Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [36]
Rhys could not speak. He could not see for his tears. He sank to his knees and, laying his staff carefully at his side, he clasped his hands in a prayer.
“Mister Monk, come with me—” Mina began.
“I don’t think he can hear you,” Nightshade said.
Mina gave a small sigh. “I know how he feels. I felt the same way when I came here—as though all the gods were gathered around me, looking down at me. And I was so very small and all alone.”
She paused, then glanced trepidatiously back at the alcoves. “But I still have to get my present for Goldmoon and I don’t want to go alone.” She turned to the kender. “You come with me.”
Nightshade cast a longing glance at the altars, at the vast assortment of the strange and beautiful, horrible and wonderful.
“I better not,” he said at last, regretfully. “I’m a mystic, you see, and it wouldn’t be right.”
“What’s a mystic?” Mina asked.
“It’s a … well …” Nightshade was confounded. He had never been called upon to define himself before. “It means I don’t believe in the gods. That is, I do believe in gods—I have to, I met Majere once,” he added with pride. “Majere even helped me pick a lock, though Rhys said that a god picking a lock was a one-time occurrence and I shouldn’t expect him to do it again. Being a mystic means I don’t pray to the gods like Rhys does. Like he’s doing right now. Well, I guess I did pray to Majere, but that prayer wasn’t for me. It was for Rhys, who couldn’t pray because he was almost dead.”
Mina looked confused, and Nightshade decided to cut his explanation short.
“Being a mystic means I like to go my own way without bothering anyone.”
“Fine,” said Mina. “You can go your own way with me. I don’t want to go back there by myself. It’s dark and spooky. And there might be spiders.”
Nightshade shook his head.
“Please!” Mina begged.
Nightshade had to admit he was tempted. If only she hadn’t mentioned spiders …
“Dare you!” Mina taunted.
Nightshade wavered.
“Double dog dare you!” Mina said.
That did it. Nightshade’s honor was at stake. No kender in the long and glorious history of kender had ever refused a double-dog dare.
“Race you!” he cried, and darted away.
Caele had never actually seen the Hall of Sacrilege, but he had been able to visualize it for his spell. The dragon, Midori, had once described it to him. Caele had not paid much attention to her description at the time; the dragon had rambled on about it simply to torment him. Midori knew he was terrified of her and she found it entertaining to keep him within snacking distance.
Caele had been sick with fear the day the dragon had spent a horrible half-hour rambling on about the sand castle and how clever Nuitari had been in building it to house the holy artifacts and how it was too bad he—Caele—would never live to see it. Caele remembered almost nothing from that conversation, but he did manage to dredge up the words “sand castle” from his memory and, with that image in his mind, his magic carried him to this location.
He materialized in the doorway and immediately froze, not daring to move until he’d assessed the situation. The monk was on his knees, blubbering. The dog crouched at his side. The kender and the brat were off looting an altar. No sign of Basalt.
Caele had been planning to kill the monk immediately, but the deadly spell he was going to cast slipped from his mind as his stunned gaze went from one altar to another. He had never imagined in his greediest dreams the unfathomable wealth. And it was just lying here, unguarded, simply begging to be taken off and sold to the highest bidder. Caele was so moved he could have blubbered like the monk.
He snapped back to business. First he had to get rid of the competition. Caele knew any number of spells which would kill people in a variety of unpleasant ways. He was reaching for the magical lodestone that would cause the monk to disintegrate into oozing globs of flesh when he caught