The cry came again, shrill and clear, cutting through the howling wind. Squinting his eyes against the spray and sand, Rhys again peered into the night.

“Blessed Majere!” he gasped. “Wait here!” he ordered Nightshade, who didn’t have much choice in the matter, since every time he stood up the wind knocked him down again.

In the last flash of lightning, Rhys had seen a child, a little girl, to judge by the two long braids whipping out in front of her, floundering waist-deep in the wind-tossed sea. He lost her momentarily in the darkness and prayed for another lightning strike. A sheet of white-purple light flared across the sky and there was the girl, waving her arms and crying out for help. She was desperately trying to make it to shore, fighting the vicious rip current trying to drag her back out to sea.

Rhys fought against the wind, wiping his eyes free of the spray, keeping his gaze fixed on the child, who continued to struggle toward the shore. She was almost there when a foaming wave crashed over the girl’s head and she vanished. Rhys stared at the boiling froth, praying for the child to emerge, but he saw nothing.

He tried to increase his speed, but the wind was blowing off the sea, driving him backward a step for every two he took forward. He struggled on, continuing to search for the child as he fought his way toward the water. He saw no one, and he began to fear the sea had claimed its victim, when suddenly he saw the girl’s body, black in the silver moonlight, lying on the shore. The child lay face down in the shallow water, her long braids floating around her.

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’ 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 opened, and he could see, beneath the half-closed lids, glints of amber.

A cold qualm shook Rhys, and he gasped softly.

“Told you so,” Nightshade said. “Didn’t we, Atta?”

The dog growled again.

“If want my advice, you’ll dump her back into the ocean,” Nightshade said. “Only last night she was going to torture you because you wouldn’t tell her who she was when you told her you didn’t know the answer and she was going to make me and Atta die in torment. Remember?”

Rhys recovered from his initial shock. “I’m not going to dump her in the ocean. A lot of people have red hair.” He continued toward the grotto.

Nightshade sighed. “I didn’t think he’d listen. I’ll go find firewood. C’mon, Atta.”

The kender set off, not very enthusiastically. Atta cast a worried glance at Rhys, then trotted along after the kender.

Rhys carried the child inside the grotto, which wasn’t very comfortable and certainly not very dry; the rock-strewn floor was still wet, and there were puddles here and there. But at least they were out of the wind. A blazing fire would soon warm the chill cavern.

The girl stirred and moaned again. Rhys chaffed her cold hands and smoothed back her wet, auburn hair.

“Child,” he said gently. “Don’t be frightened. You are safe.”

The girl opened her eyes, amber eyes, clear amber, like honey, golden and pure. The same eyes as Mina’s, except no trapped souls, as he had seen in Mina’s eyes.

“I’m cold,” the girl complained, shivering.

“My friend has gone to get wood for a fire. You’ll soon be warm.”

The girl stared at him, at his orange robes. “You’re a monk.” She frowned, as though trying to remember something. “Monks go around helping people, don’t they? Will you help me?”

“Gladly, child,” Rhys said. “What do you want of me?”

The girl’s face grew pinched. She was now fully awake and shivering so that her teeth chattered. Her grip on his hand tightened.

“I’m lost,” she said. Her lower lip quivered. Her eyes filled with tears. “I ran away from home and now I can’t find my way back.”

Rhys was relieved. Nightshade was wrong. The girl was likely some fisherman’s child who’d been caught out in the storm, been swept out to sea. She could not have walked far. Her village must close by. He pitied her parents. They must be frantic with worry.