadly. “He yelled at me…”

Valthonis rested his hand on Rhys’ neck, felt the lifebeat. The monk’s face was bloody, but Valthonis could not find any injuries. He said nothing in response to Mina. He had the instinctive feeling she did not want him to speak. She wanted, needed, to hear only herself in the deathlike silence of the valley of Neraka.

“The kender knew me, too. When he first saw me, he began to weep. He wept for me. He wept out of pity for me. He said ‘You are so sad’… And the minotaur, Galdar, was my friend. A good and faithful friend…”

Mina shifted her gaze from the minotaur to the barren, ghastly surroundings. “I hate this place. I know where I am. I am in Neraka, and awful things have happened because of me… And more awful things will happen… because of me…”

She shifted her gaze to Valthonis, looked at him, pleading.

“You know what I mean. Your name means ‘the Exile’ in elven. And you are my father. And both of us—mortal father, wretched daughter—are exiles. Except you can never go back.” Mina sighed, long and deep. “And I must.”

Valthonis walked to over the minotaur. He placed his hand on the strong, bull-like neck.

“I am a god,” Mina said. “I live in all times simultaneously. Though,” she added, a frown line again marring her smooth forehead, “there is a time before time I do not remember, and a time yet to come I cannot see…”

The wind whistled among the rocks, as through rotting teeth, but Valthonis did not hear anything except Mina. It was as if the physical world had dropped out from beneath him, leaving him suspended in the ethers and there was only her voice and the amber eyes that, as he watched, filled with tears.

“I have done evil, Father,” Mina said, as the tears spilled over and slid slowly down her cheeks. “Or rather, I do evil, for I live in all times at once. They say I am a god born of light and yet I bring forth darkness. Thousands of innocents die because of me. I slaughter those who trust me. I take away life and give back living death. Some say I am duped by Takhisis, and that I do not know I am doing wrong.”

Mina smiled through her tears, and her smile was strange and cold. “But I know what I am doing. I want to hear them sing my name, Father. I want them to worship me—Mina! Not Takhisis. Not Chemosh. Mina. Only Mina.”

She made no move to wipe away the tears. “The two who were mothers to me both died in my arms. When Goldmoon was dying, she looked at me from the twilight, and she saw the truth, the ugliness inside me. And she turned from me.”

Mina rose to her feet and ran over to the minotaur. She crouched beside him but did not touch him. She rose and walked over to where the kender’s body lay beneath the green cloak. Reaching down, she carefully replaced a corner the wind had blown askew. Her empty amber eyes shimmered.

“I can fix him,” she said. She stood up and flung her arms wide, encompassing the wounded and the dead, encompassing the blasted temple, the accursed valley. “I am a god! I can make all this as if it never happened!”

“You can,” said Valthonis. “But to do that you would have to go back to the first second of the first minute of the first day and start time again.”

“I don’t understand!” Mina cried, perplexed. “You speak in riddles.”

“All of us would start over if we could, Mina. All of us would wipe out past mistakes. For mortals this is impossible. We accept, we learn, we go on. For a god, it is possible. But it means wiping out creation and beginning again.”

Mina looked rebellious, as though she didn’t believe him, and Valthonis feared for one frightening moment that she was in such pain she might actually try to ease her own suffering by plunging herself and the world into oblivion.

Mina sank to her knees and lifted her face to heaven.

“You gods! You pull at me and tug me in all directions!” she shouted. “You each want me for you own ends. Not one of you cares what I want.”

“What do you want, Mina?” Valthonis asked.

She looked about, as though wondering herself. Her gaze went to the kender, lying broken and lifeless beneath the green cloak. Her gaze went to the unconscious Galdar, loyal friend. Her gaze went to Rhys, who had comforted her when she woke crying the night.

“I want to go back to sleep,” she whispered.

Valthonis’ heart ached. His own tears blurred his vision, choked off his voice.

“But I can’t.” Mina said brokenly. “I know. I have tried. They call my name and wake me…”

She gave a sudden, anguished cry. The tears flooded her amber eyes, so that the Walking God’s reflection seemed to be drowning.

