Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [44]
“Mina!” cried the Beloved, reaching out to her. “Mina.”
She shook her head and kept her face hidden. Rhys placed his foot on the last stair. He raised himself slowly. Ascending the last stair, he stood on the landing beneath the archway.
The Beloved blocked his way.
Nightshade closed his eyes and hung onto Rhys’s robes with one hand and the emmide with the other.
“We’re dead,” said Nightshade. “I can’t look. We’re dead. I can’t look.”
Rhys, holding Mina in his arms, took a step forward into the throng of Beloved.
The Beloved hesitated, then, their eyes fixed on Mina, they fell back to let him pass. Rhys heard them move in behind him. He continued to walk at a slow and even pace, and they passed beneath the archway and into the main hall. He halted, overwhelmed with dismay. Nightshade made a choking sound.
The Beloved had invaded the tower. The spiral staircase continued upward to the very top of the tower and the Beloved stood on every stair. The Beloved massed in the hallway, their bodies pressed against each other, jostling and shoving, as each tried to glimpse Mina. And more Beloved were pushing their way through the entrance, shoving their way inside.
“There are thousands!” Nightshade gulped. “Every Beloved in Ansalon must be here.”
Rhys had no idea what to do. The Beloved could kill them even without meaning to. If they surged forward to seize Mina, the press of bodies would crush them.
“Mina,” said Rhys, “I have to set you down.”
“No!” she whimpered, clinging to him.
“I have to,” he repeated firmly and he lowered her to the floor.
Nightshade handed Rhys the emmide. Rhys took it and held it out horizontally in front of them.
“Mina, get behind me. Nightshade, take hold of Atta.”
Nightshade caught the dog by the scruff of her neck and hauled her close. Atta snarled and snapped whenever the Beloved drew too near, leaving her tooth marks in more than one, but they paid no heed. Mina pressed against Rhys, clinging to his robes. Rhys stood in front of them, holding his staff in both hands, keeping the Beloved at bay. He started walking toward the double doors.
The Beloved surged around him, vying with each other to try to touch Mina. Her name resounded through the tower. Some whispered “Mina,” as though the name was too holy to say aloud. Others repeated “Mina” over and over frantically, obsessively. Others wailed her name in pleading tones. Whether they whispered her name or spoke it, the voices seemed laden with sorrow, lamenting their fate.
“Mina, Mina, Mina.” Her name was a mournful wind sighing in the darkness.
“Make them stop!” Mina cried, her hands covering her ears. “Why do they call my name? I don’t know them! Why are they doing this to me?”
The Beloved moaned and surged toward her. Rhys struck at them with his staff, but it was like trying to beat back the endless waves. The mournful lamenting had taken on a different tone. It was now tinged with anger. The eyes of the Beloved had at last turned to him. He heard the scrape of steel.
Atta yelped in pain. Nightshade struggled against the massing bodies and pulled the dog out from under trampling feet and hauled her up in his arms. Atta’s eyes were wide with terror, her mouth open, panting. Her paws scrabbled against his chest, trying to keep hold.
The air was fetid, stank of decay. Rhys’s strength was flagging. He could not hold the Beloved back much longer and once he dropped the staff, he would be overwhelmed.
Light flared off a knife blade. Rhys struck at the blade with the end of the staff and managed to deflect the killing stroke, though the knife raked over Nightshade’s arm, slicing a deep cut. Nightshade cried out and dropped Atta, who crouched, quivering at his feet.
Mina stared at the blood, and her face went ashen. “I don’t want to be here,” she said in a trembling voice. “I don’t want this to be happening … I don’t know them … We’ll go away, far away …”
“Yes!” cried Nightshade, clasping his hand over his bleeding arm.
“No,” said Rhys.
Nightshade