“There’s nothing I can do,” Rhys said, and for the first time he truly understood the dire peril of their situation.

How could he control a six-year-old girl who could suspend a minion of Chemosh by his heels from a ceiling, summon up a sailboat, and produce meat pies on a whim?

He was suddenly angry. Why didn’t the gods themselves deal with her? Why dump this in his lap?

The boat shifted suddenly. The emmide, which had been lying on the seat beside him, rolled up against his hand. He grasped it and, though the staff was wet and slick with salt spray, he felt again a comforting warmth. One god, at least, had his reasons…

“Rhys! We’re getting closer!” Nightshade warned.

They were quite close to the tower now. The Beloved had already overrun the island, which was not very large, and more were arriving all the time. Some swam. Some crawled up out of the sea as though they had walked along the ocean floor They climbed over the rocks, sometimes slipping and falling back into the water, but always returning. They were mostly human, young and strong, and all of them were dead, yet horribly alive, chained to a world of unendurable pain, victims of Mina’s terrible kiss. Rhys’ heart ached to see them.

“What are all you people doing there?” Mina cried angrily. “This is my tower.”

She gave the rudder a twitch, took the boat out of the wind. The sail sagged and flapped, and the boat glided on its own momentum into the rock-bound shore. Rhys feared for a moment they would crash, but Mina proved a deft sailor, and she guided them to a safe landing among the rocks and coral and dripping seaweed.

“Hand me that line,” Mina said, jumping lightly onto shore, “so I can tie up the boat.”

“Rhys! What are you doing?” Nightshade cried, aghast. “Cast off! Sail away! We can’t stay here! They’ll kill us!”

The emmide was still warm in Rhys’ hand. He remembered his thought: her madness held a terrible wisdom. This was something she needed to do, seemingly. And he had promised. She was in no danger. She could not die. He wondered if she understood that he and Nightshade could.

From his vantage point, Rhys could see his reflection in the tower’s glistening black crystal walls. The entrance to the tower was only about a hundred paces away and the door stood open. Many of the Beloved must already be inside. Several hundred Beloved remained on the island, milling about aimlessly. Some of these, catching sight of the boat, turned to stare with their empty eyes.

“Too late!” Nightshade groaned. “They’ve seen us.”

Rhys hurriedly tied up the boat and, taking his staff, went to stand beside Mina. Nightshade helped Atta out of the boat, then he grabbed a boat hook and slowly and reluctantly followed Rhys.

“I could be in some nice graveyard about now,” the kender said dolefully, “visiting with any number of pleasant dead people…”

“Mina!” One of the Beloved cried out her name and “Mina!” said another. The name spread among them. The Beloved began running toward the boat.

“How do they know me?” Mina quavered. She shrank back fearfully, pressing up against Rhys. “Why do they stare at me with their horrible eyes?”

The Beloved thronged around her, reaching out their hands to her, calling her name.

“I hate them! Make them go away!” Mina pleaded, turning away and burying her head in Rhys’ robes. “Make them go away!”

“Mina! Mina, touch me,” the Beloved begged her, stretching out their hands to her. “You made me what I am!”

One of the Beloved grabbed Mina’s arm, and she shrieked in a frenzy of panic. Rhys could not keep hold of Mina and, at the same time, fight off the Beloved. He had all he could do to retain the writhing, screaming child. He flung the emmide to Nightshade.

“It’s blessed by the god!” Rhys cried.

The kender understood. He dropped the boat hook and caught the staff. Swinging it like a club, he brought it down with all his might on the Beloved’s wrist.

At the staff’s touch, the flesh on the Beloved’s hand blackened and dropped off from the bone, leaving behind a skeletal hand that unfortunately retained its grasp. Bony fingers still clawed at Mina’s arm.

“That was a big help!” Nightshade shouted, casting the heavens an irate glance. “I should think a god could do better than that!”

More Beloved began crowding about. Nightshade struck at them with the staff, trying to beat them off and not having much luck. The fact that globs of flesh were turning black and falling off their bones didn’t seem to bother them in the least. They kept coming and Nightshade kept swinging. His arms were starting to ache, his palms were sweating and he was sick to his stomach at the gruesome sight of fleshless hands and arms flailing about him.

Atta snapped and barked and made darting runs at the Beloved, sinking her teeth into any part of them that came within her reach, but the dog bites had less effect on them than the staff.

“Back to the boat!” Rhys gasped, endeavoring to keep hold of Mina and fend off the Beloved. They paid no attention to him or the kender or the dog. They were desperate to seize Mina.

Her piercing shriek, right in his ear, startled Nightshade so that he dropped the emmide.

Skeletal fingers grabbed Mina’s wrist. Rhys smashed the Beloved in the face with the heel of his hand, breaking its nose and shattering its cheek bones. Mina stared in horror at the bony fingers digging into her flesh, and, screaming shrilly, she struck at the Beloved with her fist.

Flame-amber, incandescent-consumed the Beloved utterly, leaving nothing, not even ashes, behind. The heat of the blast washed over Rhys and Nightshade and then was gone.

“Rhys,” quavered Nightshade, after a moment, “do I have any eyebrows left?”

Rhys managed to cast him a reassuring glance, but that was as much as he had time to do. Mina, keeping hold of Rhys’ hand, turned to face the Beloved.

The heat of Mina’s holy rage had driven them back. They no longer tried to grab her. They still surrounded her, watching her with empty eyes and repeating her name over and over. Some spoke “Mina” in soft and sad and pleading tones. Others snarled “Mina,” desperate, angry.

“Stop saying that!” Mina screamed shrilly.

The Beloved hushed, fell silent.

“I’m going to my tower,” said Mina, glowering. “Get out of my way.”

“We should go back to the boat,” Nightshade urged. “Make a run for it!”

“We’d never reach it,” said Rhys.

The Beloved would not allow Mina to leave. They had been waiting here for her. Perhaps it was her command that had driven them to this island.

“Our lives are in her hands,” Rhys said. Moving slowly, he reached down and picked up his staff.

Nightshade groaned and muttered, “No meat pie is worth this.”

Mina, tugging Rhys with her, walked forward. The Beloved drew back, giving her room to pass. She walked through the throng of the dead, watching them warily with frightened eyes, clinging to Rhys’ hand so tightly that her fingertips left red marks. Nightshade crowded close behind them, tripping on Rhys’ heels. Atta kept near Rhys’ side, her body quivering, her lip curled back from her teeth, a constant growl rumbling.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this,” Nightshade said.

“Shush!” Rhys warned. He had seen the empty eyes shift from Mina to the kender and the flash of sunlight off steel. The Beloved did not attack, however. Rhys guessed they would not, as long as they were with Mina.

“Rhys,” whispered Nightshade, “she doesn’t remember them! And she created them!”

Rhys nodded and kept walking. The Beloved had been wandering about the island in their aimless fashion until catching sight of Mina. After that, they saw nothing else. They gathered around her, speaking her name in reverent tones. Some reached out to her, but she shrank back from them.