Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [5]
The wind ceased to blow so suddenly that Rhys, pushing against it, overbalanced and pitched forward onto the wet sand. He looked about in wonder. The lightning had flickered and gone out. The thunder had fallen silent. The storm clouds had vanished, as though sucked in by a giant breath. The red light of dawn glimmered on the horizon. In the dark sky above him, the two moons, Lunitari and Solinari, still kept watch.
He didn’t like this sudden calm. It was like being in the eye of the hurricane. Though this storm had abated and blue sky could be seen above, it was as if the gods were waiting for the back end of the storm to slam into him.
Recovering from his fall, Rhys ran along the wet shore toward the child, who lay unmoving in the surf.
He rolled her over onto her back. Her eyes were closed. She was not breathing. Rhys remembered with vivid clarity the time he’d nearly drowned after jumping off the cliffs of Storm’s Keep. Zeboim had saved him then, and he used her technique now to try to save the child. He pumped the little girl’s arms, all the while praying to Majere. The child gave a cough and a gasp. Spewing sea water out of her mouth, she sat up, still coughing.
Rhys pounded her on the back. More sea water came up. The girl caught her breath.
“Thanks, mister,” she gasped, then she fainted.
“Rhys!” Nightshade was yelling, running across the sand, with Atta racing ahead of him. “Did you save her? Is she dead? I hope not. Wasn’t that funny the way the storm stopped—”
Nightshade came dashing up to Rhys’s side, just as the sun cleared the horizon and shone full on the little girl’s face. The kender gave a strangled gasp and skidded to a halt. He stood, staring.
“Rhys, do you know who—” he began.
“No time for talking, Nightshade!” Rhys said sharply.
The girl’s lips were blue. Her breathing was ragged. She was wearing nothing except a plain cotton shift, no shoes or stockings. Rhys had to find some means to warm her or she would die of exposure. He rose to his feet, the limp child in his arms.
“I’ll take her back to the cave. I need to build a fire to warm her. You might find some dry wood behind the dunes—”
“But, Rhys, listen—”
“I will in a minute,” Rhys said, striving to be patient. “Right now, you need to find dry wood. I have to warm her—”
“Rhys, look at her!” Nightshade said, floundering along behind him. “Don’t you recognize her? It’s her! Mina!”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“I’m not,” Nightshade said solemnly. “Believe me, I wish I was. I know this must sound crazy, since the last time we saw Mina she was a grown-up and now she’s grown down, but I’m pretty sure it’s her. I know because I feel the same way when I look at this little girl that I felt when I first saw Mina. I feel sad.”
“Nightshade,” said Rhys wearily, “firewood.”
“If you don’t believe me,” Nightshade added, “look at Atta. She knows her, too.”
Rhys had to admit that Atta was acting strangely. Ordinarily, the dog would have come leaping to him, eager to help, ready to lick the child’s cold cheek or nudge her limp hand—healing remedies known and trusted by all dogs. But Atta was keeping her distance. She stood braced on stiff legs, her hackles raised, her upper lip curled back over her teeth. Her brown eyes, fixed on the girl, were not friendly. She growled, low in her throat.
“Atta! Stop that!” Rhys reprimanded.
Atta quit growling, but she did not relax her defensive stance. She gazed at Rhys with a hurt and exasperated expression; hurt that he didn’t trust her and exasperated, as though she’d like to nip some sense into him.
Rhys looked down at the child he held in his arms, took a good, long look at her. She was a girl of about six years of age. A pretty child with long red braids that dangled down over his arm. Her face was pale, and she had a light smattering of freckles over her nose. Thus far, he had no reason to think either the dog or the kender were right. And then she stirred and moaned in his arms. Her eyes, which had been closed, partially