Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [74]
“Wait!” Jenna cried, grabbing Nightshade by the collar as he was preparing to dash off. “What did you say? Rhys and magical bonds and a what?”
Nightshade had used up all his breath relating his tale once. He didn’t have breath enough to do it again and, just at that moment, he caught a glimpse of what looked like Mina’s dress disappearing in a swirl of smoke.
“Rhys … temple … alone … death knight!” he gasped. “Go save him, Mistress! Run!”
“At my age, I don’t run anywhere,” Jenna said severely.
“Then walk fast. Please, just hurry!” Nightshade cried, and with a twist and a wriggle, he broke free of Jenna’s grip, and went haring off down the street, with Atta racing behind.
“Did you say a death knight?” Jenna called after him.
“Former death knight!” Nightshade yelled over his shoulder, and, pleased with himself, he kept on going, now free to search for Mina.
“Former death knight. Well, that’s a relief,” Jenna muttered.
Thoroughly perplexed, she stood wondering what to make of all this. She might have dismissed Nightshade’s story as a kender tale (a god running around loose?), but she knew him, and Nightshade was not your run-of-the-mill kender. She’d met Nightshade the last time she’d been in Solace—that disastrous time when she and Gerard and Rhys and a paladin of Kiri-Jolith had tried and failed to capture one of the Beloved.
Jenna had come to respect and admire the soft-spoken, gentle monk, Rhys Mason, and she was aware that Rhys himself thought highly of the kender, which was a mark in Nightshade’s favor. And she had to admit that Nightshade had accorded himself well during that last crisis, acting sensibly and rationally, which couldn’t be said for most kender, no matter what the circumstances.
Jenna concluded, therefore, that Rhys might well be in danger as Nightshade claimed (though she did admit to having her doubts as to the existence of a death knight, former or otherwise). Conceding the need for haste, she drew her cowl over her head, spoke a word of magic, and whisked herself calmly and with dignity through time and space.
As Jenna had told the kender, at her age, she didn’t run anywhere.
ound by the magical golden bands, Rhys lay helpless on the Temple floor, unable to do anything except watch the smoke from the fire drift past the columns. The pain in his head was gone, his injury healed by Mina’s kiss. He thought of the strange and terrible irony—the kiss that had slain his brother had healed him.
Nearby, Krell was groaning, starting to regain consciousness.
The temptation to struggle against his magical bonds was strong, but the struggle would have been futile and wasted his energy. He prayed to Majere, asking the god’s blessing, asking the god to grant him courage and wisdom to fight his foe and the strength to accept death when it came, for Rhys was well aware that although he was determined to fight, he could not win.
His prayer concluded, Rhys maneuvered his prone body into position and then there was nothing more to do except wait.
Krell grunted and raised his aching head. He tried to stand up, slumped over, and groaned in pain. Muttering that his helm was too tight, he wrestled with it and managed after some difficulty to remove it. Flinging it to the floor, he groaned again and put his hand to his forehead. He had a large knot over his left eye, and his left cheek was swollen. The skin was not broken, but he must be suffering from a pounding headache. Krell gingerly touched the bruised areas and swore viciously.
Krell picked up his helm and thrust it on his head, then rose ponderously to his feet. He saw Rhys, still lying bound on the floor, and the empty golden bonds that had once held