His voice hardened. “I have often thought that if my own army had been arrayed outside her palace gates, my own forces ready to storm her walls, Queen Takhisis might have thought twice. As it was, I was lazy. I was content to make do with what I had. All that has changed. I will not make the same mistake again.”
“I have made you sorrowful, my lord,” said Mina, hearing the regret and harsh bitterness in his voice. “I am sorry. This was meant to be a joyous day. A day of new beginnings.”
Chemosh took hold of Mina’s hand and brought it to his lips and kissed her fingers. Her heart beat fast and her breath came short. He could rouse her to desire with a touch, a look.
“You spoke the truth, Mina. No one else, not even one of the other gods, would dare say such a thing to me. Most lack the capacity to see it. You are so young, Mina. You are not yet one and twenty. Where do you find such wisdom? Not from your late Queen, I think,” Chemosh added sardonically.
Mina gave this consideration, gazing out upon a sea that was flat but not particularly calm. The water stirred restlessly, back and forth, reminding her of someone endlessly, nervously pacing.
“I saw it in the eyes of the dying,” she said. “Not those who now give their souls to you, my lord. Those who once gave their souls to me.”
The Battle of Beckart’s Cut. The Solamnic knights broke out of Sanction, broke the siege of that city by the Dark Knights of Takhisis, then known, ignominiously, as the Knights of Neraka. The knights and soldiers of Neraka turned and fled as the Solamnics poured out of the fortress. The Neraka command crumbling, Mina took charge. She ordered her troops to slay those who were fleeing, ordered them to kill their comrades, kill friends, brothers. Inspired by the light of golden glowing amber, they obeyed her. The bodies piled up high, choking the pass. Here, the Solamnic charge ground to a halt, brought to a stop by a dam made of broken bone and bloody flesh. The day was Mina’s. She’d turned a rout into victory. She walked the field of battle, held the hands of those who were dying by her command, and she prayed over them, giving their souls to Takhisis.
“Except that the souls didn’t come to Takhisis,” said Mina softly to the sea that had rocked her as a child. “The souls came to me. Like flowers, I plucked them and gathered them to my heart, holding them close, even as I spoke her name.”
She turned to Chemosh. “That is my truth, my lord. I didn’t know it for a long time. I shouted, ‘For the glory of Takhisis’ and I prayed to her every day and every night. But when the troops chanted my name, when they shouted, ‘Mina, Mina,’ I did not correct them. I smiled.”
She was silent, watching the waves wander aimlessly to the shore, watched them deposit filth at her feet.
“Once more mankind will fear the gods,” said Chemosh, “or at least one of them. Down there”—he pointed beneath the filth, the debris, the garbage—“down there lies the beginning of my rise as King of the Pantheon. I am going to tell you a story, Mina. Below the sea lies a graveyard, the largest in the world, and this is the tale of those who are buried beneath the waves.…”
My story begins in the Age of Dreams, when a powerful wizard known as Kharro the Red determined that the Orders of Magic needed safe havens where wizards could meet together, study together, work together. They needed places where they could safely store spell books and artifacts. He proposed that the wizards build Towers of High Sorcery, strongholds of magic.
Kharro sent mages throughout Ansalon to locate sites on which to build these new Towers. The White Robes, under the leadership of a wizardess named Asanta, chose as their location a poor fishing village known as Istar.
The Black Robes and the Red chose large and prosperous cities in which to build the Towers. Kharro summoned Asanta to Wayreth and demanded to know the reason for her choice. Asanta was a seer. She saw the future of Istar and predicted that one day its glory would eclipse all other cities on Ansalon. The White Robes were given permission to start work upon the Tower, and forty years later, Asanta led the incantation that raised the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar.
Asanta had been given a glimpse of Istar’s rise. She did not foresee its fall. Not even we gods could foresee that.
For many decades, the wizards of the Tower of Istar ruled benevolently over the people of that small village and were instrumental in its rapid growth. Soon Istar was no longer a village but a thriving, prosperous city. Not long after that, it became an empire.
