And that gave Nightshade an idea. He looked down at the grasshopper pin on his chest.

“Mina said something about jumping. I guess it can’t hurt to try. I wonder if I’m supposed to pray? I hope not, because I’m not very good at it.”

Nightshade unpinned the little golden grasshopper and clasped his hand tightly around it. He bent his knees and jumped.

Looking around, he found himself high above the roof of the temple. He was so astonished and excited that he forgot what he was supposed to be doing, and he was heading downward before he remembered. He was afraid that the landing was going to be rough, but it wasn’t. He landed lightly as a grasshopper.

Nightshade jumped again, finding it immensely exhilarating. He went higher this time, way above the temple roof, and as he looked down on the bloody turmoil in the streets with what he imagined was a god’s-eye view, he thought, “Wow, don’t we look stupid.” He waved at Atta, who was running back and forth below him, barking frantically at him, as he looked for Mina or Gerard or the Abbot.

He didn’t see them, but he did see a person wearing red robes standing calmly beneath a tree, watching the battle with interest.

Nightshade couldn’t see the person clearly, due to the smoke, but he hoped it might be one of the priests. Once back on the ground, Nightshade gave the grasshopper a “thank-you” pat and thrust it into a pocket. Then he dashed toward the person in red, shouting “help” as he ran, and waving his arms.

The person saw him coming and immediately raised both hands. Blue lightning crackled from the fingers, and Nightshade skidded to a halt. This was not a priest of Majere. This was a Red Robe wizard.

“Don’t come any closer, kender,” the wizard warned in dire tones.

The wizard’s voice was a woman’s, deep and melodious. Nightshade couldn’t see her face, which was shadowed by her cowl, but he recognized the sparkling rings on her fingers and the sumptuous red velvet of her robes.

“Mistress Jenna!” he cried, limp with relief. “I’m so glad it’s you!”

“You’re Nightshade, aren’t you?” she asked, astonished. “The kender Nightstalker. And Lady Atta.” She greeted the dog, who growled and wouldn’t come near her.

The lightning shooting from her fingers had ceased to crackle, and she held out her hand to him to shake. But Nightshade regarded her doubtfully and put his hands behind his back, just in case any flesh-sizzling magic was left over.

“Mistress Jenna, I need your help-” he began, when she interrupted him.

“What in the name of Lunitari is going on here?” she demanded. “Have the people of Solace gone stark, raving mad? I was looking for Gerard, and I was told I might find him here. I heard there was trouble, but I had no idea I was walking onto a battlefield…”

She shook her head. “This is quite remarkable! Who is fighting whom over what? Can you tell me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Nightshade. “No, ma’am. That is, I could, but I can’t. I don’t have time. You have to go save Rhys, Mistress! He’s in the temple and he’s tied up with magical gold bands and there’s a death knight who has sworn to kill him. I would help him myself, but Rhys told me I had to find Mina. She’s a god, you know, and we can’t have her running about loose. Thanks so much! Sorry I can’t talk. I have to run now. Bye!”

“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.

Bound 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 Mina.

Krell broke off another bone spike from his shoulder and stomped back to confront Rhys.

“Where is she?” Krell raged. “Tell me, damn you!”

He tried to stab the monk, but Rhys flipped his body over and, rolling across the floor, slammed into Krell, driving his shoulder into the man’s bone-covered shins. Krell toppled headlong over Rhys and landed on the stone floor with a thud that shook the columns.

Krell gargled a moment, then clamored onto his hands and knees and, from there, with the help of the stone bench, pushed himself to a standing position. He picked up the bone spear and slowly hobbled about to face Rhys, who lay on the floor, breathing hard.