Amber and Iron

1

The tavern, if one could dignify it by that term, existed inside an overturned boat that had been blown ashore during a storm. The tavern’s name was the Dinghy, though local wit called it the Dingy.

The Dingy lived up to its name. It had no tables, no chairs, no windows. Its patrons either stood grouped around the bar that had been cobbled together out of rotting wooden beams, or they squatted on overturned vegetable crates. Cracks in the hull provided what light managed to struggle in, along with a modicum of fresh air that fought a losing battle against the stench of dwarf spirits, urine, and vomit. Those who frequented the Dingy came here mainly because they’d been thrown out of every other place.

Rhys and Nightshade sat on crates as near one of the cracks as possible, and even then Nightshade found that the smell almost ruined his appetite. Atta’s nose twitched constantly, and she sneezed and snuffled.

In addition to no tables, no windows, there was no laughter, no merriment. The bartender dispensed a dubious liquor he claimed was dwarf spirits, but that probably wasn’t, pouring it into dented tin mugs that had been salvaged from the wreckage. The patrons drank alone for the most part, sunken in misery, staring in stupefaction at the rats that skittered across the floor and who were the only ones enjoying themselves, at least until they spotted Atta. Having been forbidden to chase them, Atta watched the vermin with narrowed eyes and, when one came too near, growled at it.

One of the patrons drinking that day was Lieu.

Rhys and Nightshade had lost track of Lieu for a short time, then, quite by accident, they picked up his trail, heading south from Solace, not east. They traced him to the city of New Port located on New Bay in the southern portion of New Sea. Rhys wondered why his brother was traveling south, when the other Beloved were being drawn to the east. He had his answer when he reached New Port. Lieu had booked passage on a ship sailing to Flotsam, due to leave in a few days’ time.

Finding Lieu had not been difficult. Rhys had simply gone from disreputable bar to disreputable bar, giving Lleu’s description to the barkeeps. In New Port, they located him on the third try.

The barkeepers always remembered Lieu, for he stood out from the other customers, who were generally a slovenly lot, slaves to the dwarf spirits that ruled their lives. Those “caught by the dwarf,” as the saying went, were generally gaunt and pale—for the liquor became bread and meat to them; their eyes were dull, their cheeks hollow. Lieu, by contrast, was hale and hearty, handsome and charming. He had long since abandoned the robes of a cleric of Kiri-Jolith and was now wearing the shirt and doublet, leather boots and woolen stockings of a young man of genteel birth.

Somehow or other he’d come by money, for his clothes were well-to-do and he had managed to pay the steep price for his voyage. Perhaps one of his victims had been wealthy. Either that, or he’d taken to thieving, which wouldn’t be surprising. After all, Lieu had nothing to fear from the law, who would be in for a severe shock if they tried to hang him.

When Rhys entered the Dingy, Lieu looked at him, then looked away. There was no recognition in the dead eyes. Lieu had no memory of Rhys or of anything. Lieu knew his name, and that was all he knew. Chemosh told him who he was, presumably. What he had been was forever lost.

The other patrons in the tavern were absorbed in drinking and wanted nothing to do with a stranger, so Lieu kept up a cheerful conversation with himself. He bragged about his carousing and the women who threw themselves at him. He laughed at his own jokes and sang bawdy songs, and Rhys’s heart ached. Lieu drank until he ran out of coins to pay for his spirits, then he tried to drink on credit. The barkeep was having none of that, however, yet Lieu continued to sit there, his mug in his hand.

This went on throughout the afternoon. Lieu would forget from one moment to the next he had nothing to drink and would lift the mug to his lips. Finding it empty, he would bang the mug on the crate and demand more in a loud voice. The barkeep, knowing he couldn’t pay, simply ignored him. Lieu would continue to bang the mug on the crate until he forgot why he was doing this, and then he would set it down. After a few moments, he’d pick it up and shout for more drink.

Rhys sat watching the thing that had once been his brother and making an occasional show of drinking the liquor he’d been forced to purchase in order to placate the barkeep. Nightshade had been bored, at first, then he fell to trying to hit the rats with dried beans he’d found in some old sacking stuffed inside the crate on which he was seated. The kender had come by (Rhys did not like to ask how) a slingshot, and though he was clumsy in its use at first, he had since acquired a certain amount of skill. He could hit a rat with a bean at twenty paces and send it somersaulting head over tail across the dirt floor. He was growing tired of the sport, however. The intelligent rats now kept to their holes and, besides, he’d run out of beans.

“Rhys,” said Nightshade, wrapping up the slingshot and shoving it in his belt. “It’s time for supper.”

“I thought you’d lost your appetite,” said Rhys, smiling.

164

“My nose lost it. My stomach didn’t,” Nightshade returned. “Atta thinks it’s suppertime, too, don’t you, girl?” He patted the dog on the head.

Atta looked up and wagged her tail, hoping they were going to leave.

“We can’t go yet,” Rhys began, then, seeing Nightshade’s face fall and Atta’s ears droop, he added, “but you could both go for a walk. I have this leftover from lunch.”

He and Nightshade had helped a farmer put a wheel back on a wagon that morning on their way into town and, although Rhys had refused to accept payment, the man had shared his food with them. Rhys handed over a packet of dried meat to the kender.

“I’ll take it outside to eat it,” Nightshade said. “That way my nose can feel hungry along with my stomach.”

He stood up and stretched out the kinks. Atta shook herself all over, starting with her nose and ending with her tail, and looked eagerly at the door.

“What about you?” Nightshade asked, seeing that Rhys remained seated. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Rhys shook his head. “I will stay here and keep watch on Lieu. He said something about meeting a young woman later this evening.”

Nightshade took the food, but he didn’t immediately go off with it. He stood looking at Rhys and seemed to be trying to make up his mind whether to say something or not.

“Yes, my friend,” said Rhys mildly. “What is it?”

“He’s leaving on a ship in two days,” Nightshade said.

Rhys nodded.

“What are we going to do then? Swim across New Sea after him?”

“I’m talking to the captain. I have offered to work on board the ship in return for passage.”

“Then what?”

Leaning near, Nightshade looked his friend straight in the eye.

“Rhys, face it! We could still be chasing your brother when you’re ninety and using that stick of yours as a cane! Lieu will be as young as ever, going from tavern to tavern, slinging down dwarf spirits like there’s no tomorrow. Because, you know what, Rhys, for him there is no tomorrow!

Nightshade sighed and shook his head. “It’s not much of a life you have. That’s all I’m saying.”

Rhys didn’t defend himself because he couldn’t. The kender was right. It wasn’t much of a life, but what else could he do? Until someone wise found a way to stop the Beloved, he could at least try to prevent Lieu from claiming any more victims, and the only way he could do that was to track his brother like a hunter tracks the marauding wolf.

Nightshade saw his friend’s face darken, and he felt immediately remorseful.

“Rhys, I’m sorry.” Nightshade patted his hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just that you’re a good man, and it seems to me you should be going around doing good things instead of spending your time stopping your brother from doing bad ones.”

“I am not hurt,” said Rhys, touching Nightshade gently on the shoulder. “Has anyone told you that you are wise, my friend?”

“Not recently,” said Nightshade with a grin.

“Well, you are. I will consider what you have said. Go along and eat your supper.”

Nightshade nodded and squeezed Rhys’s hand. He and Atta turned and were heading outside, when suddenly the door burst open with a slamming bang that jolted the drunks out of their stupor and caused several to drop their mugs. A gust of wind, smelling strongly of the sea, swirled about the interior of the tavern, kicking up the dust and spinning it into miniature cyclones that ushered in Zeboim.

The goddess casually knocked aside the kender, who was in her way, and stared about the shadowy room for Rhys.

“Monk, I know you’re here,” she called in a wave-crashing voice that rattled the timbers and set the rats fleeing. “Where are you?”

Her sea green dress frothed around her ankles, her sea foam hair tangled in the wind that whistled through the cracks in the hull. The barkeep gaped. The drunks stared. Lieu, sighting a beautiful woman, leaped up and made a gallant bow.

Rhys, startled beyond measure, rose to meet the goddess.

“I am here, Majesty,” he called out.

Atta ducked between his legs and hunkered there, growling. Nightshade picked himself off the floor. He’d managed, by some nifty acrobatics, to save his lunch, and he stuffed the meat into his pocket.

“I’m here too, Goddess,” he sang out cheerfully.

“Shut up, kender,” said Zeboim, “and you—” She raised a warding hand, pointed at Lieu. “You shut up as well, you disgusting piece of carrion.”

Zeboim focused on Rhys, smiling sweetly. “I have someone I want you to meet, Monk.”

The goddess gestured and, after a moment’s hesitation, another woman entered the tavern.

“Rhys, this is Mina,” said Zeboim casually. “Mina, Rhys Mason— my monk.”

Rhys was so amazed he fell backward, tripping over his staff and stepping on Atta, who yelped in protest. He could say nothing; his brain was in such turmoil it could make little sense of what he was seeing. He had a fleeting impression of a young woman who was not so much beautiful as she was arresting, with hair like flame and eyes like none he’d ever before seen.

The eyes were an amber color and he had the eerie impression that, like amber, they held imprisoned everyone she had ever met. The amber gaze fixed on him, and Rhys felt himself drawn to her like all the others, hundreds of thousands of people caught and held like insects in resin.

The amber seeped around him, warm and sweet.

Rhys cried out and flung up his arm to block her gaze, as he might have flung up his arm to block a blow.

The amber cracked. The eyes continued to confine their poor prisoners, but now he could see flaws, tiny cracks and striations, branching out from the dark pupils.

“Rhys Mason,” said Mina, holding out her hand to him. “You know the answer to the riddle!”

“Him?” Zeboim scoffed. “He knows nothing, Child. Now we really must be leaving. This was a fleeting visit, Rhys, my love. Sorry we can’t stay. I just wanted the two of you to meet. It seemed the least I could do, since I’m the one who commanded you to search the world for her. So farewell-—”

Lieu gave a hollow cry, an unearthly wail, and flung himself at Mina. He tried to seize hold of her, but she stepped back out of his way.

“Wretch,” she said coldly. “What do you think you are doing?”

Lieu fell to his knees. He held out his hands to her, pleading.

“Mina,” Lieu cried in wrenching tones, “don’t turn away from me! You know me!”

Rhys stared and Nightshade gaped, his mouth hanging open. Lieu, who did not remember Rhys, remembered Mina.

As to her, she regarded him as she might have regarded one of the rats. “You are mistaken—”

“You kissed me!” Lieu tore open his shirt to reveal the mark of her lips, burned into his flesh. “Look!”

“Ah, you are one of the Beloved,” Mina said, and she shrugged. “You have my lord’s blessing—”

“I don’t want it!” he cried vehemently. “Take it away!”

Mina stared at him, puzzled.

“Take it away!” Lieu shrieked. His hands clawed at her, clawed at the air when he could not reach her. “Take it away! Free me!”

“I don’t understand,” Mina said, and she seemed truly bewildered by his request. “I gave you what you wanted, what all mortals want—endless life, endless youth, endless beauty . . .”