“Make them stop, Father!” she begged, rocking back and forth in her terrible agony. “Make them stop!”

Valthonis crossed the stone floor of the valley of Neraka and came to stand beside his daughter. She knelt before him, clutched at his boots. He took hold of her and raised her up.

“The voices will not stop,” he said. “For you, they will never stop—until you answer them.”

“But what do I say?”

“That is what you must decide.”

Valthonis handed her the scrip Rhys had carried for so long. Mina regarded it, puzzled. Unwrapping it, she looked inside. Her two gifts lay there, the Necklace of Sedition, the crystal Pyramid of Light.

“Do you remember these?” Valthonis asked.

Mina shook her head.

“You found them in Hall of Sacrilege. You were going to give them as gifts to Goldmoon when you came to Godshome.”

Mina gazed long at the two artifacts, one of consuming darkness, one of enduring light. She wrapped them back up, reverently and carefully.

“Is the way to Godshome far, Father?” she asked. “I am so very tired.”

“Not far, daughter,” he answered. “Not far now.”

8

A hairy finger pried open one of Rhys’ eyelids, causing him to wake with a start, startling Galdar who nearly poked out Rhys’ eye. The minotaur withdrew his hand and grunted in satisfaction. Sliding an enormous arm beneath Rhys’ shoulders, he heaved Rhys to a sitting position and thrust a vial between Rhys’ lips, dumping some sort of foul-tasting liquid into his mouth.

Rhys choked and started to spit it out.

“Swallow!” ordered Galdar, giving him a thump on the back that caused Rhys to cough and sent the liquid trickling down his throat.

He gagged and wondered if he’d just been poisoned.

Galdar grinned at him, showing all his teeth, and grunted, “Poison tastes a lot better than this stuff. Sit still for a moment and let it do its work. You’ll be feeling better soon.”

Rhys obeyed. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t feel strong enough yet to be prepared for the answers. His jaw ached and throbbed, though it was no longer broken. His diaphragm was sore, every breath hurt. The potion seeping through his body began to ease the pain of his wounds, if not the pain in his heart.

Galdar, meanwhile, took hold of Atta’s muzzle, gripping it tightly while another minotaur in soldier’s harness, bearing the emblem of Sargas, deftly smeared brown glop over her wound.

“You’d like to bite my hand off, wouldn’t you, mutt?” said Galdar, and Atta growled in response, causing him to chuckle.

When the minotaur was finished with his ministrations, he nodded to his companion. Galdar released the dog and both minotaurs sprang back. Atta rose, somewhat wobbly, to her feet. Keeping a distrustful eye on the minotaur, Atta came to Rhys to be petted. Then she limped over to the green cloak. She sniffed at it and pawed the cloak and looked back at Rhys and wagged her tail, as though saying, “You’ll fix this, Master. I know you will.”

“Atta, come,” Rhys said.

Atta stayed where she was. She pawed again at the cloak and whined.

“Atta, come,” Rhys repeated.

Slowly, her head and tail drooping, Atta limped painfully over to Rhys and lay down at his side. Putting her head on her paws, she heaved a deep sigh.

Galdar squatted beside the body. He moved slowly and stiffly. His blood-matted fur was slathered with the same brown goop his men had spread on Atta. Galdar lifted a corner of the green cloak and looked down at Nightshade.

“Sargas commands us to honor him. He will be known among us as Kedir ut Sarrak.” (Kender with Horns)

Rhys smiled through his tears. He hoped Nightshade’s spirit had lingered long enough to hear that.

The minotaur soldiers gathered up their belongings, making ready to leave. No one wanted to stay in this place any longer than necessary.

“Are you fit to travel, Monk?” Galdar asked. “If so, you are welcome to come with us. We will help you carry your dead and the mutt, if she won’t bite,” he added gruffly.

Rhys gave grateful assent.

One of the minotaur lifted the small body in strong arms. Another picked up Atta. She barked and struggled, but at Rhys’ command, she quit fighting and allowed the minotaur to carry her, though she growled with every breath.

“I want to thank you for your help—” Rhys began.

