Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [110]
Having made up his mind to slay Mina, Krell had only to decide when. In this regard, he dithered. Chemosh had said he was going to the Hall of Souls Passing, but did he mean it? Had the god departed, or was he still lurking about the castle?
Every time Krell started to put his hand on the handle of the door, he had a vision of Chemosh entering the room in time to witness the death knight slitting his mistress’s throat. Chemosh might well despise her, but such a gruesome sight could still come as a shock.
Krell dared not leave his post in order to go find out. At last, he snagged a passing spectral minion and ordered it to make inquiries. The minion was gone for some time, during which Krell paced the corridor and pictured his revenge on Mina, growing more and more excited at the thought.
The minion brought welcome news. Chemosh was in the Hall of the Souls Passing and apparently in no hurry to return.
Perfect. Chemosh would be there to witness Mina’s soul arrive. He would have no reason to go to the cave. No reason at all.
Krell started to reach for the door handle then stopped. Amber light began to glow around the door frame. As he watched, frowning, the glowing light grew stronger and stronger.
Then Krell smiled. This was better than he’d hoped for. Mina had apparently set the place on fire.
He struck the door with his fist, drew his sword, and strode inside.
he grotto was redolent with the smell of salt pork. Atta licked her chops and stared longingly at Nightshade, who was dutifully, if dolefully, scrubbing the insides of his boots with a hunk of greasy meat. Rhys had reasoned it would be easier for the kender to slide his feet out of the boots rather than try to slide the boots out of the manacles.
“There, I’ve finished!” Nightshade announced. He fed what was left of the mangled pork to Atta, who swallowed it in a gulp and then began to sniff hungrily at his boots.
“Atta, leave it,” Rhys ordered, and the dog obediently trotted over to lie down at his side.
Nightshade gave his right foot a wriggle and a grunt. “Nope,” he said, after a moment’s exertion. “It won’t budge. I’m sorry, Rhys. It was worth a try—”
“You have to actually move your foot, Nightshade,” Rhys said with a smile.
“I did move it,” Nightshade protested. “The boots are on there good and tight. They were always a little small for me. That’s why my toes broke out there at the tip. Now let’s talk about how we’re both going to escape.”
“We’ll talk about that after you’re free,” Rhys countered.
“Promise?” Nightshade eyed Rhys suspiciously.
“Promise,” said Rhys.
Nightshade grabbed hold of the iron band that was clamped around his ankle and began to push on the band and the boot.
“Bend your foot,” said Rhys patiently.
“What do you think I am?” Nightshade demanded. “One of those circus guys who can tie both his legs in a knot behind his neck and walk on his hands? I know I can’t do that, because I tried it once. My father had to unknot me—”
“Nightshade,” said Rhys, “we’re running out of time.”
The daylight outside was fading. The grotto was growing darker.
Nightshade heaved a deep sigh. Squinching up his face, he pushed and pulled. His right foot slipped neatly out of the boot. The left foot followed. He removed his boots from the manacles and eyed them ruefully.
“Every dog from six shires will be chasing after me,” the kender said grumpily. He pulled on his greasy boots and, grabbing another hunk of salt pork, bent down next to Rhys. “Your turn.”
“Nightshade, look.” Rhys pointed to the manacles that fit close around his bony ankles. He held up the manacles that were clamped tightly over his wrists, so tightly they had rubbed the skin raw.
Nightshade looked. His lower lip quivered. “It’s my fault.”
“No, of course, it isn’t your fault, Nightshade,” said Rhys, shocked. “What makes you think that?”
“If I were a proper kender, you wouldn’t be stuck here to die!” Nightshade cried. “I would have lock-pick tools, you see, and I could pick these locks like that.” He snapped his fingers,