As Istar grew, so did the power of its clerics, particularly those of Mishakal and Paladine. Eventually one of these clerics rose to prominence in the government of Istar. He proclaimed himself ruler, calling himself by the title of Kingpriest. From this point on, the influence of the wizards began to wane and that of the clerics to grow.
An uneasy alliance continued to exist between the church and the Robes, though distrust was building on both sides. A white-robed wizard named Mawort, the Master of the Tower of Istar, managed to keep peace between the two factions.
The Conclave of Wizards viewed Mawort as the Kingpriest’s pawn, and when he died, they appointed a Red Robe to take over as Master of the Tower, hoping by this to reestablish the independence of the wizards and have greater influence on Istarian politics.
The Kingpriest was furious, the citizens of Istar outraged. Distrust of the wizards deepened to hatred. Treachery and mischance caused open warfare to break out between the Kingpriest, his followers, and the wizards. Thus began the Lost Battles, so named for no one came out the winner.
The Kingpriest declared holy war on the wizards of Ansalon. The wizards retreated into their strongholds, threatening to destroy the Towers and their environs if they were attacked. The Kingpriest did not heed the warning and attacked the Tower at Daltigoth. Knowing that they must go down to defeat, the wizards fulfilled their promise and destroyed the Tower. A great many innocent lives were lost in the destruction. The wizards were saddened by this, but they believed that they had actually saved lives, for many more thousands would have died had the wizards’ powerful spell books and artifacts fallen into the hands of those who would misuse them.
Shocked by this calamity and fearing that the wizards might next destroy the Tower of Istar, the Kingpriest offered to negotiate a peaceful settlement. The wizards would agree to abandon the Towers of Istar and Palanthas. In return, they would be granted safe haven in the Tower of Wayreth. The Conclave argued long and bitterly, but eventually they realized that they had no choice. The Kingpriest was immensely powerful and seemed to have the blessing of the gods on his side. They agreed to his terms.
A month after the Lost Battles, the Highmage emerged from the Tower of Istar, the last wizard to leave. She sealed its gates and ceded it to the Kingpriest.
The Kingpriest was not certain what to do with the Tower and for months it remained locked and empty. Then, following the advice of his counselor, Quarath of Silvanesti, he turned the Tower into a trophy room, displaying artifacts seized from those accused of heresy and the worship evil gods.
Over the next two decades, hundreds of idols, icons, artifacts, and holy relics were brought to the Tower which was renamed Solio Febalas—the Hall of Sacrilege. Many of my own artifacts were taken there, for, of course, my followers were among the first to be persecuted. Being in communication with the spirits of the dead, I heard from them about the Kingpriest’s ambitious plans to ascend to godhood himself. He would do this by upsetting the balance, destroying the power of the gods of darkness and neutrality. Then he would usurp the power of the gods of light.
I tried to warn the other gods that they were next. The day would come when their own holy relicts would be inside the Hall of Sacrilege. They shrugged and laughed it off.
They did not laugh long, however. Soon the mild and inoffensive clerics of Chislev were being hauled from their forests and imprisoned or killed. The icons of Majere showed up in the Kingpriest’s trophy case. Gilean joined me in warning that the balance of the world was being tilted and some of the gods of light added their voices to ours. The
Kingpriest targeted them for persecution next, and by the end, even the healer Mishakal’s symbol was found hanging in shame in the Hall of Sacrilege.
The Kingpriest announced to the world that he was wiser than the gods. He was more powerful than the gods. He proclaimed himself to be a god and demanded that he should be worshipped as a god. It was then that we true gods cast the fiery mountain on Istar.
The earth trembled at our wrath. Quakes leveled the city and split the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar in half. Fire gutted it, destroying the Hall of Sacrilege. The Tower fell into ruins which were carried down to the bottom of the Blood Sea along with the rest of that doomed city.
“There lies the Tower to this day,” Chemosh concluded, “and inside those ruins lie many of the world’s most powerful holy relics and artifacts.”
“Wishful thinking, I am afraid, my lord,” said Mina. “They could not have survived such terrible destruction.”