“Endless misery,” he wailed. “I can’t stand your voice constantly dinning in my ears. I can’t stand the pain that drives me out into the night, the pain that nothing can drown, not the strongest liquor. .. .”

Lieu clasped his hands together. “Take the ‘blessing’ away, Mina. Let me go.”

She drew back, haughty and aloof. The amber hardened, the cracks sealed. “You gave yourself to my lord. You are his. I can do nothing.”

Lieu lurched forward, still on his knees. “I beg you!”

Zeboim cast the Beloved a look of disgust and drew Mina away.

“Come, Child. Speaking of Chemosh, he will be growing impatient. As for you, Monk”—Zeboim glanced back at Rhys over her shoulder and her look was not friendly—“I will talk to you later.”

Storm winds blew into the tavern, caught up Rhys, and flung him back against the wall. Sand stung his face. He could not see for the sand and the lashing rain, but he could hear people cursing, crates being tossed about the room. The storm raged for an instant and then subsided. Rhys found Atta cowering under a crate. Lieu was still on his knees. Hoping against hope his brother’s memory had returned, Rhys hastened over to him.

“Lieu, it’s me, Rhys. . . .”

Lieu shoved him aside. “I don’t give a damn who you are. Get out of my way. Barkeep, more spirits!”

The barkeep appeared, rising up from behind the bar. He stared around at the overturned crates and upended drunks, and then he scowled at Lieu.

“Fine friends you have. Look at this mess! Who’s going to pay for it? Not you, I suppose. Get out,” he shouted, shaking a clenched fist. “And don’t come back!”

Muttering that he had better things to do and better places to go, Lieu stalked out of the tavern, slamming the door behind him.

“I will pay for the damage,” said Rhys, handing over his last coin.

Whistling to Atta, he started after Lieu, saying to Nightshade in passing, “Hurry! We have to follow him!”

A whimper from Atta caused Rhys to stop and look back.

Nightshade was staring at the place where Mina had been standing. His eyes were round and wide, and Rhys saw in astonishment, tears were rolling down the kender’s cheeks.

“Oh, Rhys,” Nightshade gulped. “It’s so sad. So very sad!”

He buried his face in his hands and wept as though his heart would break.

2

Rhys hastened back to his friend.

“Nightshade,” he said in concern. “I’m sorry for being so thoughtless. That was a bad fall you took. Where does it hurt?”

But all Nightshade could say was, “It’s so sad! I can’t bear it!”

Rhys put his arm around the kender and led him from the tavern. Atta trotted after them, looking anxiously at her friend, and every now and then giving his hand a sympathetic lick.

Torn between his worry for his friend and his concern that he might lose track of his brother, Rhys did his best to soothe Nightshade, all the while keeping Lieu in sight.

His brother strolled along the docks, hands in his pockets, whistling an off-key tune, not a care in the world. He greeted strangers as though they were old friends and was soon in conversation with a group of sailors. Rhys thought back to only moments before, when his wretched brother had been begging for death, and he assumed he knew why the kender was sobbing.

Rhys patted Nightshade consolingly on the shoulder, thinking he’d soon regain his composure, but the kender was completely undone. Nightshade could only repeat, gulping and blubbering, that it was all so sad, and he cried even harder. Rhys was worried that he was going to have to leave his friend in this state, but then he saw his brother enter a bar in company with the sailors.

Certain Lieu would be there for some time, especially if the sailors were buying, Rhys steered Nightshade into a quiet alley. The kender plunked down on the ground and sobbed dismally.

“Nightshade,” said Rhys, “I know you’re sorry for Lieu, but this won’t help—”

Nightshade looked up. “Lieu? I’m not sorry for him! It’s her!”

“Her? Do you mean Mina?” Rhys asked, astonished. “She’s the one you’re crying over?”

Nightshade nodded, prompting more tears.

“What about her?” Rhys had a sudden thought. “Is she one of the Beloved? Is she dead?”

“Oh, no!” Nightshade gulped. Then he hesitated. Then repeated, “No . . .” only this time more slowly.

“Are you crying for the terrible evil she has done?” Rhys’s voice hardened. His hand clenched around the staff. “If she lives, that is good. She can be killed.”

Nightshade lifted a tear-stained face and stared at him in amazement. “Did you really just say that? You want to kill her? You—the monk who lifted a fly out of puddle of beer so that it wouldn’t drown?”

Rhys recalled his brother’s despairing plea and Mina’s callous and uncaring reply. He thought of young Cam in Solace, all the young people, slaves of Chemosh, driven to murder, the imprint of her lips over their hearts.

“I wish I’d killed her as she’d stood there before me,” he said.

Rhys reached over and shook the kender, pinching his shoulder hard. “Answer me! What is so sad about her?”

Nightshade shrank away from him.

“I really don’t know,” the kender said in a small voice. “Honest! The feeling just came over me somehow. Don’t be mad, Rhys. I’ll try to stop crying now.”

He gave a hiccup, but more tears slid down his cheeks, and he hid his face in Atta’s fur. She nuzzled his neck and licked away his tears. Her brown eyes, fixed on Rhys, seemed to reproach him.

The kender rubbed his shoulder where Rhys had gripped him, and the monk felt like a monster. “I’ll go fetch some water.”

He gave the kender an apologetic pat that only made Nightshade cry harder. Leaving him in Atta’s care, Rhys walked to a nearby public well. He was drawing up the bucket when he felt a divine presence breathing down his neck.

“What secret have you been keeping from me, Monk?” Zeboim demanded.

“I have no secrets, Majesty,” Rhys said, sighing.

“What riddle is that girl talking about then? What is the answer?”

“I do not know what Mina meant by that question, Majesty,” Rhys said. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Because she is a little liar. You, for all your faults, are not, so tell me the riddle and tell me the answer.”

“I have told you, Majesty, that I don’t know what she was talking about. Since I am not a liar, I assume you must believe me.” Rhys filled his water skin and started to walk back to the alley.

Zeboim fumed along beside him. “You must know! Put your mind to it!”

Rhys heard his brother’s voice, his despairing plea for death. He felt Nightshade’s tears on his skin. Losing patience, Rhys rounded angrily on the goddess.

“All I know, Majesty, is you had in your possession the person you commanded me to find. You have no business asking me anything!”

Zeboim halted, momentarily taken aback by his anger. Rhys walked on, and Zeboim hastened to catch up. She slid her arm through his arm and held on tightly when he tried to shake her off.

“I like it when you’re forceful, but don’t ever do it again.” She gave his hand a playful slap that numbed his arm to the elbow. “As for Mina, I did introduced you to her, didn’t I? You know what she looks like now. I let her go, that is true, but I didn’t have any choice in the matter. You recall my son? His soul trapped in a khas piece?”

Rhys sighed. He did, indeed.

“You’ll be glad to know he’s been freed,” Zeboim said.

Rhys found his elation at this news easy to contain.

The goddess was silent a moment, watching Rhys through narrowed eyes, trying to see into his heart.

He opened his soul to her. He had nothing to hide, and eventually she gave up.

“You are telling the truth. Perhaps you don’t know the answer to this riddle,” Zeboim said in a hissing whisper. “If I were you, I would find out. Mina was troubled by you. I could see that. Don’t worry that you can’t find her, Brother Rhys. Mina will be the one to find you!”

With that and a flurry of rain, she disappeared.

Nightshade and Atta were both fast asleep. The kender had his arms around Atta’s neck. She had one paw laid protectively over his chest. Rhys looked at them, sprawled on the cobblestones of a squalid, refuse-laden alley. Atta’s fur was matted, and her once glossy coat had lost its luster. The pads of her paws were rough and cracked. Whenever they passed rolling meadows and green hills, Atta would gaze longingly out over the grasslands, and Rhys knew that she wanted to run and run across the green sward and never stop until she came trotting back to him, exhausted and happy.

As for the kender, Nightshade was eating meals on a regular basis, which was more than he’d been doing before Rhys had found him. His clothes were ragged, his boots so worn that his toes poked through. Worse, the kender’s cheerful, lively spirit was being ground out of him by the road they trudged, day after day, following a dead man.

Kender should never cry, Rhys thought remorsefully. They are not meant for tears.

Rhys slumped down on a barrel. He lowered his head into his hands and pressed his palms into his eyes. He tried, for comfort’s sake, to bring to mind the green pastures and white sheep and the black and white dog racing over the hillside. But it was all gone. He could see nothing except the road—a road of bleakness, degradation, emptiness, death, and despair.

Shame filled him, and self-loathing.

“I was so smug, so arrogant,” he said, as bitter tears burned his eyelids. “I thought I could flirt with evil and yet go my own way. I could make a show of serving Zeboim, yet she would never lay claim to me. I could walk a path of darkness without losing sight of the sunlight. But now the sunlight has vanished and I am lost. I have no lantern, no compass to guide me. I stumble along a path so choked and overrun with weeds that I cannot see where to put my feet. And there is no end to it.”

The staff of Majere, which he had looked upon as a blessing, now seemed a reproach.

Think on what you might have been, Majere seemed to say to him. Think on what you have thrown away. Keep this staff always, that it may remind you and he a torment to you.

Rhys heard off-key humming in a voice he had come to recognize. Wearily, he raised his head and saw Lieu sauntering past the entrance to the alley that was already growing dark with the coming of night.

Lieu—going to keep a tryst with some luckless young woman.

Rhys had no choice. He reached down and shook Nightshade awake. Atta, startled, jumped to her feet. Catching a whiff of Lieu, she growled.

“We have to go,” said Rhys.

Nightshade nodded, and rubbed his eyes that were gummed with tears. Rhys helped the kender to stand.

“Nightshade,” Rhys said remorsefully, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. And, the gods know, I never meant to hurt you.”

“It’s all right,” Nightshade replied with a wan smile. “It’s probably just because you’re hungry. Here.” He dug into a pocket and produced the maltreated meat. He plucked off bits of pocket fuzz and removed a bent nail. “I’ll share.”

Rhys wasn’t hungry, but he accepted a portion of the meal. He tried to eat it, but his stomach heaved at the smell, and he fed his half to Atta when Nightshade wasn’t looking.

The three of them set off down the road and into the night, following the Beloved.

3

They tracked Lieu to a wharf where he had arranged to meet a young woman. She did not appear, however, and after waiting for over an hour, Lieu cursed her roundly and left, turning into the first tavern he came upon. Rhys knew from experience his brother would remain there all night, and he’d find him either here or near about the tavern the next day. He and a yawning Nightshade and a drooping Atta found a sheltered doorway and, huddling together for warmth, they prepared to get what sleep they could.

Nightshade was snoring softly and Rhys was drifting off when he heard Atta growl. A man dressed in white robes that gleamed in the light of his lantern stood over them, gazed down on them. His face was smiling and concerned, and Rhys soothed Atta’s worries.

“It’s all right, girl,” he said. “He’s a cleric of Mishakal.”

“Huh?” Nightshade woke with a start, blinking at the lantern light.

