Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

  “Are you sure?” Lleu demanded.

  Marta nodded gloomily, and Lleu sat back down again. Marta may have been a cleric for a goddess who was cruel and capricious, but the cleric herself was honest, level-headed, and not given to flights of fancy.

  “What do we do?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Marta. “My goddess is not happy.” An enormous clap of thunder that knocked several books from the shelves testified to Zeboim’s perturbed state of mind. “But if we go gawking at the statues like every other person in this city, we will only be lending credence to this miracle. I say we ignore it.”

  “You’re right,” said Lleu. “We should ignore it. This Mina will be gone in a day or two. The people will forget about it and go on to some other wonder—a two-headed calf or some such thing.”

  He winced as another horrific thunder bolt shook the ground.

  “I only wish I could convince her Holiness of that,” Marta muttered, glancing toward the rain-soaked heavens. Shaking her head, she left the temple to return to her own.

  Lleu knew his advice was sound, but he found he could not go back to work. He paced about the temple, confused and at odds with himself. Every time he passed the statue of the god, Lleu looked at that stern and implacable face and wished he possessed such determination and force of will. He had thought that once he did. He was distraught to find that perhaps he didn’t.

  He was still pacing when there came a knock at the temple door. The cleric opened it to find one of the potboys from the hostelry.

  “I have a message for Father Lleu,” said the boy.

  “I am he,” said Lleu.

  The boy held out a scroll tied up with a black ribbon and sealed with black wax.

  Lleu frowned. He was tempted to slam the door in the boy’s face, then realized that word would go around that he was afraid. He was young and insecure. He hadn’t been in Staughton that long and he was working hard to establish himself and his religion in a city that only marginally cared. He took the scroll.

  “You have leave to go,” he told the boy.

  “I’m to stay, Father, in case there’s a reply.”

  Lleu was about to say that there would be no reply, that he had nothing to say to a High Priestess of Chemosh, but again, he thought of how that would look. He tore off the black ribbon, broke the seal, and hastily read through the missive.

  I look forward to our discussion. I will be at leisure to receive you at the hour of moon rise.

  In the name of Chemosh

  Mina

  “Tell the High Priestess Mina that I would like very much to come to talk theology with her, but that I have pressing matters of my own temple to which I must attend,” Lleu said. “Thank her for thinking of me.”

  “I’d reconsider if I were you, Father,” said the potboy with a wink. “She’s a looker.”

  “The High Priestess is a cleric and she is your elder,” said Lleu, glowering. “As am I. You owe both of us more respect.”

  “Yes, Father,” said potboy, chastened. He scuttled off.

  Lleu returned to the altar. The cleric looked again at the face of Kiri-Jolith, this time for reassurance.

  The god regarded him with a cold eye. Lleu could almost hear the voice. “I want no cowards in my service.”

  Lleu did not think he was being cowardly. He was being sensible. He had no need to bandy words with this woman and he certainly had no interest in Chemosh.

  He went back to his study to finish his letter.

  The quill sputtered. He spilled the ink. At last he gave up. Staring out at the pouring rain that beat on the roof of the temple like a drummer summoning all true knights to battle, Lleu tried to divest himself of thoughts of amber eyes.

  At the hour of moonrise, Lleu stood outside the hostelry. He stared at the marble statues, which shimmered with a ghostly light in the silver moonshine of Solinari. Zeboim had worn herself out, apparently, and taken her fit of pique elsewhere, for the storm had at last abated, the clouds gone, sulking off.

  Lleu found the statues profoundly disturbing. He longed to touch one but feared there might still be people watching. He shivered, for the spring night was chill and damp, and looked around. Sounds of laughter and revelry reached him from the fair grounds. There was free ale and a pig roast at the fair grounds and most of the citizenry were attending the festivities. The hostelry was quiet.

  Lleu stretched out his hand to touch one of the statues.

  The door to the inn opened and he quickly snatched his hand back.