“I don’t know about the other gods”—Chemosh smiled cunningly—“but I made sure that my own artifacts were safe. And I have no doubt that the others did the same.”
“You sound very certain, my lord.”
“I am certain. I have proof. Soon after Istar’s destruction, I went searching for the Tower, only to find that the Gods of Magic had hidden it from sight. Zeboim is Nuitari’s twin sister and cousin to the other gods of Magic. They went to her and convinced her to use the powerful turbulence of the maelstrom to bury the Tower far beneath the ocean floor, so that no eyes—mortal or immortal—should ever discover it.
“ ‘Now,’ I asked myself, ‘why should the gods of Magic go to all this trouble to hide a ton of charred and blasted rubble? Unless there is something inside the rubble that they do not want any of us to find …’ ”
“Your holy artifacts,” said Mina.
“Precisely.”
“And now that the Maelstrom has subsided, you can go in search of them.”
“Not only can I go in search of them, I can search without fear of interruption. If I had so much as dipped a toe into the surf, Zeboim would have known it. She would have raced from the far corners of the heavens to stop me. As it is, she is nowhere to be found this fine day. I may do what I like in her ocean—piss in it, if I want—and she does not dare protest.”
Chemosh clasped Mina’s hand, entwined her fingers with his. “Together, Mina, you and I will seek out the fabled and long-lost ruins of the Hall of Sacrilege. Think of it, my love! Hundreds of holy artifacts down there, some dating back to the Age of Dreams, imbued with godly power that is unimagined in this ‘Age of Mortals.’ And unattainable. There are artifacts belonging to Takhisis down there. Though she is gone, her power lives within them still.
“Artifacts of Morgion, Hiddukel, Sargonnas. Artifacts belonging to Paladine and Mishakal. I plan to distribute these powerful relics among the Beloved, who are traveling across Ansalon, on their way here to receive them. When that is accomplished, my followers will be the most formidable and powerful in all the world. I will then be in a position to challenge the other gods for rulership of the heavens and the world.”
“I would go with you to ends of that world, my lord, and I would gladly see the wonders that live in the ocean depths, but as I forget you are a god, you forget that I am not,” Mina said, smiling. “I can swim, but not very well. As for holding my breath—”
Chemosh laughed. “You do not need to swim, Mina. Or hold your breath. You will walk with me upon the ocean floor as you walk upon the floor of our bedchamber. You will breathe the water as you breathe the air. The weight of the water will sit as lightly on your shoulders as a fur mantle.”
“Then you will transform me into a god, my lord,” said Mina, teasing.
Chemosh’s laughter ceased. The expression in his eyes was deep and fathomless, darker than the sea-depths.
“I cannot do that, Mina,” he said. “At least, not yet.”
Mina felt a sudden jolt of fear, a bone-jellying terror such as she had experienced standing on the treacherous broken stairs of Storm’s Keep, staring down far below at the jagged, razor-edged rocks and the foaming, hungry water. Her throat closed; her heart shivered. She wanted, suddenly, to turn and flee, to run away. She had never felt terror like this, not when the fierce dragon Malys was diving down on her from the blood-raining skies, not when Queen Takhisis, mortal mad, was striding toward her, intent on tearing out her life.
Mina took a step backward, but Chemosh had hold of her.
“What is it, Mina? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to be a god, my lord!” she cried, struggling, trying to free herself from his grasp.
“You wanted power, Mina, power over life and death—”
“But not like that! You forget, my lord,” she said in hollow tones, “that I have touched the mind of a god. I have seen into that mind, seen the immensity, the emptiness, the loneliness! I cannot bear it—”
The words froze on her lips. She looked at Chemosh in terror. She, who had betrayed his innermost secrets.
“I was lonely, Mina,” he said softly. “I was empty. And then, I found you.”
His arms enfolded her. He pressed her to him, body to body, mortal flesh to god’s flesh made mortal. He put his mouth on her mouth, his lips eager and warm. He drew her down into the sand, his kisses spreading like treacle over her fear, hiding her terror beneath his sweetness that was thick in her mouth. She was consumed in his love until only the memory of her fear remained and his caresses soon burned that away.