“Pardon me for disturbing you, friends,” said the white-robed man. “But this a dangerous place to spend the night. I can offer you shelter, a warm bed, and a hot meal in the morning.”

Moving closer still, he held the lantern high. “Bless my soul! A monk! Brother, please accept my hospitality. I am Revered Son Patrick.”

“Hot meal...” Nightshade repeated. He looked hopefully at Rhys.

“We accept your invitation, Revered Sir,” Rhys said gratefully. “I am Rhys Mason. This is Nightshade and Atta.”

The cleric gave them all polite greeting, even Atta, and though Patrick glanced curiously at Rhys’s aqua-green robes he politely refrained from comment. He lit their way through the city streets.

“A long walk, I’m afraid,” he said in apology. “But you will find peace and rest at the end of it. Rather like life itself,” he added with a smile for Rhys.

As they walked, he told them that this part of New Port was known as Old Port, so-called because it was the oldest part of the new city. New Port had not existed until the Cataclysm had sundered the continent of Ansalon, elevating parts of the continent and sinking others, causing some parts to split wide open and other parts to break off. One of these massive splits allowed the creation of a vast body of water known as New Sea.

The first settlers to arrive at this location—refugees fleeing the destruction up north—were visionaries, who saw immediately the advantage of building here. The land configuration formed a natural harbor. Ships that would soon be plying the waters of New Sea could dock here, take on goods, refit and overhaul, whatever was needed.

The city began modestly, with a stockade overlooking the harbor. New Port’s rapid growth soon overflowed the stockade and expanded along the waterfront and inland.

“Like an ungrateful child who discovers wealth and success, and then refuses to acknowledge the humble parents who brought him into the world, the wealthy parts of the city are now far removed from the lowly docks that were its cause for success,” Patrick explained, sadly shaking his head.

“The flourishing merchants who fund the ships and own the warehouses live far from the stench offish heads and tar. Brothels and gambling dens and taverns like the Dinghy have shouldered out more reputable establishments on the waterfront. Housing is cheap down by the docks, for no one of means wants to live there.”

They passed row after row of ramshackle dwellings made of wood taken from abandoned warehouses, and walked dismal streets paved with mud. Drunken sailors and slovenly women lurched past them. Even though the hour was past midnight, several children ran up to them to beg for coins or rooted through heaps of refuse in hopes of finding food. Whenever they came upon such children, Patrick stopped to speak to them, before continuing on his way.

“My wife and I have started a school down here among the docks,” he explained. “We teach the children to read and write, and send them home with at least one good meal in their bellies. Hopefully we can help some of them find better lives outside this wretched place.”

“The gods bless the gift and the giver,” said Rhys quietly.

“We do what we can, Brother,” said Patrick, with a smile and a sigh. “We do what we can. Here we are. Come inside. Yes, Atta, you can come, too.”

The Temple of Mishakal was not a grand edifice, but a very modest building that had evidently undergone recent repairs, for it smelled strongly of whitewash. The only sign that it was a temple was the holy symbol of Mishakal newly painted on one of the walls.

Rhys was about to enter when he saw in the lantern light something that stopped him in his tracks so that Nightshade bumped into him.

Posted on the outside of the little temple, nailed to the wall, was a missive bearing the words, written in bold letters in red ink: Beware the Beloved of Chemosh!

Below was a paragraph of text, describing the Beloved, urging people to look for the mark of “Mina’s Kiss” and warning people to refrain from taking any vow to serve the Lord of Death.

“Ah,” said Patrick, seeing Rhys frown, “do you know about these Beloved of Chemosh?”

“To my sorrow, yes,” Rhys replied.

“Do you think your warning will help stop the Beloved?” Nightshade asked the cleric.

“No, not really,” Patrick replied sadly. “Few of the people around here can even read, but we talk to all who enter our temple, urging them to be careful.”

“What has been the reaction?” Rhys asked.

“As you might expect. Some now fear that everyone they meet is out to slay them. Others think it’s a plot to try to coerce people into joining the church.” Patrick smiled wryly and shrugged. “The majority scoff at the entire notion. But we can discuss this further in the morning. Now, come to your beds.”

He hustled them inside and led them to a room where a row of cots had been set up. He gave them blankets and wished them a good night.

“May the blessing of Mishakal guard your rest this night, my friends,” he said as he left.

Rhys lay down on the cot, and perhaps Mishakal did touch him gently because, for the first night in many long, weary nights, he did not dream of his wretched brother.

Rhys did not dream of anything.

Rhys was up with first light to find Nightshade happily devouring a bowl of bread and milk in company with a pleasant looking woman who introduced herself as Revered Sister Galena. She invited Rhys to sit down and break his fast. He gladly did so, for he discovered he was unusually hungry.

“Only if I may be allowed to do some work for you in payment,” he added with a smile.

“It’s not necessary, Brother,” said Galena. “But I know you won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, so I accept your offer with grateful thanks. Mishakal knows we can use all the help we can get.”

“The kender and I must take care of some business first,” Rhys said, washing up his dishes, “but we will return in the afternoon.”

“Can I stay here, Rhys?” Nightshade asked eagerly. “You don’t really need my help, and the Revered Sister said she’d teach me how to paint walls!”

Rhys looked uncertainly at Galena.

She smiled broadly. “Of course he can stay.”

“Very well,” said Rhys. He drew Nightshade off to one side. “I have to go find Lieu. I’ll meet you back here. Don’t say anything about knowing one of the Beloved,” he added in an undertone. “Don’t say anything about Zeboim or about Mina or about being able to talk to dead people or that you’re a nightstalker—”

“Don’t say anything about anything,” Nightshade said with a wise nod.

“Right,” said Rhys. He knew his advice would be useless, but he felt bound to try. “And keep your hands to yourself. I have to go now. Atta, watch!”

He pointed at the kender. Nightshade had gone over to help Galena wash up, and of course, the first words out of his mouth were, “Say, Revered Sister, do you have anyone in your family who is recently deceased? Because, if you do—”

Rhys smiled and shook his head and went in search of Lieu.

He found his brother strolling the docks in company with a young woman who had a baby in her arms and a little boy of about four walking beside her, holding onto her long skirts. Lieu was at his most charming. The young woman was looking at him with adoring eyes, hanging on his every word.

She was pretty, though she was far too thin and her face, in repose, looked haggard. Her smile seemed forced. Her laughter was shrill, too loud. She appeared determined to like Lieu and even more determined that he should like her.

“You broke our date last night,” Lieu was saying.

“I’m sorry,” the young woman replied, worried. “You’re not mad at me, are you? The old crone who was supposed to come watch the children didn’t turn up.”

Lieu shrugged. “I’m not mad. I can always find pleasant company ...”

The young woman grew even more worried. “I have an idea. You can come to my place tonight, after I put the children to bed.”

“Very well,” said Lieu. “Tell me where you live.”

She gave him directions. He kissed her on the cheek, patted her little boy on the head, and chucked the baby under the chin.

Rhys’s gorge rose at the sight of the Beloved caressing the children and it was all he could do to keep silent. Lieu at last took himself off, heading, undoubtedly, for yet another bar. Rhys followed the young woman. She entered one of the hovels near the docks. He waited a moment, pondering his course of action, then made up his mind. Crossing the street, he knocked on her door.

The door opened a crack. The young woman peered out.

She seemed startled to see a monk and opened the door a little wider. “Well, Brother. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Rhys Mason. I want to speak to you about Lieu. May I come inside?” Rhys asked.

The young woman was suddenly cold. “No, you may not. As for Lieu, I know what I’m about. I don’t need you to lecture me on my sins, so go on about your business, Brother, and let me go about mine.”

She started to shut the door. Rhys interposed his staff between the door and the frame, holding it open.

“What I have to say is important, Mistress. Your life is in danger.”

Rhys could see, over her shoulder, the baby lying on a blanket on a straw pallet in the corner of the small room. The little boy stood behind her, watching Rhys with wide eyes. The woman, following the movement of his eyes, threw the door wide open.

“My life!” She gave a bitter laugh. “Here is my life! Filth and squalor. Look for yourself, Brother. I am a young widow left destitute, with two small children and barely enough to hold body and soul together. I cannot go out to work, because I am afraid to leave the children, so I take in sewing. That barely pays the rent on this dreadful place.”

“What is your name, Mistress?” Rhys asked gently.

“Camille,” she returned sullenly.

“Do you think Lieu will help you, Camille?”

“I need a husband,” she said in hard tones. “My children need a father.”

“What about your parents?” Rhys asked.

Camille shook her head. “I am alone in the world, Brother, but not for long. Lieu has promised to marry me. I will do anything I must to hold onto him. As for my life being in danger”—she scoffed—“he may be a little too fond of his drink, but he is harmless.”

Behind her, the baby started to wail.

“Now, I must go tend to my child—” She tried again to close the door.

“Lieu is not harmless,” said Rhys earnestly. “Have you heard of Chemosh, the god of death?”

“I know nothing of gods, Brother, nor do I care! Now will you leave or must I summon the city guard?”

“Lieu will not marry you, Camille. He has booked passage on board a ship to Flotsam. He leaves New Port tomorrow.”

The young woman stared at him. Her face paled, her lips quivered. “I don’t believe you. He promised! Now go! Just go!”

The baby had worked himself into a frenzy. The little boy was doing his best to soothe him, but the baby was having none of it.

“Think about what I have said, Mistress Camille,” Rhys pleaded. “You are not alone. The Temple of Mishakal is not far from here. You passed it on your way. Go to the clerics of Mishakal. They will assist you and your children.”

She pushed at him, kicked at his staff.

“Lieu has a mark on his breast,” Rhys continued. “The mark of a woman’s lips burned into his flesh. He will try to make you give your soul to Chemosh. Do not do it, Mistress! If you do, you are lost! Look into his eyes!” he pleaded. “Look into his eyes!”

The door slammed shut. Rhys stood on the street outside, listening to the baby’s screams and the mother’s voice trying to soothe it. He wondered what to do. If this young woman fell victim to Lieu, she would abandon her children to walk with the Lord of Death.

Then Rhys remembered the missive posted on the temple wall, and his heart eased. He was not alone in his battle against the Beloved. Not anymore. He could seek out help.

Rhys returned to the clerics of Mishakal and their humble temple to find Nightshade happily whitewashing the walls and Atta lying under a table contently gnawing on a bone. She wagged her tail when she saw Rhys but was not about to relinquish her bone long enough to go greet him.

“Look, Rhys, I’m working!” Nightshade called proudly, waving his paintbrush and splattering himself and the floor with white paint. “I’ve already paid for supper.”

“I told him we feed everyone in need,” said Patrick. “But he insisted. He’s a most unusual kender.”

“Yes, he is,” said Rhys. He paused then said quietly, “Revered Son, I must speak to you on a matter of importance.”

“I thought you might,” Patrick replied. “Your friend has been telling us some very interesting stories. Please, Brother, seat yourself.”

Galena brought Rhys a bowl of stew. Patrick sat beside him as he ate, keeping him company. He refused to let Rhys talk business until he had finished his meal, explaining it was bad for the digestion.

