Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [102]
Rhys waited patiently for the kender to finish his metaphysical ramblings. When Nightshade had talked himself out and was settling down to play rock, cloth, and knife with Atta, Rhys said, “You can squeeze your hands through the manacles, can’t you?”
Nightshade pretended not to hear. “Cloth covers rock. You lose again, Atta.”
“Nightshade …” Rhys persisted.
“Don’t interrupt us, Rhys,” Nightshade said, interrupting. “This is a very serious game.”
Rhys tried again. “Nightshade, I know—”
“No, you don’t!” cried Nightshade, glaring at Rhys. Going back to the game, the kender slapped Atta lightly on the paw. “That’s cheating. You can’t change your mind in the middle! You said ‘rock’ the first time.…”
Rhys kept quiet.
Nightshade kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, squirming uncomfortably. He continued to play, but he forgot what he’d said he was—rock, cloth, or knife—and that confused the game.
Suddenly he cried, “All right already! The manacles on my wrists might be a little loose.”
He looked down at his feet and brightened. “But I could never squeeze my feet through the manacles on my ankles!”
“You could,” Rhys said, “if you smeared some of the grease from the salt pork on them.”
The kender thrust out his lower lip. “It’ll ruin my boots.”
Rhys glanced at the boots. Two of the kender’s pink toes could be seen poking out through holes in the soles.
“When it grows dark,” Rhys said, “you will squeeze loose and take Atta and leave.”
Nightshade shook his head. “Not without you. We’ll use the grease to free your hands—”
“The manacles are tight on my wrists and tighter still around my ankles. I cannot escape. You and Atta can.”
“Don’t make me go!” Nightshade pleaded.
Rhys put his arm around the kender’s shoulders. “You are a good and loyal friend, Nightshade, the best friend I have ever known. Your wisdom brought me back to my god. Look at me.”
Nightshade shook his head and stared stubbornly at the floor.
“Look at me,” Rhys said gently.
Nightshade lifted his head. Tears stained his cheeks.
“I can bear the pain,” Rhys said. “I am not afraid of death. Majere waits to receive me. What I could not bear is to see the two of you suffer. My death will be so much easier if I know you and Atta are both safe. Will you make this last sacrifice for me, Nightshade?”
Nightshade had to swallow a few times, and then he said miserably, “Yes, Rhys.”
Atta gazed at her master. It was a good thing she could not understand what he was saying. She would have most decidedly refused.
“That is well,” said Rhys. “Now I think we should have something to eat and drink, and then get some rest.”
“I’m not hungry,” Nightshade mumbled.
“I am,” Rhys stated. “I know Atta is.”
At the mention of food, the dog licked her chops and stood up, wagging her tail.
“I think maybe you are, too,” Rhys added, smiling.
“Well, just a little,” said Nightshade and, with a mournful sigh, he slipped his hands out of the manacles and clanked over to the sack of salt pork.
he ocean boiled as Zeboim stalked into the water, and she was wreathed in steam when she boarded the minotaur vessel. The captain bowed low to her, and the crew knuckled their shaggy foreheads. “Where are you bound, Most Glorious One?” the captain asked humbly.
“The Temple of Majere,” said the goddess.
The captain rubbed his snout and regarded her with an apologetic air. “I fear I do not know—”
Zeboim waved her hand. “It is on some mountain somewhere. I forget the name. I will guide you. Make haste.”
“Yes, Most Glorious One.” The captain bowed again and then began to bellow orders. The crew raced into the rigging.
Zeboim lifted her hands and summoned the wind, and the sails billowed.
“North,” she said, and the waves curled and foamed beneath the prow as the wind bore the ship over the waves and up into the clouds.
The winds of the goddess’s will drove her ship through the ethers foaming beneath the keel and carried her to a remote realm that appeared on no maps of Krynn, for few mortals had ever seen it or were aware it existed. Those who did