  Mina stood in the entrance, a slender figure of darkness against a blaze of firelight.

  “Come in,” she said. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”

  She did not look like a high priestess. She had changed out of the flowing, tantalizing dress and removed her golden and black headdress. She wore a soft black gown that was open at the front, tied together at her waist with a belt of gold cord. Her auburn hair was simply braided and coiled around her head, held in place by a jeweled pin made of amber. The scent of myrrh hung in the air.

  “I can’t stay,” said Lleu.

  “Of course not,” Mina said in understanding tones.

  She stepped aside so that he could enter.

  The common room was deserted. Mina turned away from Lleu and started to ascend the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Lleu demanded.

  Mina turned to face him. “I have ordered a light supper. I’ve asked that it be served to me in my private room. Have you dined? Will you join me?”

  Lleu flushed. “No, thank you. I think perhaps I will return to the temple. I have work to do …”

  Mina walked over to him, rested her hand on his forearm, and smiled at him, a friendly smile, ingenuous. “What is your name?”

  He hesitated, fearing that even giving her that much information might somehow entrap him.

  Finally he answered, “I am Lleu Mason.”

  “I am Mina, but you know that. You came here for a theological discussion, and the common room of an inn is hardly a suitable place to debate serious matters, do you think?”

  Lleu Mason was a young man in his early twenties. He had blonde hair that he wore in the manner of Kiri-Jolith’s clerics—shoulder length, with a central part and straight-cut bangs. His eyes were brown and intense with a restless, seeking look about them. He was well-built, with the muscles of a soldier, not a scholar, which was not surprising. Kiri-Jolith’s clerics trained alongside the knights they served and were notable among clerics in Ansalon for being skilled in the use of the long sword. His grandfather had been a mason, which is how he came by his name.

  He looked at Mina. He looked around the inn, though he didn’t see much of it. He smiled faintly.

  “No, not very suitable.” Lleu drew in a deep breath. “I will come upstairs with you.”

  Mina walked again up the stairs. This time he followed after her. He was gravely courteous, moved to precede her down the hallway and opened the door to the room for her. This was a private dining chamber, with a table and chairs and a fire on the hearth. The table was laid. A servant stood obsequiously in the background. Lleu held Mina’s chair and then took his place across from her.

  The meal was good, with roasted meats and bread followed by a sweet. They spoke little during the meal, for the servant was present. When they were finished, Mina dismissed him. They shared a jug of wine, neither drinking much, only sipping at it as they drew their chairs over to the fire.

  They talked about Lleu’s family. His elder brother, now thirty-five, had become a master mason, joining his father in the family business. Lleu was the youngest and had no interest in masonry. He dreamed of becoming a soldier and had traveled to Solamnia for that purpose. Once there, he was introduced to the worship of Kiri-Jolith and realized that his true calling was to serve the god.

  “You might say the church runs in our family,” he added with a smile. “My grandmother was a cleric of Paladine and my middle brother is a monk dedicated
to the worship of Majere.”

  “Indeed?” said Mina, interested. “What does your brother think of your becoming a cleric of Kiri-Jolith?”

  “I have no idea. His monastery is located in some isolated place and the monks rarely leave it. We have neither seen nor heard from my brother in many years.”

  “For many years.” Mina was puzzled. “How could that be? The gods, including Majere, returned to the world only a little over a year ago.”

  Lleu shrugged. “According to what I am told, some of these monasteries are so isolated that the monks knew nothing of what was transpiring in the world. They maintained their lifestyle of meditation and prayer despite the fact that they had no god to pray to. Such a life would suit my brother. He was always dour and withdrawn, given to roaming the hills alone. He is ten years my senior, so I never knew him very well.”

  Lleu, forgetting himself, had moved his chair nearer to her. He relaxed as the meal progressed, disarmed by Mina’s warmth and her interest in him. “But that is enough talk of me. Tell me of yourself, Mina. There was a time when the whole world talked of you.”