“I had nothing to do with it,” Galdar interrupted. He waved his good hand at his soldiers. “You can thank this mutinous lot. They disobeyed my command and came after me, even though I had ordered them to stay behind to wait for me.”

“I’m glad they disobeyed,” said Rhys.

“If you must know, so am I. Go on ahead,” Galdar told his men. “The monk and I cannot walk as swiftly. We will be safe enough. There are only ghosts left in this valley now, and they cannot harm us.”

The minotaurs didn’t appear to be too certain of this, but they did as Galdar commanded, though they did not move quite as swiftly as they could have, but kept within shouting range of their commander.

Galdar and Rhys walked together, both of them limping. Galdar grimaced and pressed his hand to his side. One of the minotaur’s eyes was swollen shut and blood trickled from the base of one of his horns. Rhys’ stomach and jaw both hurt, making breathing difficult and painful.

“Where will you go now?” Rhys asked.

“I will return to Jelek to resume my duties as ambassador to you humans. I doubt you want to go there,” he added with a wry glance at Rhys. “But my men and I will not abandon you. We will wait with you until help arrives.”

“Help may be long in coming.” Rhys spoke with an inward sigh.

“You think so?” Galdar asked, and a smile flickered on his lips. “You should have more faith, Monk.”

Rhys had no idea what the minotaur meant, but before he could ask, Galdar’s smile vanished. He glanced back into the valley of stone and black crystal.

“Mina went with him, didn’t she? She went with the Walking God.”

“I hope so,” Rhys replied. “I pray so.”

“I’m not much for praying,” Galdar said. “And if I did pray, I’d pray to Sargas, and I would guess the Horned God is not feeling kindly disposed toward me at the moment.”

He paused, then added somberly, “If I did pray, I would pray that Mina finds whatever it is she seeks.”

“You forgive her for what she did to you?” Rhys was astonished. Minotaurs were not known as a forgiving people. Their god was a god of vengeance.

“I suppose you could say I got into a habit of forgiving her.” Galdar rubbed the stump of his arm, grimacing. Strange that the pain of a missing arm was worse than the pain of cracked bones. He added half-ashamed, half-defiant, “What about you, Monk? Do you forgive her?”

“I walked my road once with hatred and revenge gnawing at my heart,” Rhys said. His gaze went to the minotaur who was carrying the small body, to the green cloak that fluttered in the still air. “I will not do so again. I forgive Mina and my prayer is the same as yours—that she finds what she seeks. Though I am not certain I should be praying for that.”

“Why not?”

“Whatever she finds will tip the scales of balance one way or the other.”

“The scales might tip in your direction, Monk,” Galdar suggested. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Rhys shook his head. “A man who stares at the sun too long is as blind as one who walks in pitch darkness.”

The two fell silent, saving their laboring breath for the climb out of the valley. The minotaur under Galdar’s command stood waiting for them among the foothills of the Lords of Doom. The minotaur looked grim, for the Faithful were also waiting there. Led by silent Elspeth, they had come to the valley, though too late to find Valthonis.

Galdar scowled at the elves. “You gave your oath,” he told them.

“We did not break faith with you,” said one of the elves. “We did not try to rescue Valthonis.”

The elf pointed to the cloak that covered the body of the kender. “That belongs to Valthonis! Where is he?” The elf glared at Galdar. “What have you done with him? Have you basely murdered him?”

“On the contrary. The minotaur saved Valthonis’ life,” Rhys replied.

The elves scowled in disbelief.

“Do you doubt my word?” Rhys asked wearily.

The leader of the Faithful bowed.

“We mean no offense, Servant of Matheri,” the elf said, using the elvish name for the god, Majere. “But you must understand that we find this difficult to comprehend. A monk of Matheri and a minotaur of Kinthalas walk together out of the Valley of Evil. What is going on? Is Valthonis alive?”

“He is alive and unharmed.”

“Then where is he?”

“He helps a lost child find her way home,” Rhys replied.

The elves glanced at other, mystified, some clearly still disbelieving. And then silent Elspeth walked over to stand in front of Galdar. One of the elves sought to stop her, but she thrust him aside. She reached out her hand to the minotaur.

