Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [121]
The scene was peaceful, but he was not. His spirit was troubled, plagued by doubt and inner turmoil. No longer was he free to walk out among the stars at night. He would go every evening to visit the mass grave and he would feel, as he gazed down at the new grass starting to cover it, that he had failed his brethren, failed his family, failed mankind. Rhys looked at what might have been and the image faded away. If he should die in this dread place—as seemed most likely—his spirit would go forth on the next stage of the journey content in the knowledge that he had done right, though it had turned out all wrong.
A gaudy sunset washed the sky with reds and golds and purples, splashing the gray walls of Storm’s Keep with lurid color. Rhys’s first incongruous thought was that the fortress was ill-named. No storms raged on Storm’s Keep. The sky was empty, save for a single, solitary wisp of white cloud that ran away swiftly, afraid of being caught. No breeze stirred on land or water. The sea sloshed sullenly against the cliffs. Wavelets slobbered at the bottoms of the jagged rocks, fawning, caressing them.
Rhys studied his surroundings, looking them over long and intently—the formidable towers jutting up into the garish sky, the parade ground on which he stood, the various outbuildings scattered amid the rocks. And beyond and all around him, the sea, avidly watching his every move.
His every move. His and his alone. The kender was nowhere in sight. Rhys sighed and shook his head. He’d tried to explain to Zeboim that the presence of the kender was essential to his plan. He had thought he’d convinced her—of that, at least, if nothing else. Perhaps the kender had tumbled out of the ethers onto a different part of the isle. Perhaps …
“Nightshade?” Rhys called softly.
A outraged squeal answered. The squeal came from the leather scrip that hung on Rhys’s belt, and after a moment’s startled amazement, he breathed easier. Zeboim had acted on his plan with her usual impetuosity, just not bothering to tell him she’d done so.
“Rhys!” Nightshade wailed, his voice muffled by the scrip in which he was ensconced, “what happened? Where am I? It’s pitch dark in here and it stinks of goat cheese!”
“Keep quiet, my friend,” Rhys ordered and he placed his hand reassuringly over the scrip.
The scrip obediently fell silent, though he could feel it quivering against his thigh. He gave the kender a soothing pat.
“You’re inside my scrip. The scrip and I are on Storm’s Keep.”
The scrip gave a lurch.
“Nightshade,” said Rhys, “you must keep perfectly still. Our lives depend on it.”
“Sorry, Rhys,” squeaked the kender. “I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. This was all so sudden!” He shrieked the last word.
“I know,” Rhys said, striving to keep his tone calm. “I didn’t expect to make this journey, either. But we’re here now, and we have to carry on with our plan as we discussed it. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Rhys. I lost control there for a moment. It’s kind of a shock, you know, finding yourself three inches tall and stuck in a sack that smells of goat cheese and then discovering you’ve dropped in on a death knight.” Nightshade sounded bitter.
“I understand,” said Rhys, glad that the kender could not see his smile.
“I’m over all that now, though,” Nightshade added after a pause to catch his breath. “You can count on me.”
“Good.” Rhys glanced about again. “I have no idea where we are or where we are supposed to go. Zeboim sent us off before I could ask her.”
The towers of a massive fortress rose from the cliffs. The buildings all appeared to have been carved from the island as a sculptor carves his work from the marble block, leaving the base rough-hewn, the top smooth and shaped and crafted. Rhys had the eerie sensation that he was standing on the very topmost point of a jagged