  “I went in search of a god,” Mina replied, staring into the fire. “I found god. I kept my faith in my god until the end. There is not much more to be said.”

  “Except that now you follow a new god,” said Lleu.

  “Not a new god. A very old one. Old as time.”

  “But … Chemosh.” Lleu grimaced. As he gazed at her, he was consumed with admiration. “You are so young and so beautiful, Mina. I have never seen a woman as lovely. Chemosh is a god of rotting corpses and moldy old bones. Don’t shake your head. You cannot deny it.”

  “I do deny it,” said Mina calmly. She reached out, took hold of his hand. Her touch made his blood burn. “Do you fear death, Lleu?”

  “I … yes, I guess I do,” he answered. He did not want to think of death at this moment. He was thinking very much of life.

  “A cleric of Kiri-Jolith is not supposed to fear death, are you?”

  “No, we are not.” He grew uncomfortable and tried to withdraw from her touch.

  Mina pressed his hand sympathetically, and almost unknowingly, he tightened his grip.

  “What does your god tell you of death and the after-life?”

  “That when we die, we embark upon the next part of our soul’s journey, that death is a door that leads to further knowledge of ourselves.”

  “Do you believe this?”

  “I want to,” he said. His hand clenched. “I really want to. I have wrestled with this question ever since I became a cleric. They tell me to have faith, but …”

  He shook his head. He stared into the fire, brooding, still clasping her hand. He turned to her abruptly.

  “You are not afraid of death.”

  “I am not,” said Mina, smiling, “because I will never die. Chemosh has promised me life unending.”

  Lleu stared at her. “How can he make such a promise? I don’t understand.”

  “Chemosh is a god. His powers are limitless.”

  “He is the Lord of Death. He goes to battlefields, raises up unburied bodies and forces them to do his bidding—”

  “That was in the old days. Times have changed. This is the Age of Mortals. An age for the living. He has no use for skeletal remains. He wants followers who are like you and me, Lleu. Young and strong and full of life. Life that will never end. Life that brings pleasure such as this.”

  She closed her eyes and leaned toward him. Her lips parted, inviting. He kissed her, tentatively at first, and then passion took him. She was soft and yielding, and before he knew what he was doing or quite how he was doing it, his hands were beneath her robes, fondling warm, naked flesh. He groaned softly, and his kisses hardened.

  “My bedroom is next door,” she whispered, her lips brushing his.

  “This is wrong,” Lleu said, yet he could not tear himself from her.

  Mina put her arms around him, pressed her body against his. “This is life,” she said to him.

  She drew him into her bedchamber.

  Their passion lasted all through the night. They loved and slept and woke to love again. Lleu had never known love-making such as this, never known such transports of joy. He had never felt so much alive and he wanted his feeling to last forever. He fell asleep in her arms, that thought in his mind. He woke to the dawn—spring dawning. He found Mina beside him, propped up on one elbow, gazing down at him, her hand running gently through his hair on his chest.

  He raised up to kiss her, but she drew back.

  “What of Chemosh?” Mina asked. “Have you thought of all I have been telling you?”

  “You are right, Mina. It does make sense that a god would want his followers to live forever,” Lleu admitted, “but what must I do to obtain this blessing? I’ve heard tales of blood sacrifices and other rites—”

  Mina smiled at him. She ran her hand over his bare flesh. “That is what they are—only tales. All you have to do is give yourself to the god. Say, ‘I pledge my faith to Chemosh.’ ”

  “That is all?”

  “That is all. You may even return to the worship of Kiri-Jolith, if you want. Chemosh is not jealous. He is understanding.”

  “And I will live forever? And love you forever?” He stole a swift kiss.

  “From this day, you will not age,” Mina promised. “You will never suffer pain or know hunger or fall ill. This I promise you.”

  “Then I have nothing to lose.” Lleu smiled up at her. “I pledge my faith to Chemosh.”

  He put his arm around her, drew her down to him. Mina pressed her lips against his breast, above his heart. He shivered in delight, then his body shuddered.