Thinking what he had to say, Rhys agreed. Instead, he urged Patrick to tell his story.

“My wife and I were both mystics in the Citadel of Light. When the gods returned, the leaders of the Citadel agreed all mystics would be given a choice—we could serve the gods or we could remain mystics. Our founder, Goldmoon, was both, and the leaders believed this is what she would have wanted. My wife and I prayed for guidance and the White Lady came to each of us in a dream, asking us to follow her, so we did.

“We are originally from New Port. We knew there was great need here, and we decided to return to do what we could to help. We’re starting with the school for the children and a house of healing. A humble beginning, but at least it’s a beginning. None of the other gods have a presence in this city—except Zeboim, of course,” Patrick added with a sigh and a sidelong glance at Rhys.

He said nothing but continued eating.

“Zeboim’s temple was the last the people left after the gods vanished, and the first they came back to. In fact, there were some who didn’t leave at all. They kept bringing their gifts, year after year. ‘You never know with the Sea Witch’, they say in these parts. ‘She might be playing one of her little games. We don’t dare take a chance.’ ”

Rhys looked at Nightshade, happily sloshing paint around. A good deal of it was actually hitting the wall. Rhys reached down, stroked Atta’s head.

“Forgive me for asking, Brother,” Patrick said after a moment, “you are obviously a monk, but I am not familiar with your order—”

“I was a monk of Majere,” Rhys replied. “I am not anymore. That was excellent,” he told Galena, as she removed the bowl. “Thank you.”

Patrick seemed about to say something else, then changed his mind. Galena carried the dishes to the kitchen before returning to sit with her husband.

“What is it you need to discuss with us, Brother?” Patrick asked.

“The Beloved,” said Rhys.

Patrick’s expression darkened. “Nightshade told us that you have been tracking one of them and that it is here, in our city. This is bad news, Brother.”

“It gets worse. The Beloved has taken up with a young woman. I fear he means her harm. I tried to warn her, but she is a widow with two children and in desperate need. She thinks he will marry her and she refused to listen to my warnings. He is meeting her tonight. We must stop him.”

“Judging by the information on the Beloved we received from the Citadel, stopping him will not be easy,” said Galena, troubled.

“Yet we must do something,” Patrick said. “Do you have any ideas, Brother?”

“We could try to apprehend him. Lock him up in a prison cell. He will undoubtedly escape from jail,” Rhys admitted. “Locks and iron bars will not be much of a hindrance to him, but at least this young woman and her children will be safe. You can take them into your care, keep her away from him until he has left this city.”

“When will that be?”

“Lieu has booked passage on a ship out of New Port. He intends to leave tomorrow.”

“Then he will attack someone else.” Patrick frowned. “I don’t like letting him go.”

“I am trying to acquire passage on the same ship. I will continue to do what I can to prevent Lieu from harming anyone.”

“I still don’t like it,” said Patrick.

Galena rested her hand on his arm. “I know how you feel, but, husband, think of this poor young mother! We need to save her and her children.”

“Of course,” said Patrick immediately. “Our first care must be for her. Then we will decide what to do with the Beloved. Where is he now?”

“I left him in a bar. He will spend the day there, come out at night.”

“Wouldn’t it be better for us to apprehend him there?”

“I thought of that,” said Rhys. “But this young woman is the type of vulnerable person Chemosh seeks out. We can stop this Beloved, but what of the next one who finds her? She must be made to see the danger for herself.”

“Are there truly that many of these monsters around?” Galena asked, shocked.

“We have no way of knowing,” said Rhys. “But it is certain their numbers grow daily.”

Nightshade came over to join them, trailing paint spatters all along the floor.

“I saw ten yesterday,” he reported. “Down by the docks and up in the city.

“Ten!” Galena was horrified. “This is appalling.”

“Lieu is supposed to meet this young woman tonight at her house. We can capture him when he arrives.”

“Are you certain he is one of the Beloved?” Patrick asked, regarding Rhys intently. “Forgive me for questioning you, Brother, but our fear is the innocent may suffer along with the guilty.”

“Lieu is—or was—my brother,” Rhys replied. “He murdered our parents and the brethren of my Order. He tried to murder me.”

Patrick’s expression softened. He looked at Rhys as if much made sense to him now. “I am truly sorry, Brother. Where does this young woman live?”

“Not far,” said Rhys. He shook his head. “I can’t describe to you the exact location. Her dwelling is one of many on the street, and they all look alike. It will be easier for me to take you there. You should summon the city guard.”

“We will be ready, Brother.”

“I will return at nightfall,” said Rhys. Taking hold of his staff, he rose to his feet. “Thank you for the meal.”

“There is no need to leave, Brother. You should stay and rest. You look worn out.”

“I wish I could,” said Rhys, and he was in earnest. The peace of this quiet place was soothing balm to his tormented soul. “But I have to meet again with the ship’s captain, try once more to persuade him to take us on as passengers.”

“He thinks kender are unlucky,” said Nightshade cheerfully. “I told him I could make the voyage really interesting. I saw the souls of quite a few dead sailors roaming about the ship, and I told him they all wanted to talk to him. He didn’t seem to like to hear that, though. He got really mad, especially when I mentioned the mutiny and the fact he’d had them all strung up from the yardarms. I think they still have hard feelings.”

Rhys looked at Patrick and coughed. “I don’t suppose you could continue to keep the kender—”

“Of course. He’s been quite a help today.”

“He can whitewash the floor as well as the walls,” added Galena, with a glance at the trail of white spatters.

Rhys whistled to Atta, who left her bone with regret.

“I’ll keep it for her,” Galena offered. She picked up the bone and placed it on a shelf Atta kept her jealous gaze on it every inch of the way.

“Brother,” said Patrick, accompanying Rhys to the door, “you might think about enlisting the aid of Zeboim’s cleric. He’s a powerful force with these ships’ captains. They’d be willing to listen to him, and he’d be more than willing to listen to you.”

“A good idea, Revered Son,” Rhys said quietly. “Thank you.”

“We will keep you in our prayers, Brother,” Patrick added as Rhys and Atta took their leave.

“Pray for that young woman,” Rhys said. “Your prayers will be better spent.”

Patrick stood in the doorway watching Rhys walk off down the street. The monk’s staff thumped the cobblestones. The black and white dog padded along at his side.

Thoughtful, Patrick turned away.

“Where are you going, my dear?” Galena asked.

“To have a word with Mishakal,” he replied.

“About that young woman?”

“You and I can take care of her.” Patrick glanced back out the window to see Rhys and Atta vanish around the corner. “This problem is one only the goddess can handle.”

“And what is that?” asked his wife.

“A lost soul,” said Patrick.

4

Rhys seriously considered Patrick’s advice regarding Zeboim’s priest. He chose, finally, to go to the ship’s captain alone. Rhys did not like the idea of being any more beholden to the goddess than he already was—or rather, than she thought he was. Truth be told, he’d done far more for her than she’d done for him.

He was kept waiting for hours, for the captain with a vessel making ready to sail is a busy man and has no time to talk to potential passengers, especially those who can’t pay their way. Noontime came and went and finally, late in the day, the captain told Rhys he could spare him a few moments.

Rhys eventually persuaded the man to agree to let him and Atta on board the vessel. The captain was adamant about Nightshade, however. A kender on board ship was bad luck. Everyone knew that.

Rhys suspected this was a superstition the captain had just conveniently made up, but all his arguments fell on deaf ears. Rhys finally and reluctantly agreed to leave the kender behind.

“We’ll miss Nightshade, won’t we, Atta?” Rhys said to the dog as they walked back toward the temple.

Atta looked up at him with her soft brown eyes and gently wagged her tail and crowded close to him. She didn’t understand his words, but she knew by his tone that he was sad and did what she could to offer comfort.

Rhys was truly going to miss Nightshade. Not a person to make friends easily, Rhys had found solace in the companionship of the other monks, but he’d had no true friends among them. He had not needed friends. He had his dog and his god.

Rhys had lost his god and his brothers, but he’d found a friend in the kender. Looking back on these last bleak weeks, Rhys knew with certainty he could not have gone on if it hadn’t been for Nightshade, whose cheerful outlook on life and unfailing optimism had kept Rhys afloat when the dark waters seemed about to close over him. The kender’s courage and—odd as it might sound when speaking of a kender—common sense had kept them both alive.

“The clerics of Mishakal will take him in,” Rhys said to Atta. “The goddess has always had a soft spot in her heart for kender.” He sighed deeply and shook his head. “The hard part will be convincing him to stay behind. We’ll have to sneak out while he’s asleep, slip away before he knows we’re gone. Fortunately, the ship sails with high tide and that is at dawn—”

Thinking about Nightshade, Rhys was not paying particular attention to where he was going and suddenly discovered he’d taken a wrong turn. He was in a part of town completely unfamiliar to him. He was annoyed by this mistake, and his annoyance grew to worry when he’noted the hour was far later than he’d thought. The sky was a pinkish red color; the sun was sinking behind the buildings. People around him were hurrying home to their suppers.

Fearing he would be late for his meeting with the clerics and the city guard, Rhys hurriedly retraced his steps, and after stopping several people to ask directions, he and Atta once more found themselves on the street that led to the temple.

He was walking as fast as he could, with Atta trotting behind, and not watching where he was going. His first notion that anything was amiss was Atta trying to nudge him out of the way by pressing her body against his leg. The dog had often done this, for Rhys would sometimes become so absorbed in his meditations that he would walk headlong into trees or tumble into brooks if the dog wasn’t there to watch out for him.

Feeling her weight against him, he lifted his head and looked right into the bright light of a lantern. The light blinded him, so he could not make out any details about those he’d nearly run down, except there was a group of perhaps six men.

He nimbly side-stepped to avoid a collision with the leader, adding contritely, “I am so sorry, sir. I am in a hurry, and I wasn’t watching—”

His voice died. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes had grown accustomed to the light, and he could now see quite clearly the burnt-orange color of priestly robes and the rose-symbol of Majere.

The priest lifted his lantern so that the light shone on Rhys, who could not believe his bad fortune. He had taken such care to avoid Majere’s priests. Now he had literally run right into six of them. What was worse, the lead priest, the one with the lantern, was, by his garb, a High Abbot.

The abbot was staring at Rhys in astonishment, his startled gaze taking in the monk who was wearing the robes of Majere, but in the aqua green colors of Zeboim. Astonishment darkened to disapproval and what was worse, recognition. The abbot swung the lantern close to Rhys’s face, so that he was forced to avert his eyes from the flaring light.

“Rhys Mason,” said the abbot sternly. “We have been searching for you.”

Rhys didn’t have time for this. He had to reach the temple of Mishakal. He was the only one who knew where to find Lieu, who was probably already on his way to the young woman’s house.

“Excuse me, Your Holiness, but I am late for an urgent appointment.” Rhys bowed and started to leave.

The abbot grabbed hold of Rhys’s arm, detaining him.