“What’s this?” he demanded, frowning. “Tell her to stay away from me.”

Elspeth smiled in reassurance. As he watched, tense and frowning, she lightly brushed her fingers across the stump of his arm.

Galdar blinked. The grimace of pain that had twisted his face eased. He clasped his hand over the stump and stared at her in astonishment. Elspeth walked past him and came to kneel beside the body of the kender. She tucked the cloak around him tenderly, as a mother tucks a blanket around her child, then lifted the body in her arms. She stood waiting patiently to depart.

Galdar glanced at Rhys. “I told you help would find you.”

The elves were now more mystified than before, but they obeyed Elspeth’s silent command and made preparations to leave.

“I hope you will honor us with your company, Servant of Matheri,” said the leader to Rhys, who gave his grateful assent.

Galdar held out his left hand, grasped Rhys’ hand in a crushing grip. “Farewell, Brother.”

Rhys clasped the minotaur’s hand in both his own. “May your journey be a safe one and swift.”

“It will be swift, at least,” Galdar stated grimly. “The faster we’re away from this accursed place, the better.”

He bellowed orders that were quickly obeyed. The minotaur soldiers marched off, as eager as their commander to leave Neraka.

But Galdar did not immediately follow them. He stood still for a moment, gazing west, deep into the mountains.

“Godshome,” he said. “It lies in that direction.”

“So I have been told,” Rhys said.

Galdar nodded to himself and continued to stare into the distance, as if trying to catch some last glimpse of Mina. Sighing, he lowered his gaze, shook his horned head.

“Do you think we will ever find out what happens to her, Brother?” he asked wistfully.

“I don’t know,” Rhys answered evasively.

In his heart, he feared very much that they would.

9

Valthonis and Mina walked slowly to Godshome, taking their time, for each knew that no matter what happened, what choice Mina made, this would be their final journey together.

The two had talked of many things for many hours, but now Mina had fallen silent. Godshome was only about ten miles from Neraka, but the road was difficult, steep and winding and narrow—a rock-strewn, desolate track forced to pick its way among steep canyon walls, constrained by strange rock formations to take them in directions they did not want to go.

The sky was dark and overcast, obscured by the steamy snortings of the Lords of Doom. The air stank of sulfur and was hard to breathe, drying the mouth and stinging the nostrils.

Mina soon grew weary. She did not complain, however, but continued walking. Valthonis told her she could take her time. There was no hurry.

“You mean I have all eternity before me?” Mina said to him with a twisted smile. “That is true, Father, but I feel compelled to go on. I know who I am, but now I must now find out why. I can no longer rest easy in the twilight.”

She carried with her the two artifacts she had brought from the Hall of Sacrilege. She held them fast in her hand and would not relinquish them, though their burden sometimes made traversing the steep trail difficult for her. When she finally gave in and sat down to rest, she unwrapped the artifacts and gazed down at them, studying them, taking up each in turn and holding it in her hands, running her fingers over them as would a blind man trying to use his hands to see what his sightless eyes cannot. She said nothing about her thoughts to Valthonis, and he did not ask.

As they drew nearer Godshome, the Lords of Doom seemed to release their hold on the travelers, sanctioning their going. The path grew easier to walk, led them down a gentle slope. A warm breeze, like spring’s breath, blew away the sulfur fumes and the steam. Wild flowers appeared along the trail, peeking out from beneath boulders, or growing in the cracks of a stone wall.

“What is wrong?” Valthonis asked, calling a halt, when he noticed that Mina had begun to limp.

“I have a blister,” she answered.

Sitting down on the path, she drew off her shoe, looking with exasperation at the raw and bloody wound.

“The gods play at being mortal,” she said. “Chemosh could make love to me and receive pleasure from the act—or so he convinced himself. But in truth, they can only pretend to feel. No god ever has a blister on his heel.”

She held up the blood-stained shoe for him to see.

“So why do 7 have a blister?” she demanded. “I know I am a god. I know this body is not real, I could leap off this cliff and plummet onto the rocks below and no harm would come to me. I know that, but still”—she bit her lip—“my foot hurts. As much as I would like to say it doesn’t really, it really does!”

