“Rhys! Is it safe to come in?” the kender yelled from outside the grotto. “Is Zeboim gone?”
“She is gone.” For the time being, Rhys added mentally, certain this was not the last they would see of her.
Nightshade entered cautiously, staring hard into the shadows as though certain she would jump out at him. Then he saw the fire and he snapped his fingers.
“Oops, I knew I forgot something. I was supposed to go fetch tinder—”
“No need now,” said Rhys, smiling.
“Yeah, I can see that. I guess I forgot about the tinder because I was so excited about finding something else. I didn’t want to bring it in if you-know-who was still here. But since she’s gone, I’ll go get it.”
He darted out of the grotto and returned carrying a long, slender piece of driftwood. He held it out proudly.
“I found it washed up on shore. Doesn’t it remind you of your old staff? The emetic or whatever it was you called it? Anyway, Atta and I thought you might be able to use it.”
“Emmide,” said Rhys softly. He took hold of the staff, clasped his fingers around it. A pleasant warmth stole into his arm and spread throughout his body. And it was in this warmth that he heard the god’s voice, knew Majere’s answer.
Rhys rested the staff against the wall and spread the girl’s wet smock near the fire to dry. She slept deeply, her breathing even and quiet. He sank down onto the floor and leaned back against the wall. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept.
“I heard Zeboim yelling at you. What did she want?” Nightshade asked.
“You and Atta were right. This little girl is Mina,” said Rhys. He closed his eyes.
“Whoo boy!” breathed Nightshade.
He removed his pouches, then took off his boots and emptied out the water and arranged them close to the blaze to dry off.
“My boots still smell of salt pork,” he said. “Which reminds me. It’s been a long time since dinner. I wonder if there’s any of that pork left.”
He went over to the barrel of salt pork the minotaur had left them for food and peered inside. Atta watched him hopefully. He shook his head, and the dog’s ears drooped.
“Oh, well. I guess we can wait until lunch, can’t we, girl?” Nightshade said, giving her a pat. “Say, Rhys, did Zeboim tell you how Mina turned into a little kid? I’ve heard of people aging ten years overnight, but never the other way around. Did the goddess have something to do with that? Did she? Rhys?”
The kender poked him. “Rhys, are you asleep?”
“What?” Rhys woke with a start.
“Sorry,” said Nightshade remorsefully. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“That’s all right. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. What was your question?” Rhys asked patiently.
“I was asking if Zeboim did this. She seems fond of shrinking people.” The kender was still bitter over the time the goddess had reduced him to the size of a khas piece and stuffed him inside Rhys’ pouch, then sent them both off to fight a death knight.
Rhys shook his head. “The Sea Goddess was shocked to see Mina as a child.”
“So what did she say happened?”
“According to Zeboim, Mina is a god who doesn’t know she’s a god. A god who was tricked by Takhisis into thinking she was human. Mina is a god of light, duped into serving Darkness.”
Nightshade regarded Rhys with narrowed eyes. “Did you hit your head again?”
“I’m fine,” Rhys assured him.
“Mina a god.” Nightshade snorted. “If you ask me, it’s all a bunch of hooey. Zeboim did this. She turned Mina into a little kid and sent her to us just to annoy us.”
“I don’t think so,” Rhys said quietly. “Mina woke up while you were gone. She told me she had run away from home and she asked me to take her back.”
Nightshade found this news cheering. “See there? Where does the kid want to go? Flotsam? It’s not far, just up the coast. She probably got swept out to sea—”
“Godshome,” said Rhys.
Nightshade’s brow wrinkled. “Godshome? That’s not a place. No one lives in Godshome except the—”
He gulped, and his eyes got round, and he gave a low whistle that made Atta’s ear twitch.
“I don’t think Zeboim told her to say that,” Rhys added with a sigh.
Nightshade looked at Mina and chewed his lower lip. Suddenly, he brightened.
“I’ll bet you heard her wrong. I’ll bet she said ‘Goat’s Home’.”
“Goat’s Home?” Rhys repeated, smiling. “I have never heard of such a place, my friend.”
“You don’t know everything,” Nightshade stated, “even if you are a monk. There are lots and lots of places you’ve never heard of.”
“I have heard of Godshome,” Rhys said.
“Stop saying that!” Nightshade ordered. “You know we’re not going there. It’s not possible.”
“Why?” Rhys yawned again.
“Well, for one reason because nobody knows where Godshome is, or even if Godshome is. And for two reasons, if Godshome is anywhere, it’s close to Neraka, and that’s a bad place, a very bad place. And for three reasons, if Godshome is close to Neraka, that means it’s far from here—clear on the other side of the continent—and it would take us months, maybe years, to travel…”
Nightshade stopped. “Rhys? Rhys! Are you listening to my reasons?”
Rhys wasn’t. He sat with his back against the wall, his head slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest. He was asleep, fast asleep, so deeply asleep that the kender’s voice and even a couple of pokes on the arm could not wake him.
Nightshade sighed and then he stood up and walked over to the little girl and squatted down to stare at her closely. She certainly didn’t look like a god. She looked like a drowned rat. He felt again the overwhelming sadness that he had felt when he’d seen Mina, the grown-up Mina. He didn’t like that, and so he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve and then glanced back surreptitiously at Rhys.
His friend was still asleep and would probably sleep for a good long time. Long enough for Nightshade to have a talk with this kid—whoever she was—and tell her that where she really wanted to go was the thriving metropolis of Goat’s Home and that she should travel there on her own, and she should leave now very quietly so as not to disturb Rhys.
“Hey, kid,” Nightshade whispered loudly, and he reached out his hand to shake her awake.
His hand hung, poised, in midair. His fingers started to tremble a little at the thought of actually touching her, and he snatched his hand back. He continued to squat there, gazing at Mina and chewing on his lip.
What did he see when he looked at her? What made her different in his sight from other mortals? What made her different from the dead he could see and talk to? What made her different from the undead? Nightshade looked intently at the child, and tears again flooded his eyes. He saw beauty, unimaginable beauty. Beauty that shamed the most radiant, glorious sunrise and made the glittering stars seem pale and plain in comparison. Her beauty made his very soul stand still in awe, for fear the slightest whisper might cause the wondrous sight to slip away from him. But it wasn’t her beauty that wrenched his heart and caused the tears to roll down his cheeks.
Her beauty was clothed in ugliness. She was smeared with blood, cloaked in the shroud of death and destruction. Evil, dread and horrible, was a pall over her.
“She is a god,” he said under his breath. “A god of light who’s done really horrible things. I’ve known it all along. I just didn’t know I knew it. That’s what made me feel all weepy inside.”
Nightshade didn’t think he could explain this to Rhys, because he wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself. He decided to talk it all over with Atta. He’d found that telling things to a dog was a lot easier than telling things to humans, mainly because Atta never asked questions.