“Forgive me, Holiness,” said Rhys politely but firmly. “I am late.”

He made a swift, deft move to break the abbot’s grip. Unfortunately, the Abbot was also trained in the art of “merciful discipline,” and he executed a skillful countermove that kept Rhys in his grasp. Atta, at Rhys’s feet, growled threateningly.

The abbot fixed the dog with a look and raised his hand in a commanding gesture. Atta flopped down on her belly and laid her head between her paws. Her growl subsided. She feebly wagged her tail.

The abbot turned back to Rhys.

“Do you run from me, Brother?” the abbot asked in a tone that was more sorrowful than censorious.

“Forgive me, Your Holiness,” said Rhys again. “I am in haste. A matter of life and death. Please, release me.”

“The immortal soul is more important than the body, Brother Rhys. This life is fleeting, the soul eternal. I have received reports that your soul is in peril.” The abbot held Rhys firmly. “Return with us to our temple. We would talk with you and find a way to bring the lost sheep back to the flock.”

“I would like nothing better, Holiness,” Rhys replied earnestly, “and I promise I will come to your temple later this night. Now, as I told you, I am urgently needed elsewhere. The life that is in peril is not my own—”

“Forgive me if I do not entirely trust you, Brother Rhys,” said the abbot.

The priests of Majere, crowding around him, nodded their cowled heads.

“Members of our Order have been searching Ansalon for you, and now that we have found you we intend to keep you. Come, walk with us, Brother.”

“I cannot, Holiness!” Rhys was starting to grow angry. “Walk with me, if you do not believe me! I go to the Temple of Mishakal. Her clerics and I are on the track of one of the Beloved who intends to take the life of a young mother.”

“Are you the sheriff of this city, Brother?” asked the abbot. “Is it your responsibility to apprehend criminals?”

“In this case, yes!” Rhys retorted.

The sky was dark now, the stars were out. The young woman would have put her little ones to bed and would be watching, waiting for Lieu. “The Beloved is—or was—my wretched brother. I am the only one who can recognize him.”

“Nightshade knows him,” said the abbot imperturbably. “The kender can point him out to the guards.”

Rhys was taken aback. The abbot seemed to know everything about him.

“The kender knows Lieu, but he does not know where this young woman lives. I didn’t tell him or the clerics of Mishakal.”

“Why not?” asked the abbot. “You could have given the clerics the location of the young woman’s house.”

Rhys fumbled for an answer. “All the dwellings look alike. It would have been difficult—”

“Lie to others if you must, Brother Rhys. Never lie to yourself. You want to be there. You want to destroy the monster that was once your brother with your own hands. You have made this a personal vendetta, Rhys Mason. You are consumed with hatred and the desire for revenge, yet,” the priest added, his voice softening, “Majere still loves you.”

He reverently touched the staff that Rhys held in his hand.

As though a lightning blast lit up the darkness, turning night to terrible day, Rhys saw himself in stark clarity. The abbot spoke the truth. Rhys could have given Patrick the location of the young woman’s house. He had deliberately withheld it. He wanted to be there. He wanted to confront his brother, and he had been willing to sacrifice the young woman’s life for his own hateful need.

Rhys longed to fall to the ground at the abbot’s feet. He longed to spew out the poison that was eating him up inside. He longed to beg for mercy, for forgiveness.

The Abbot had hold of his forearm. Dropping his staff, Rhys took hold of the Abbot’s arm with his free hand, and giving a yank, he jerked the abbot off his feet and flung him to the ground.

“Atta, watch him!” Rhys ordered.

The dog leaped to her feet. She did not attack the abbot. She stood over him, her teeth bared, growling a warning. The abbot said something to her, but Atta had direct orders from her master now and wasn’t about to disobey him.

“Brother Rhys—” the abbot began.

“She won’t hurt you if you don’t move, Holiness,” said Rhys coldly. He was watching the other priests, who were now circling him.

Rhys lifted up his staff with his foot and flipped it into his hands. He wondered uneasily if the staff would continue to fight for him. After all, he was opposing Majere’s servants. He held the staff out in front of him, half-expecting it to splinter and crack. The staff remained firm and felt warm and comforting in his grasp.

“I don’t want to hurt any of you,” Rhys said to the priests. “Let me pass.”

“We don’t want to hurt you either, Brother,” said one of the priests, “but we have no intention of letting you go.”

They meant to try to subdue him, render him helpless. Rhys carried the image of the young woman and the terrible fate that awaited her in his mind. The five priests came at him in a rush, intent on dragging him to the ground.

Rhys lashed out with the staff. He clouted one of the priests on the side of the head, knocking him down. He thrust the end of the staff into another priest’s midriff, doubling him over, and struck a third on the back of the head—all in a flurry of moves that took only seconds.

He saw at once the priests were not as well trained in the art of merciful discipline as their abbot, for the two remaining on their feet fell back, watching him warily. The abbot must have tried to rise, for Rhys heard Atta bark and snap. He glanced back to see the abbot wringing a bleeding hand.

Wishing desperately he’d never walked this street, never set foot in this city, Rhys planted the butt end of the staff firmly in the cobblestones, and gripping it with both hands, used it to launch himself into the air. He vaulted over the heads of the startled priests and landed on the pavement behind them. Whistling to Atta, Rhys dashed off down the street.

He risked a glance backward, thinking they might be pursuing him, but he saw only Atta tearing along after him. Two of the priests were tending to the fallen. The abbot nursed his bleeding hand and gazed after Rhys with a sorrowful expression.

Rhys put all thoughts of the sins he’d committed out of his mind as he ran.

He reached the temple of Mishakal and found Patrick, his wife and Nightshade, along with the city guard, gathered in front of the building. Nightshade was pacing back and forth, peering up and down the street.

“Brother, you’re late!” Patrick cried.

“Where have you been?” Nightshade wailed, clutching at him. “It’s way after dark!”

“Come with me!” Rhys gasped. He shook off the kender and kept running.

5

The young mother’s name was Camille.

The only child of a wealthy merchant widower, she had been raised with every indulgence and was headstrong and spoiled. When, at sixteen, she had fallen in love with a sailor, she had willfully ignored her father’s command and run off to marry the sailor. Two children came along shortly thereafter.

Her father had refused to have anything to do with her and even went so far as to change his will to leave his money to his business partners. Time might have softened the old man, who truly loved his daughter, but he died within a week of making the change. Shortly after her father’s death, Camille’s husband fell from the rigging of his ship and broke his neck.

She was now a widow, destitute, with two small children to support. Her duenna had taught her to do fancy sewing, and Camille, swallowing her pride, was forced to go to the homes of the wealthy young women who had once been her peers to beg for work.

This did not bring in much money. She was twenty-one, lonely, half-starved, and in despair. The only other thing she had to sell was her body, and she was facing the horrible choice of turning to prostitution or watching her children starve when she met Lieu.

With his charming manner and good looks, Lieu would have been the answer to her prayers, except that Camille never prayed. She had heard of the gods—some vague mention that they’d returned after a long absence—but that was about it. Remote and far away, the gods had nothing to do with her.

He was the answer to her problems, though. Camille did not love Lieu. She was determined to marry him, however. He would support her and her children, and in return, she would be a good wife to him. The notion that he might be playing her false had never entered her mind. Though she’d known him only a couple of days, he had seemed to dote on her and her children. When she heard from the monk that Lieu had booked passage on a ship, Camille felt the blow in the pit of her stomach and found it easy to convince herself the monk had been lying.

She fed her children the meager amount of food that there was in the house, going without a meal herself. She put the baby to bed, then spent some time talking to her little son, a child of four, promising him he would soon have a new daddy, who would love him dearly, and that there would be lots to eat and warm clothes to wear and a fine new house where they would all live together.

The little boy fell asleep in her arms, and she carried him to the straw pallet in the corner of the one room dwelling and laid him down. She tucked a blanket around him, then did what she could to make herself pretty. She sat in the lone rickety chair to wait for Lieu.

He arrived later than she’d expected. He reeked of dwarf spirits but did not appear to be drunk. He greeted her with his usual charming smile and kissed her on the cheek. She shut the door behind him and bolted it.

Lieu stood in the center of the room with his arms held out. “Come to me, my sweet,” he said gaily.

She gave herself to his embrace. His kisses were ardent and impassioned. When his hot hands began to explore her body, however, Camille drew away from him.

“Lieu, we need to talk. You promised to marry me. I love you so, I don’t want to wait. Promise me you will marry me tomorrow.”

“I will marry you, but you must promise me something in return,” Lieu said, laughing.

“You will marry me?” Camille cried, ecstatic. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, the day after, whenever,” Lieu said carelessly.

“What is it you want of me?” Camille asked, drawing near to him.

She thought she knew the answer and was prepared to give her body to the man who was going to be her husband. Lleu’s reply caught her by surprise.

“I am a follower of Chemosh,” he said. “I want you to join me in his worship. That is all I ask. Do that, and you will be my wife.”

“Chemosh?” Camille repeated. She drew back, startled and uneasy. “You never said anything before about a god called Chemosh. Who is he?”

“The Lord of Life Unending,” Lieu replied. “You have but to swear to him that you will serve him, and in return, he will grant you endless youth, endless beauty, endless life.”

His words sounded glib, a speech he had memorized and was speaking by rote, like a bad actor in a bad play. The monk’s warning came back to Camille.

“Come now, Lieu. Intelligent people don’t believe in the gods,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Worshipping gods is for the weak-minded, the superstitious.”

“My wife must believe in my god, Camille,” said Lieu and his charming smile was gone. “If I am to marry you, you must swear to follow Chemosh. He will reward you with endless youth, endless—”

“Yes, you said all that,” Camille snapped. She temporized. “After I am your wife, I will gladly learn about Chemosh. You will teach me.”

“I will teach you now,” said Lieu, and he bent over her and nuzzled her neck, kissing her.

His kisses were sweet, and he had promised to marry her. What would it hurt to give in to his silly demand? Swear to Chemosh. She was saying only words anyway. She slid her hands inside his open collar and saw, beneath her fingers, the mark of a woman’s lips burned into his flesh.

Camille pushed him away.

She looked at him, looked into his eyes.

There was nothing there. No love. No desire. No life. Fear wrung her, twisted inside her.

“Get out!” Camille ordered shakily. “Go away! Whatever you are! Leave my house!”

“I can’t,” Lieu returned, his voice harsh. “Mina won’t let me. The pain is too much to bear. You must swear to Chemosh. He will give you endless youth, endless beauty—”

Camille was trapped. He was between her and the door, and even if she could escape, she would not leave him alone with her children.

“Lieu, just go, please go,” she begged.

“Endless life,” said Lieu. “Endless youth—”

If she could reach the door, she could open it and shout for help.

Camille tried to dart around him. He was too quick for her. He seized hold of her wrists and dragged her close.

“Swear to Chemosh!” he ordered her.

He squeezed her wrists, so that the joints cracked and she cried out in pain. He threw her to the floor and flung himself on top of her, pinning her with his knees. He ripped off her blouse, exposing her breasts, and bent over her to kiss her. She writhed beneath him, trying to push him off her, but he was incredibly strong.