Takhisis had to convince you that you were human, Mina, said Valthonis. “She lied to you in order to enslave you. If you knew the truth, that you were a god, she feared you would become her rival. You had to be made to believe you were human and thus you had to feel pain. You had to know illness and grief. You had to experience love and joy and sorrow. She took cruel pleasure in making you believe you were mortal. She thought it made you weak.”

“It does!” flashed Mina, and the amber eyes glittered in anger. “And I hate it. When I take my place among the pantheon, I cannot show weakness. I must teach myself to forget what I have been.”

“I am not so sure,” said Valthonis, and he knelt down before her and regarded her intently. “You say the gods play at being mortal. They do not ‘play’ at it. By taking an aspect of mortality, a god tries to feel what mortals feel. The gods try to understand mortals in order to help and guide them or, in some cases, to coerce and terrorize them. But they are gods, Mina, and try as they might, they cannot truly understand. You alone know the pain of mortality, Mina.”

She thought this over. “You are right,” she said at last, thoughtful. “Perhaps that is why I am able to wield such power over mortals.”

“Is that what you want? To wield power over them?”

“Of course! Isn’t it what all we all want?” Mina frowned. “I saw the gods at work that day in Solace. I saw the blood spilled and the bodies stacked up in front of the altars. If mortals will fight and die for their faith, why should they not go to their deaths singing my name as well as another?”

She slipped her shoe back on her foot and stood up and started walking. She seemed bound to try to convince herself that she felt nothing and tried to walk normally, but she could not stand it. Wincing in pain, she came to a halt.

“You were a god,” she said. “Do you remember anything of what you were? Do you remember the moment before creation? Does your mind yet encompass the vastness of eternity? Do you see to the limits of heaven?”

“No,” Valthonis answered. “My mind is that of a mortal. I see the horizon and sometimes not that, if the clouds obscure it. I am glad for this. I think it would be too terrible to bear otherwise.”

“It is,” said Mina softly.

She yanked off both her shoes and threw them off the side of the cliff. She started walking barefoot, stepping gingerly on the path, and almost immediately cut her foot on a sharp pebble. She gasped and came up short. She clenched her fists in frustration.

“I am a god!” she cried. “I have no feet!”

She stared at her bare toes, as if willing them to disappear.

Her toes remained, wriggling and digging into the dust.

Mina moaned and sank down, crouched down, huddled into herself.

“How can I be a god if I will always be a mortal? How can I walk among the stars when I have blisters on my feet? I don’t know how to be a god, Father! I know only how to be human…”

Valthonis put his arms around her and lifted her up. “You need walk no farther, daughter. We are here,” he said.

Mina stared at him, bewildered. “Where?”

“Home,” he replied.

In the center of a smooth-sided, bowl-shaped valley, nineteen pillars stood silent watch around a circular pool of shining black, fire-blasted obsidian. Sixteen pillars stood together. Three pillars stood apart. One of these was black jet, one red granite, the other white jade. Five of the remaining pillars were of white marble. Five were of black marble.

Six were made of marble of an indeterminate color.

Once twenty-one pillars had guarded the pool. Two of them had toppled to the ground. One, a black pillar, had shattered in the fall. Nothing remained of it but a heap of broken rubble. The other fallen pillar was still intact, its surface shining in the sunlight, swept free of dust by loving hands.

Mina and Valthonis stood outside the stone pillars, looking in. The sky was cloudless, achingly blue. The sun teetered precariously on the peaks of the Lords of Doom, still casting its radiant light, though any moment it would slide down the mountain and fall into night. The valley was filled with the twilight; shadows cast by the mountains, sunlight gleaming on the obsidian pool.

Mina gazed with rapt fascination on the black pool. She walked toward it, prepared to squeeze her way through the narrow gap between two pillars, when she realized Valthonis was no longer at her side. She turned to see him standing near the small crack in the rock wall through which they had entered.

“The pain will never end, will it?” she asked.

His answer was his silence.