The tide rose, as they lay among the sand dunes. The waves lapped over their feet, then their ankles. The sea water stole up and around them, smooth and soft as silken sheets. The waves covered Mina’s shoulders. Her red hair stuck to her wet flesh. She tasted salt in her mouth and she coughed.
Chemosh took hold of her. “The next kiss I give you, Mina, will take away your mortal’s breath. You will feel suffocated for an instant, but an instant only. I will breathe into your lungs the breath of the gods. For as long as you are beneath the water, my breath will sustain you. The water will be to you as the air is now.”
“I understand, my lord,” Mina replied. Her hair swirled in the water, flame dipped in blood.
“I am not sure you do, Mina,” said Chemosh, regarding her intently. “The water is as air to you. That means, the air will be as water. Once I do this, if you come to the surface, you will drown.”
In answer, she touched her lips to his, closed her eyes, and held him fast. He seized her, crushed her to him, and putting his mouth over hers, he drew the air from her body, sucked the life from her lungs.
The water rose over her head. Mina could not breathe. She gasped for the air, but water flowed in her mouth. She choked, strangled. Chemosh held her fast. She tried not to struggle, but she couldn’t help it. Her body’s instinct to survive overrode her heart. She fought to wrench herself free of the god’s grip, but he was too strong. His fingers dug into her flesh and muscle and bone, his legs pinned her down beneath the water.
“He is killing me,” she thought. “He lied to me …”
Her heart throbbed, her chest burned. Hideous star-bursts obscured her vision. She writhed in his grip and gasped and water flowed into her lungs and into her body as the sea rose higher and higher, gently rocking her. She was too tired to fight, so she closed her eyes and gave herself to the blood-tinged darkness.
ina woke to a world that had never known sunlight, a world of heavy, eternal night.
Sea water pressed on her, surrounded her, enveloped and encompassed her. It pushed her and pulled her, constantly in motion. There was no up, no down. Nothing beneath her feet or above her head to orient her. She was adrift, alone.
Mina could breathe the water as well as she had once breathed air; at least she tried telling herself she could. She felt smothered, half-suffocated. Panic fluttered inside her. She was suddenly afraid she might be trapped here in the squeezing, fluid darkness forever. Her impulse was to swim to the surface, but she forced h
erself to abandon that idea. She had no idea where the surface was, and flailing about in the water, she might sink deeper, not rise.
She could not call out to Chemosh. She could not cry out or scream. The water swallowed up her voice. She forced the panic down, tried to remain calm, relax.
“I have walked the dark places of Krynn,” Mina told herself. “I have walked the dark places of the mind of a god. I am not alone …”
A hand touched hers. She clasped the hand thankfully, held it fast.
“Not afraid, were you?” Chemosh said, half-teasing, half-serious. “You can talk, Mina. Remember, the water is for you as air. Speak. I’ll hear your words.”
“I was going to say that if I was afraid, it is only because fear is the curse of mortals, my lord,” said Mina.
“That is true,” said Chemosh, his tone grown grim. “Fear gives mortals good instincts.”
“Is something wrong, my lord?”
“There is a stirring, an energy that was not here when I came here before only a year ago. It may have nothing to do with our treasure-hunt, yet I do not like it. It has the smell of a god about it.”
“Zeboim?” Mina asked.
Chemosh shook his head. “I thought as much, and I returned to the surface. No storm clouds gather, no lashing winds howl. The sea is so flat that birds are starting to build nests on the water. No, whatever is amiss is down here; Zeboim is not to blame.”
“What other gods might be at work in the sea, Lord?”
“Habbakuk holds sway over the sea creatures. I do not worry about him, however. He is indolent and lazy, as one might expect of a god who spends his time among fish.”
He paused, listening. Mina listened, too, but despite what Chemosh said, her ears were stopped up with water. She could hear nothing except the sound of her own pulsing blood and the voice of the god.
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