“Mommy?” Her little boy’s quavering voice came from somewhere behind her.

“Jeremy!” she gasped. “Please, Lieu, no. Don’t hurt me . . . not while my child is watching ...”

“Swear to Chemosh!” he said again, his breath hot on her face. He squeezed her arms with crushing force. “Or I’ll kill your brat.”

“I’ll swear!” Camille moaned. “Don’t hurt my child.”

“Say it!”

Pain and her fear were too much for Camille to bear.

“I swear my soul—”

A blow struck the door. A dog barked ferociously.

A voice shouted, “Mistress, it is Brother Rhys Mason. Are you all right?”

“Help, Brother!” Camille screamed, hope giving her renewed strength. “Help me!”

“Break it down!” the monk ordered, and there was a rush of feet and a crashing thud. The wooden door shivered.

Lieu still straddled her, still hurt her. He seemed unaware of the commotion.

“Swear!” He slavered at the mouth. His saliva dripped on her.

“Once more should do it!” the monk said.

Again the thud, and this time the door burst asunder.

The monk and a kender came tumbling inside. The monk sprang at Lieu, but her little boy, Jeremy, reached him first.

“Stop hurting my mam!” cried the child, and he struck Lieu with his small fist.

Lieu gave a hideous shriek. His flesh blackened and withered. His eyeballs dried up and fell from the sockets. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a rictus grin. The hands holding Camille were the rotting hands of a corpse. The sickening stench of death filled the small room, but Lieu would not die. His corpse kept hold of her. His skull leered at her. His mouth kept moving.

“Swear to Chemosh!”

Camille went mad with terror. She shrieked hysterically and flailed about in panic, trying to fling the corpse off her.

The little boy, after one paralyzed moment of shock, grabbed hold of the corpse intending to tear it off his mother. At his touch, Lieu burst into flames. The fire consumed his body in an instant. Greasy soot and ash drifted horribly about the room, falling on the little boy, coating his hair and his skin.

The child made no sound. He began to shake and then his eyes rolled back in his head. His body went stiff.

“Jeremy!” Camille wept and tried to crawl to her son, but everything went dark, and she fainted.

Rhys witnessed the dreadful end of the Beloved, his mind and soul consumed in horror, as his brother’s body was consumed in the unnatural fire. He heard Patrick, standing in the door behind him, suck in a breath, heard one of the guardsmen retching. Nightshade stared, dumbfounded. The little boy stood stock-still. The young woman lay in a pile of black ash. Nothing seemed to move except the soot floating about the room.

Then the little boy collapsed. He fell to the floor, his limbs writhing and jerking, his tongue protruding from his mouth.

“He’s having some sort of fit! Rhys, what do I do?” Nightshade cried, hovering over him.

“Get out of my way,” Patrick ordered, elbowing Nightshade aside. “I will take care of him.”

Patrick took hold of the child, prized open his mouth, and stuffed a wadded handkerchief inside to keep him from biting his tongue. Gathering the twitching little body in his arms, he spoke soft words, praying to Mishakal.

Seeing the child in good hands, Rhys went to the aid of the unconscious mother while Galena ran to pick up the baby.

“We must get them out of this accursed place!” Patrick said urgently, and Rhys whole-heartedly agreed.

Handing his staff to Nightshade, Rhys lifted up the young woman in his arms and carried her out the door. Patrick followed with the little boy, and Galena came after them with the baby. Rhys gave the young mother into the care of the clerics and then forced himself to go back into the shack.

The Sheriff of New Port, a grizzled veteran of the last war, accompanied him. They both stood in the center of the room looking about the place with its gruesome coating of black, greasy ash.

“I’ve never seen the like,” the sheriff said in awe. “What did you use to destroy that monster, Brother? Is that staff of yours magical, or have you got a holy touch ... or what?”

“It wasn’t me,” said Rhys.

He was just now coming to grips with what he’d seen, with what he’d found out, and the knowledge sickened him. He remembered Cam’s words, about how the price they would have to pay to destroy one of the Beloved would be more than they could stomach.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the little boy who lay on the street, twitching spasmodically, while Patrick prayed over him.

“It was the child.”

“What do you mean—it was the kid? You’re saying a kid did this!” The sheriff pointed to a few charred bones mingled with ash. “A kid caused that thing to burst into flames?

“The touch of innocence. The Beloved can be destroyed . . . but only by the hand of a child.”

“Gods save us!” muttered the sheriff. “If what you say is true ... Gods save us.” He squatted down on his haunches to stare at the blackened mess on the floor.

Rhys walked back outside, into the fresh air. The young mother woke with a scream and stared about wildly, fighting Galena when she sought to comfort her. When she realized she was safe and her children were still alive, she clutched her baby to her chest and began to sob uncontrollably.

“How is he?” Rhys asked, squatting down beside Patrick and the little boy.

“His body is healed,” the cleric said softly, stroking the ash-filled hair. “Mishakal did that, but his mind ... He has witnessed such horrors that he may never recover.”

Galena looked at Rhys, her eyes pleading. “I heard what you said to the sheriff, Brother. I can’t believe it. Surely you are mistaken. You think that only children can kill these Beloved. That’s too awful.”

“I know what I saw,” said Rhys. “The moment the child struck him, the Beloved ‘died’.”

“I saw it, too,” said Nightshade.

The kender looked very pale under the black streaks of ash. He stood with one arm around Atta’s neck, his other hand scrubbing at his cheeks.

“The little boy hit Lieu on the leg and—whoosh! Lieu rotted away on the spot and then went up in flames. It was pretty awful.” Nightshade’s voice quivered. “I wish I hadn’t seen it, and I hang around dead people all the time.”

“Innocence destroys, and in turn, innocence is destroyed,” Rhys said.

The sheriff left the shack, wiping his hands on his trousers. “The only way to test this theory is to try it again.”

Galena rounded on him angrily. “How could you even suggest that, sir? Would you put your own child through what this one has gone through tonight?”

“Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” said the sheriff, “but that thing meant to murder this young woman and maybe her children into the bargain. The gods know how many people the Beloved in there has murdered up to this point. Now we’ve found a way to stop it.”

Rhys thought back to Mistress Jenna. She might feel sorrow over forcing a child to slay one of the Beloved, but she would probably not hesitate to do so.

“We can’t keep such vital information to ourselves,” the sheriff was saving. “Patrick here tells me the kender saw ten of these Beloved today alone. Now, granting that the kender is probably exaggerating—”

“I am not!” Nightshade cried indignantly.

“—that’s still at least two or three walking around my city and murdering innocent people like this young woman here. If there’s a way to stop them, I have a right to try, and so do the officers of the law in other cities and towns.”

“I think we are all of us too shaken to make any decision right now,” said Patrick. “Let us meet in the morning, after the horror of this terrible scene has faded, then we can discuss it. In the meanwhile, we will shelter the mother and her children. You are welcome to return with us, as well, Brother Rhys. And you, too, Nightshade.”

“I thank you, but I must leave this night,” Rhys said. “My ship sails—”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Nightshade.

Rhys looked at the kender. He had no idea what he was talking about.

“Your ship doesn’t sail,” Nightshade repeated. “Well, yes, it probably does, but you don’t need to be on it. Lieu is gone, Rhys. You don’t have to chase after him anymore. That’s all over now.”

Nightshade took hold of Rhys’s hand and said quietly, “We can go home. You and me and Atta. We can go home.”

6

Rhys stood in the darkness, staring at Nightshade. He could feel the touch of the kender’s hand. He could hear the kender’s words, and to some part of him the words made sense. Another part kept thinking he had to go to that ship. He had to keep following his brother. He had to stop him from killing anyone else. He had to . . . He had to . ..

“It’s over,” he said. “Lieu is gone.”

Rhys felt no sadness over his brother’s death. His brother had died long ago. This thing had not been Lieu, though he still called it that.

“Yes, Rhys,” said Nightshade. He didn’t like the way his friend looked—sort of lost and dazed—and the kender held onto his friend’s hand tightly.

Rhys stared up the street and down, and he realized, suddenly, this street and all streets were no longer highways to bleak despair. They all led one place. As Nightshade said, they led home. Rhys’s grip on his staff strengthened. He longed to go back home, but he wasn’t ready to be received there. He could not show up on the doorstop in filthy, discolored robes, stained with the blood of innocents and the black ashes of death. He had to discard the world, cleanse his body, cleanse his soul. Naked as a babe, chastened and humbled, he would stand before his god and beg his forgiveness. Then he would go home.

“Thank you, Nightshade,” Rhys said. Bending down, he kissed the kender on the forehead. “You are a true friend.”

Nightshade swiped his hand across his eyes and hid a sniffle in his sleeve.

Gripping his staff tightly, Rhys looked searchingly around the street. A crowd had gathered. The story of what had gone on was being eagerly bandied about, and the tale was growing wilder with each telling. The sheriff ordered people repeatedly to go home, but no one listened, and the crowd grew larger and more unruly. Several young rascals decided they wanted to see the gruesome sight for themselves and tried to rush the dwelling, precipitating a fight with the guardsmen.

The sheriff, envisioning even more crowds once the sun rose, determined that the best way to end this would be to tear down the hovel and leave the curious nothing but a pile of lumber to stare at. He sent men racing off for tools. Some of the guardsmen couldn’t wait, but were already ripping down the shack, using their bare hands. Others were holding the crowd at bay. Patrick and Galena were nowhere to be found.

“I told them to take that poor woman and her children back to the temple,” the sheriff told Rhys. “They’ve been through enough without this.” He glowered around at the people standing in the street, craning their necks and pushing and shoving to get a better view.

“Thanks for your help in this, Brother,” the sheriff added. “Too bad we didn’t get here a little sooner, but what’s done is done and we’re rid of one of these monsters at least.” He turned back to the task at hand.

Rhys was quiet and thoughtful on his way back to the temple. Nightshade was quiet, too, and he glanced at Rhys every so often and then gave a deep sigh. Atta trotted after, looking from one to the other, not understanding.

They entered the temple that smelled strongly of fresh paint. The interior was quiet, after the hubbub of the street.

“How is the young woman?” Rhys asked,

“Galena has taken her to the kitchen and is urging her to eat something. On top of everything else, the poor woman is half-starved. She’ll feel better once she has some nourishment.”

“And the little boy?”

Patrick shook his head. “We will pray to Mishakal and leave the child in the blessed hands of the goddess. What will you do, Brother, now that your dark quest is ended?”

“I have some explaining to do,” Rhys said ruefully, “and many prayers of contrition to make and sins to repent. Can you tell me where to find the Temple of Majere?”

“You mean the one in Solace?” Patrick asked.

“No, Revered Son. The temple here in New Port.”

“There is no temple to Majere in New Port,” Patrick said. “Don’t you recall our conversation yesterday, Brother? There are only two temples to the gods in New Port—our temple and that of Zeboim’s.”