Mina unwrapped the artifacts of Paladine and Takhisis and held them, one in each hand. She lay the scrip that had belonged to the monk at the foot of a pillar of white marble streaked with orange, then walked between the pillars and stepped onto the pool of shining black obsidian. Lifting her amber eyes, she stared into the heavens and saw the constellations of the gods shining in the sky.

The gods of light, represented by Branchala’s harp, Habbakuk’s phoenix, the bison’s head of Kiri-Jolith, Majere’s rose, the infinity symbol of Mishakal. Opposing them were the gods of darkness, Chemosh with his goat’s skull, Hiddukel’s broken scales, Morgion’s black hood, Sargonnas’ condor, Zeboim’s dragon turtle. Separating darkness and light, yet keeping them together was Gilean’s Book, the creation-forging hammer of Reorx, the steadfast burning planets of Shinare, Chislev, Zivilyn, Sirrion. Nearer to mortals than the stars were the three moons: the black moon of Nuitari, the red moon of Lunitari, the silver moon of Solinari.

Mina saw them.

And they saw her, all of them.

They watched and waited for her to decide.

Standing in the center of the pool, Mina raised up the artifacts, one in each hand.

“I am equal parts of darkness and of light,” she cried to the heavens. “Neither holds sway over me. I may side sometimes with one and sometimes with the other. And thus the balance is restored.”

Mina held up the Necklace of Sedition of Takhisis; the necklace that could persuade good people to give way to their worst passions, and then she cast it onto the obsidian pool. The necklace struck the dark surface and melted into it and vanished. Mina held the crystal pyramid of Paladine in her hand a moment longer, the crystal that could bring light to a benighted heart. Then she cast it down as well. The crystal sparkled like another star in an obsidian night, but only briefly. The light went out, the crystal shattered.

Turning her back, Mina walked out of the obsidian pool. She walked away from the circle of stone guardians. She walked across the floor of the empty, barren valley, walked barefoot, her cut and blistered feet leaving tracks of blood.

She walked until she came to a place in the valley known as Godshome where the shadows vied with the sun and here she stopped. Her back to the gods, she looked down at her feet, and she wept and left the world.

In the valley known as Godshome, a pillar of amber stood alone and apart in a still pool of night-blue water.

No stars were reflected in the water. No moons or sun. No planet. No valley. No mountains.

Valthonis, looking into the pool, saw his own face there. Saw the faces of all the living.

10

Rhys Mason sat beneath an ancient oak tree near the top of a green, grass-covered hill. He could see in the distance the smoke rising from the chimneys of his monastery, the home to which he had returned after his long, long journey. Some of the brothers were in the field, turning over the ground, awakening the earth after its winter slumber, making it ready for planting. Other of the brethren were busy around the monastery, sweeping and cleaning, repairing the stonework that had been gnawed and worried by the bitter winter winds.

The sheep were scattered about the hillside, grazing contently, glad to be eating the tender green grass after the stale hay on which they’d subsisted during the cold months. Spring meant shearing time and lambing and then Rhys would be busy. But, for the moment, all was peaceful.

Atta lay by his side. She had a scar on her flank where her fur would not grow, but otherwise she had recovered from her injuries, as Rhys had recovered from his. Atta’s gaze was now divided between the sheep (always a worry) and her new litter of pups. Only a few months old, the pups were already showing a strong interest in herding, and Rhys had started training them. He and the pups had worked all morning, and the exhausted pups were now sleeping in a furry black and white heap, pink noses twitching, Rhys had marked one already—the boldest and most adventuresome—-to give to Mistress Jenna.

Rhys sat at his ease, his emmide resting in the crook of his arms. He was wrapped in a thick cloak, for though the sun shone, the wind still nipped with winter’s teeth. His mind floated free among the high, feathery clouds, touching lightly on many things and passing on to others; in all things honoring Majere.

Rhys was alone on the hillside, for the sheep were his care and his responsibility, and he was therefore startled to be lured from his reverie by a voice.

“Hullo, Rhys! I’ll bet you’re surprised to see me!”

Rhys had to admit he was surprised. Surprised was hardly the word, in fact, for sitting calmly by his side was Nightshade.