  His eyes flew open. Pain seared through him, terrible pain, and he stared at her in horror. He struggled, tried to free himself, but she held him pinned down, her kiss sucking out his life. His heart thudded erratically. Her lips seemed to feed off it. Pain wrenched and twisted him. He gave a stifled cry and clutched at her spasmodically. He writhed in agony. His heart stopped, then everything stopped.

  Lleu’s head lay rigid on the pillow. His eyes stared at nothing. His face was frozen in an expression of unnamed horror.

  Chemosh stood beside the bed.

  “My lord,” said Mina. “I bring you your first follower.”

  “Well done, Mina,” he said. Bending down, leaning across the body of the young man, he kissed her on the lips. His hand caressed her neck, smoothed her hair. “Well done.”

  She drew away from him, covering her nakedness with her gown.

  “What is it, Mina?” he asked. “What is the matter? You’ve killed before, in the name of Takhisis. Are you now turned suddenly squeamish?”

  Mina glanced at the corpse of the young man. “You promised him life, not death.” She looked up at Chemosh and her amber eyes were shadowed. “You promised me power over life and death, my lord. If I wanted merely to commit murder, I could go to any dark alley—”

  “You have no faith in me, Mina?”

  Mina was silent a moment, gathering her courage. She knew he might be furious with her, but she had to take the risk.

  “A god betrayed me once. You asked me to prove myself to you. It is now your turn to prove yourself to me, my lord.”

  She waited, tensely, for his rage to break over her. He said nothing, and after a moment, she dared look up at him.

  He was smiling down on her. “As I told you, Mina. You will not be my slave. I will prove myself to you. You will have what I promised. Put your hand on the young man’s heart.”

  Mina did as he told her. She placed her hand on the cooling flesh, over the burst heart, over the imprint of her lips, burned black into the flesh.

  “The heart will never beat again,” Chemosh intoned, “but life will flow through this body. My life. Endless life. Kiss him, Mina.”

  Mina placed her lips on the burned imprint of her kiss. The heart of the young man remained still, but he drew in a deep breath, the breath of the god. At
Mina’s touch, his chest rose and fell.

  “All will be as I promised him, Mina. He cannot die, for he is already dead. His life will go on unending. I ask only one thing of him in return. He must bring me more followers. There, my love, have I proven myself to you?”

  Mina looked at Lleu, who was stirring, stretching, waking. The knowledge came to her that she had not only taken life, she had restored it. She had the power to give everyone in the world life unending. Her power … and that of the god.

  She reached out her hand to Chemosh, who clasped her hand in his own. “We will change the world, my lord!”

  She had only one question, one lingering doubt. She placed her hand over her own breast, where the mark of Chemosh was black on her white skin. “My lord, my heart still beats. My blood is still warm and so is my flesh. You did not take my life—”

  Chemosh did not tell her that it was her life that he loved about her. Her warm, beating heart, her hot, pulsing blood. Nor did he tell her that the gift of unending life she was bestowing on these mortals was not as bright and shiny as it appeared on the surface. He could have given it to her, but then he would lose her and he was not ready to give her up. Not yet. Perhaps, some day, when he had grown weary of her.

  “I am surrounded by the dead, Mina,” he said, by way of excuse. “Day in, day out. Like that fool Krell, who will not leave me in peace, but is constantly pestering me. You are a ‘breath of life’ for me, Mina.”

  He laughed at his jest, gave Mina a parting kiss, and was gone.

  Mina slipped out of the bed. She picked up a comb and ran the comb through her tangled hair, began to slowly and carefully work out the knots.

  She heard a rustle behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Lleu sitting up amid the bed clothes. He looked confused and clutched at his heart, wincing as if in remembered pain.

  Mina watched him, and combed her hair.

  Lleu’s expression cleared. His eyes widened. He looked around again, as if seeing everything anew. He climbed out of bed, walked over to her, bent down and kissed her neck.