“You must be mistaken, Revered Son,” Rhys said earnestly. “Just this evening, I met a group of Majere’s priests, one of whom was an abbot. He spoke of a temple here . . .”

“You can ask the sheriff if you want, Brother, but as far as I know, the closest temple to Majere is the one in Solace. I have not heard of any priests of Majere hereabouts. If there were, they would have undoubtedly sought us out. You say you met these priests last night?”

“Yes,” Rhys replied. “Our meeting was not particularly cordial. That is what delayed me. The abbot recognized me, knew my name.”

He lapsed into silence, his feeling of peace and ease suddenly draining from him.

Patrick regarded him strangely. “Did you know this abbot?”

“No,” said Rhys. “I had never seen him before. I did not think about it at the time—I was too upset—but now that I look back on our meeting, I find it very odd he would have known me. How could he?”

Nightshade tugged on his sleeve.

“Rhys,” said the kender, and then he stopped.

210

“What is it?” Rhys asked somewhat impatiently.

“It’s just that ... if you hadn’t been late, we would have reached the shack on time to stop Lieu before he could hurt the mother, then the little boy wouldn’t have had to hit the Beloved, and he wouldn’t have gone up in flames.”

Rhys stood in silence, gripping his staff.

“The priests kept you away just long enough, Rhys,” Nightshade persisted. “Just long enough for you to be late, but not long enough for you to be too late. Now Revered Patrick here tells us that there aren’t any priests of Majere for maybe a hundred miles in any direction and . . . well... I can’t help but wondering . . .”

Nightshade quit talking. He didn’t like the way Rhys looked.

“Wondering what?” Rhys asked harshly.

Nightshade didn’t know whether he should go on or not. “I think maybe this should wait until morning.”

“Tell me,” Rhys said.

“Maybe these priests weren’t real,” Nightshade suggested meekly.

“Do you think I am lying about this?” Rhys demanded.

“No, no, no, not that, Rhys.” Nightshade stumbled over his tongue in his haste. “I think you think the priests were real. It’s just—”

He didn’t know how to explain himself, and he looked to Patrick for help.

“He is saying that the priests were real, Brother—as real as Majere made them,” Patrick said.

Rhys stood in the peace of Mishakal’s temple, thinking back on the horrific events of that night. He was suddenly deeply and intensely angry.

“What do the gods want of me?” he cried out.

Patrick looked grave. Atta cringed at his tone, and Nightshade took a step backward.

“They play games with my life,” Rhys continued in a rage, “and with the lives of others. That poor child and his mother. Was it necessary to make them suffer like that? They will be cursed with the terrible memory of this night for the rest of their lives. If Majere wanted me to know how to destroy these Beloved, why didn’t he just come to me himself and tell me? Why does Zeboim bring Mina to me and then snatch her away?”

“Brother Rhys,” said Patrick, resting his hand on the monk’s arm. “The ways of the gods are not for mortals to understand. . . .”

Rhys looked at him coldly. “Spare me the sermon, Revered Son. I’ve heard it all before.”

He turned so suddenly he stepped on Atta, who yelped in pain. She gave her hurt paw a quick lick and then ran forgivingly after her master. Nightshade hesitated. He flashed Patrick an agonized glance.

“I think he’s really mad at me,” said the kender.

“No,” said Patrick. “He’s mad at the heavens. It happens to all of us at one time or another.” He gave a wan smile. “I have to admit I’m not overly pleased with the gods myself at this moment, but they understand. Go after him. He needs a friend.”

Rhys must have been walking very fast, for Nightshade saw no sign of him or Atta in the street. He called out Rhys’s name, but there was no answer. The kender called out Atta’s name, and he heard her bark.

Following the sound, he found Rhys’s staff lying on the pavement. Rhys was dragging the aqua-green robes over his head.

“Rhys,” said Nightshade, frightened. “What are you doing?”

“I quit,” Rhys said.

He flung the robes in a heap by the staff and walked off, clad only in his breeches and boots, his chest and shoulders bare. He looked back over his shoulder to see Nightshade standing rooted to the spot and Atta nosing the robes.

“You coming or not?” Rhys asked coldly.

“Uh, sure, Rhys,” said Nightshade.

“Atta!” Rhys called.

The dog looked at him and then lowered her head to pick up the staff.

“Leave it!” Rhys ordered savagely.

Atta jumped back. Startled by his tone, she stared at him.

“Atta, come!”

She assumed she was at fault, though she had no idea what she’d done wrong. Head down and tail drooping, the dog slunk toward him. Rhys waited for her, but he did not apologize for his bad temper, either to her or to the kender. He stalked off down the street.

Rhys had no idea where he was going. He needed to walk off his fury and let the sea breeze cool his fevered skin. He heard Nightshade panting behind him and Atta’s nails clicking on the pavement, so he knew they were following him. He didn’t look back. He just kept walking.

“Rhys,” said Nightshade after a few moments, “I don’t think you can quit a god.”

Rhys heard the kender’s voice and the dog’s barking, but it was muffled and disembodied, as if wrapped in a thick fog.

“Rhys,” Nightshade persisted.

“Please, just ... be quiet!” Rhys said through clenched teeth. “Keep Atta quiet, too.”

“All right, but before we’re both quiet I think you might want to know that someone’s following us.”

Rhys halted. He had broken the first rule of the Master. He had given in to his emotions. He had allowed rage to overcome him, completely forgetting in his blind fury that he and the kender were alone in the middle of a dark night in the very worst part of the city. He started to turn around to confront the threat behind and realized there was also a threat in front.

A large minotaur stepped out from an alley.

Rhys had never seen one of these man-beasts before and he was taken aback by the sheer size and brute strength of the beast. Rhys was tall for a human male, yet he came only to the minotaur’s chest. Clad in a leather vest and loose-fitting pants, the minotaur was a daunting sight. His feet were bare and covered with fur. A golden ring encircled the top of one of his sharp horns, and gold glinted in one ear. Dark eyes, set close together above a fur-covered snout, gazed coolly down on Rhys.

“Those are my lads coming up behind you,” the minotaur remarked. He glared down at Atta, who was in a frenzy of barking. The minotaur laid a gigantic hand on the hilt of a huge dagger he wore in a broad sash at his waist. “Silence the mutt or I’ll silence her for you.”

“Atta, quiet,” Rhys said. Atta’s barks subsided to growls interspersed with pants. He could feel her body quivering against his leg.

“We have no money,” Rhys said as calmly as he could. “It would be useless to rob us.”

“Money?” The minotaur snorted and then laughed so that the gold on his horn Hashed red in the light of several flaring torches now surrounding Rhys and Nightshade. “We’re not after money. We got money!”

The beast thrust his muzzle into Rhys’s face. “What we need are hands and legs and strong backs.”

He straightened and gestured. “Take him, mates.”

“Aye, Capt’n,” called out several guttural voices.

Two burly minotaurs approached Rhys, who realized now what kind of trouble had found them. They’d run afoul of a press gang, minotaur pirates, seeking slaves for their ships.

7

“This un’s a kender, Capt’n,” stated one of the minotaurs in disgust. He held his torch so close to Nightshade’s head that the smell of singed hair wafted on the air. “You want him, too?”

“Sure, I like kender,” said the captain with a chortle. “Baked, with an apple in his mouth. And grab the dog. I like dogs, too.”

“I would not grab me, if I were you!” Nightshade said in his deepest voice, which sounded rather like he was suffering from a cold in the head. He held up his left hand and pointed his finger at the minotaur. “Any who dare touch me will find himself feeble as a newborn babe. Er, make that calf.”

All the minotaurs laughed uproariously at this. One of them started toward Nightshade.

“Whoa, I’d be careful if I were you, Tosh,” said the captain, winking. “They’re ferocious, these kender. Why, he might step on your little toe!”

The minotaurs grinned at their captain’s humor. One offered to write to Tosh’s widow if he didn’t come back alive, and that drew more laughter. Rhys had no idea what Nightshade was up to, but he had confidence in his friend. He quietly watched and waited.

216

“I warned you,” said Nightshade, and he began to waggle his finger at Tosh who was closing on him. Then the kender started to sing a little song, “ ‘By the bones of Krynn beneath my feet, I smite you on the beak and leave you weak.’ ”

The minotaurs roared. Their mirth increased when Tosh suddenly collapsed and went down heavily on his knees.

“C’mon, Tosh,” said the captain, when he could talk for laughing. “Quit your fooling now and get up.”

“I can’t, Capt’n!” Tosh howled. “He’s done somethin’ to me. I can’t stand up nor walk nor nothin’.”

The captain ceased his laughter. He stared at his man, as did the other minotaurs in silence. None of them said a word and then, suddenly, they all started laughing harder than before. The captain doubled over and wiped his streaming eyes.

Tosh howled again, this time in rage.

The captain straightened and, still chuckling, reached out his huge hand to seize the kender. Rhys leaped into the air, lashed out with his foot, and struck the minotaur in the midriff.

The blow would have crippled a human, knocked the breath from his body, sent him flying backward. The minotaur captain gasped, coughed once, and looked down at his gut in astonishment. He lifted his horned head to glare at Rhys.

“You hit me with your foot!” The captain was indignant. “That’s no way for a man to fight! It’s. . . not honorable.”

He clenched fists that were the size of war hammers.

Rhys’s foot ached. His leg tingled as though he’d kicked a stone wall. Hearing the other minotaur come up behind him, he tried to stand balanced, ready to fight. Atta crouched on her belly, growling and baring her teeth. Nightshade stood his ground, his spellcasting finger shifting threateningly from one minotaur to the next.

The captain eyed the three of them, and suddenly he relaxed his fists. With the flat of his hand, he clouted Rhys a blow on the shoulder that sent him staggering.

“You’re not afraid of me. That is good. I like you, human. I like the kender, too. A kender with horns, by Sargas! Look at old Tosh there, flopping about like a fish on a hook!”

Reaching down with his enormous hand, the captain grabbed hold of Nightshade’s collar, plucked the kender off his feet, and held him, kicking and flailing, high in the air.

“Bag him, lads.”

One of the minotaurs produced a gunny sack. The captain dropped Nightshade into the sack, then reached down and grabbed hold of Atta by the scruff of her neck and flung her inside the bag along with the kender. Nightshade gave a cry that was extinguished by the sack closing over his head. The minotaur pulled the drawstring, hefted the sack, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Take them to the ship,” the captain ordered.

“Aye, sir. What about Tosh?” the minotaur asked, as they were about to dash off.

Tosh was rolling about helplessly on the pavement, looking up at them with pleading eyes.

“Leave him for the city guard,” the captain growled. “Serves the lubber right. Maybe I’ll make the kender First Mate in his place.”

“No, Capt’n, please!” Tosh groaned and struggled and succeeded only in making himself look even more pathetic.

“The rest of you get back to the ship afore the guard finds us. Leave me one of those torches.”

The other minotaur ran off, carrying Nightshade and Atta with them. The captain turned to Rhys.

“What about you, human?” the minotaur asked, amusement glinting in his black eyes. “Are you going to kick me again?”

“I will come with you,” Rhys said, “if you promise not to hurt my friend or the dog.”