The kender grinned gleefully at Rhys’ shock. “I’m a ghost, Rhys! That’s why I look washed out and wobbly. Isn’t it exciting? I’m haunting you.”

Nightshade grew suddenly concerned. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“No,” Rhys said, though it took him a moment to find his voice.

Hearing her master speak, Atta lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder to see if she was wanted.

“Hi, Atta!” Nightshade waved. “Your puppies are beautiful. They look just like you.”

Atta’s eyes narrowed. She sniffed the air, sniffed again, thought things over, then, dismissing what she did not understand, rested her head on her paws and went back to watching her charges.

“I’m glad I didn’t scare you,” Nightshade continued. “I keep forgetting I’m dead and I have an unfortunate tendency to drop in on people suddenly. Poor Gerard.” The ghost heaved a sigh. “I thought he was going to have an apologetic fit.”

“Apoplectic,” Rhys corrected, smiling.

“That, too,” said Nightshade solemnly. “He went extremely white and started wheezing, and then he vowed he would never touch another drop of dwarf spirits as long as he lived. When I tried to cheer him up by assuring him I wasn’t a hallu—a halluci—that he wasn’t seeing things and that I was real live ghost, he began to wheeze even harder.”

“Did he recover?” Rhys asked.

“I think so,” Nightshade said cautiously. “Gerard scolded me soundly after that. He told me I’d taken ten years off his life and then he said he had enough trouble with living kender and he wasn’t about to be plagued by a dead one and I was to go back to the Abyss or wherever it was I’d come from. I told him I wasn’t in the Abyss. I’d been on a world tour, and that I understood his feelings perfectly, and I’d just stopped in to say ‘thank you’ for all the kind things he said about me at my funeral.

“I was there, by the way. It was really lovely. So many important people came! Mistress Jenna and the Abbot of Majere and the Walking God and the elves and Galdar and a minotaur delegation. I especially enjoyed the fight in the bar afterward, though I guess that wasn’t really part of the funeral. And I like having my ashes scattered underneath the Inn. Makes me feel that part of me will never leave. Sometimes I think I can smell the spiced potatoes, which is odd, since ghosts can’t smell. Why do you suppose that is?”

Rhys had to admit he didn’t know.

Nightshade gave a shrug, then frowned. “Where was I?”

“You were talking about Gerard—”

“Oh, yes, I told him I’d come to good-bye before I started on the next stage of my journey, which, by the way, is going to be extremely exciting. I’ll tell you why in a minute. It has to do with my grasshopper. Anyway, Gerard wished me luck and escorted me to the door and opened it to let me out. I said he didn’t need to open the door because I can whisk right through doors and walls and even ceilings. He told me I wasn’t to go whisking through his door or his wall. He was quite stern about it, so I didn’t. And I don’t think he was serious when he said he going to swear off dwarf spirits, because after I left I saw him grab the jug and take a big swig.”

“Did you say good-bye to anyone else?” Rhys asked, considerably alarmed at the thought.

Nightshade nodded. “I went to visit Laura. After what happened with Gerard, I thought I’d sneak up on Laura gradually—you know, give her time to get used to me.” The ghost sighed. “But that didn’t make any difference. She screamed and threw her apron over her head and broke a whole stack of dirty dishes when she fell into the wash basin. So I thought it would be best if I didn’t stick around. Now I’m here with you, and you’re my last stop, and then I’m off for good.”

“I am glad to see you, my friend,” said Rhys. “I have missed you very much.”

“I know,” said Nightshade. “I felt you missing me. It was a good feeling, but you mustn’t be sad. That’s what I came to tell you. I’m sorry it took so long for me to get here. Time doesn’t have much meaning for me anymore and there were so many places to visit and so much to see. Do you know there’s a whole ’nother continent! It’s called Taladas and it’s a very interesting place, though that’s not where I’m going on my soul’s journey—Oh, that reminds me. I have to tell you about Chemosh.