“Oh, you’ll come with me, all right.”

The captain laid a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. Huge fingers bit deeply and painfully into Rhys’s shoulder muscles, nearly paralyzing his arm. The captain propelled Rhys along, giving him a shove and another pinch when it seemed Rhys might be slowing down.

The captain glanced up ahead, to make certain his men were out of earshot, then said softly, “Could you teach me to fight like that? With my feet?” He massaged his belly and grimaced. “It is not honorable, but it would certainly take an opponent by surprise. I can still feel that blow, human.”

Rhys tried to envision himself teaching the art of merciful discipline to a minotaur and gave up. The captain kept his grip tight on Rhys’s arm and steered him along.

A short distance down the street, they came to the place where Rhys had flung away his staff and divested himself of his robes.

The captain saw Rhys’s gaze go the staff and halted.

“I saw you toss that away. Why would you do that?” The practical minotaur shook his head. “The staff looks good and solid. The robe is serviceable and it is the color of our sea goddess’s eyes.”

He picked up the robes and smoothed them reverently, then tossed them at Rhys. “Nights at sea grow cold. You’ll need clothes for warmth. Do you want your staff?”

From what Rhys had heard, slaves on board a minotaur ship measured their lifespan by days. If he had been carrying the blessed staff, he, Nightshade, and Atta might not now be in such dire peril. He looked at the staff, remorse filling his heart. To take it now would be wrong, like a small child who kicks his father in the shins, then runs sniveling back to his parent the moment he is in trouble.

Rhys shook his head.

“I’ll take it then,” said the captain. “I need something to pick my teeth.”

Chuckling at his own jest, the captain reached down to pick up the staff. Rhys thrust his arms into the sleeves and was pulling the robes over his head when he heard a roar. He looked up to see the captain sucking his fingers and glaring at the staff.

Roses sprouted from the wood. Thorns as long as a man’s thumb glistened in the torchlight.

“You pick it up,” the captain ordered. He clamped his teeth over a thorn stuck in his palm, yanked it out, and spat it onto the street.

Rhys could barely see the staff for the tears in his eyes. He clasped his hand around it, expecting the thorns to prick his flesh, too, for he deserved the punishment far more than the minotaur. The wood was smooth to the touch. The staff did not harm him The captain gave the staff a wary glance. “I see now why you threw it away. The thing is god-cursed. Put it down. Leave it for some other fool to find.”

“The curse is mine,” said Rhys quietly. “I must bear it.”

“Not aboard my ship,” the captain snarled. He spat out another thorn. His eyes began to gleam. “Or maybe we should see how you handle that staff in a fight. We’re alone now. Just the two of us. If you beat me, I’ll give you your freedom.” The minotaur reached for the hilt of the enormous sword he wore thrust into a sash around his broad waist. “Come, monk. Let’s see how you handle the god-cursed staff!”

“You hold my friend and my dog hostage,” Rhys pointed out. “I gave you my word I would come with you, and I will.”

The captain’s snout twitched. He rubbed it, eyed Rhys. “So your word means something, does it, monk?”

“It does,” Rhys replied.

“What god put the curse on you?”

“Majere.”

“Humpf. A stern god, that one. Not a god to cross. What did you do to anger him?”

“I betrayed someone who had put his faith and trust in me,” Rhys answered steadly. “Someone who was good to me.”

Minotaurs have a reputation for being savage and brutal killers. Their god, Sargonnas, was a cruel god, intent on conquest. The minotaur race knew something of honor, however, or so Rhys had heard.

The captain again rubbed his muzzle. “You deserve the curse, then.”

“Yes,” said Rhys. “The staff is my constant reminder.”

“It will not harm me or my crew?”

“Not unless you try to touch it.”

“No one will do that,” said the captain, giving the staff a baleful glance. He yanked out another thorn, then, raising his head, he sniffed the air. “The tide is shifting.” He nodded in satisfaction and spat out the thorn. “Make haste, monk.”

Rhys fell into step beside the minotaur. He had to take two strides to every one of the beast-man’s to keep up.

The minotaur’s ship was anchored far out at sea, a long distance from the docks. A boat manned by stout minotaur crewmen was on hand to ferry them to the ship. Another boat, bearing Nightshade and Atta, had already set off and was crawling across the water.

Rhys sat across from the captain, who was handling the tiller. The boat jounced over the waves. Rhys watched the shoreline with its sparkling lights slip away from him. He did not curse his fate. He had brought this on himself. He hoped, somehow, to be able to bargain for the kender’s life and for Atta’s. It was not right they should suffer because of him.

The minotaur ship, silhouetted against the starlit sea, was a lovely thing to look at. Three-masted, it boasted a prow carved in the shape of a dragon’s head. Its single bank of oars were drawn up out of the water. He watched the minotaur crew rowing the shore boat and saw the muscles ripple across their broad backs. Slaves aboard a minotaur ship manned the oars, and Rhys wondered how long he would be able to keep going in their place, chained to the bench, plying the oars in time to the rhythmic beat of the drum.

Rhys was strong, or he had been strong, before this heartbreaking journey had taken its toll. Poor food, lack of food, tramping the road, and sitting in taverns had taken its toll on both body and spirit.

As if to prove him right, weariness overcame him. His head dropped to his chest, and the next thing he knew he was being pummeled to wakefulness by one of the crew, who was pointing to a rope ladder hanging from the side of the vessel.

The small boat bobbed up and down and back and forth. The ladder was also bobbing, only neither the ladder nor the boat were doing it together. At times, they were close, and at other times an enormous chasm opened between the boat and the ship—a chasm filled with inky black seawater.

The captain had already gone aboard, ascending the rope ladder with ease. The minotaur crewmen were glaring at Rhys and pointing emphatically at the ladder. One of the minotaurs indicated with hand gestures that if Rhys didn’t jump on his own, the minotaur would heave him.

Rhys lifted the staff. “I cannot jump with the staff,” he said, hoping his gesture would be understood if his words were not.

The minotaur shrugged his shoulders and made a throwing motion. Rhys had the feeling the minotaur meant he should toss the staff into the sea. He considered it likely that was probably where they would both end up. He eyed the ship’s rail, which seemed far, far above him, then, hefting the staff like a spear, he aimed and threw.

The staff sailed in a graceful arc up over the ship’s rail and landed on the deck. Now it was Rhys’s turn.

He stood on the bench, trying to time his leap with the wildly plunging boat. The rope ladder swung near him. Rhys lunged at it in desperation. He snagged it with one hand, missed with the other, and scrabbled for purchase. He very nearly lost his grip and plunged into the sea, but the minotaur boosted him from below and Rhys was able to clamber up the ladder. Two more minotaurs grabbed him as he reached the rail and hauled him over the side and dumped him on the deck.

All seemed confusion on board, with the captain bellowing orders and sailors running every which way in response, racing across the deck and climbing into the rigging. Canvas sails unfurled, and the anchor was cranked aboard. Rhys was in everyone’s way, and he was bumped, shoved, trampled, and cursed. Finally a minotaur, on orders from the captain, picked Rhys up bodily and hauled him over to where crates containing cargo were being lashed to the deck.

The minotaur grunted something Rhys did not understand. He gathered from the jabbing finger that he was to stay here, out of the way.

Holding fast to the staff, Rhys watched the organized frenzy in a kind of daze until a familiar voice roused him.

“There you are! I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“Nightshade?” he called, looking around and not seeing him.

“Down here,” said the kender.

Rhys looked down, and there was the kender locked inside a crate. Atta, woebegone, was inside another crate. Rhys squatted down, squeezed his hand through the slats, and managed to stroke the dog on the nose.

“I’m sorry, Nightshade,” he said ruefully. “I’ll try to get us out of this.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” said Nightshade morosely, peering out at Rhys from behind the slats.

The kender and Atta had been put with the rest of the livestock. A crate containing a slumbering hog was stacked next to his.

“There’s something fishy about this, Rhys, and I don’t mean the smell. Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Yes,” Rhys said grimly. “But then, I know so little about minotaurs . . .”

“I don’t mean that. For one thing,” Nightshade explained, “do you see any other prisoners? What sort of press gang goes out and only brings back two people, one of whom is a kender—though I am a kender with horns,” he added with considerable pride.

“For another, the sight of a minotaur pirate ship anchored off a city like New Port should have the people up in arms. There ought to be bells ringing the alarm, and women screaming, and soldiers soldiering, and catapults flinging stones. Instead, the minotaurs were walking the streets as if they were at home.”

“You’re right,” Rhys said, thoughtful.

“It’s as if,” Nightshade said in a hushed tone, “no one ever saw them. Except us.”

He sat back on his heels in the crate and gazed at Rhys.

The ship was underway now, sailing over the ocean in a stiffening breeze. Catching the wind, the ship sliced through the water. Black waves curled back from the sides. Foam spattered Rhys’s face.

With the strong wind to propel them, the oars were pulled inside. The drums were silent.

The ship’s speed increased. Sails bellied out, the strain drawing them taut. The wind blew harder and harder. Rhys was nearly blown off his feet, and he clung to the rail to keep himself upright. The deck heaved, nearly plunging into the waves at one point, rising up over the tops the next. Salt water washed over the deck.

Certain they were bound to sink, Rhys looked back at the minotaurs, to see how they were reacting to this fearful journey.

The captain stood at the helm, his chest puffed out like the sails. He faced into the teeth of the wind, sucking it gratefully into his lungs. The crewmen, like Rhys, were in good spirits, drinking in the wild wind.

An enormous wave reared up beneath them. The ship slid up the surface of the wave, rising higher and higher and it kept going, taking flight.

The wave broke with a thunderous crash, far below the ship’s keel. The minotaur vessel left the sea to sail the waves of night.

Atta howled in terror. Nightshade beat on the slats of the crate.

“Rhys! What’s happening? I can’t see! No, wait! If it’s horrible, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Nightshade waited. Rhys remained silent.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it,” the kender said miserably, and he slumped over in his crate.

Rhys gripped the railing. The wind whipped around him. The ocean dropped away. The sea boiled and frothed far beneath the ship. Wisps of clouds fluttered like tattered sails from the mast.

“I told you so, Rhys,” Nightshade shouted. “You can’t quit a god!”

Rhys slid his hand over the staff. He knew every knothole and whorl, every imperfection. He could feel the grain of the wood, the stripes that marked the lifespan of the tree and told the story of its growth—the summers that were hot and dry, the gentle rains of spring, fall’s glorious and defiant colors, and the silent, waiting winter. He could feel, within the staff, the breath of the god, and not just because this staff had been blessed by the god. The breath of the god was present in all living things.

The breath of god was hope.

Rhys had lost hope, or rather, he’d thrown hope away. It kept coming back to him, though. Stubborn, persistent.

He stood braced on the lurching deck, the wind of a dark and evil night lashing him, the ghostly ship bearing him to some unknown destination. He rested his head on his staff and closed his eyes and looked within.

The kender was wise, as kender often are to those with the wisdom to understand.

You can’t quit a god.