“The ghosts I talked to when I was a Nightstalker told me how when you die your soul goes before the Lord of Death to be judged. I was looking forward to that part and it was very exciting. I stood in line with a whole bunch of other souls: goblins and draconians, kender and humans, elves and gnomes and ogres and more. Each soul goes up before the Lord of Death, who sits on an enormous throne—very impressive. Sometimes he tries to tempt them to stay with him. Or sometimes they’re already sworn to follow him or some other god, like Morgion, who is not a nice person, let me tell you! And sometimes other gods come to tell Chemosh that he’s to keep his hands off. Reorx did that for a dwarf.

“So I was standing there in the back of the line, thinking it was going to take me a long, long time to reach the front, when suddenly the Lord of Death bolts up from his throne. He walks down the line and comes to stand in front of me! He glares at me quite fiercely and looks very angry and tells me I can go. I said I didn’t mind staying; I was visiting with some friends, and that was true. I’d run into some dead kender and we were talking about how interesting it was being dead, and we described how each of us had died and they all agreed that none of them could top me since I’d been killed by a god.

“I started to explain this Chemosh, but he snarled and said he wasn’t interested. My soul had already been judged, and I was free to go. I looked around, and there was the White Lady and Majere and Zeboim and all three moon gods, and Kiri-Jolith in his shining armor and some other gods I didn’t recognize and even Sargonnas! I wondered what they were all doing there, but the White Lady said they’d come to honor me, though Zeboim said she’d come just to make sure I was really dead. The gods all shook my hand, and when I came to Majere, he touched the grasshopper that was still pinned to my shirt, and he said that it would let me jump forward to see where I was going and then jump back to say goodbye. And I was just telling Mishakal how much I liked her gingerbread and I was about ready to leave when who do you think came to see me?”

Rhys shook his head.

“Mina!” said Nightshade, awed. “I was going to be mad at her, for slaying me, you know, but she came to me and she put her arms around me and she cried over me. And then she took me by the hand and walked with me out of the Hall of Judgment and she showed me the road made of star dust that will take me onward past the sunset when I am ready to leave. I was glad for her, because she seems to have found her way, and because she’s not crazy anymore, but I was sad, too, because she looked so very sad.”

“I think she always will be,” said Rhys.

Nightshade heaved a deep sigh. “I think so too. You know, in my travels I’ve seen the little shrines people are starting to build to honor her and I was hoping those would cheer her up, but the people who come to her shrines always look so sad themselves that I don’t think it helps her much.”

“She wants the people to come to her,” said Rhys. “She is the God of Tears and she welcomes all who are unhappy or sorrowful, especially those consumed by guilt or regret, or struggling against dark passions. Any person who feels that no one else can understand his pain can come to her. Mina understands, for her own pain is constant.”

“Woo, boy,” said the ghost.

Nightshade was never downhearted for long, however. After gathering up a few ghostly pouches, he bounced to his feet.

“Well, I’m off,” he said, adding cheerfully, “As Zeboim said, it’s time for me to go annoy the poor, unfortunate people in some new world.”

Nightshade reached down to pat Atta. His ghostly touch caused the dog to jerk awake and stare about, puzzled. Nightshade held out his hand to Rhys. He felt a soft whispering touch, like the fall of a feather on his skin.

“Farewell on your journey, my friend,” Rhys said.

“So long as there’s chicken and dumplings, I’ll be happy!” Nightshade replied, and he waved and whisked himself through the oak tree—just because he could—and then he was gone.

A bell ringing out from the monastery called the monks to evening meditation. Rhys stood up and smoothed the folds of his orange robes. As he did so, he felt something fall to the ground. A gold grasshopper lay at his feet. Rhys picked up the grasshopper and pinned it to his robes and sent a silent prayer of well-wishing along the Stardust road after his friend. Then he whistled to Atta, who sprang to her feet and raced down the hill, herding the sheep.

Her pups chased after her, barking frantically and making little darting runs at the sheep in imitation of their mother. And though Atta cuffed them for getting in her way, her eyes shone with pride.

Rhys picked up one of the pups, the runt of the litter, who was having trouble keeping up. He tucked the pup under his arm and continued down the hill, taking his flock safely to the fold.