“As you say, Mistress, I am chained to a wall. I have no doubt but that you mean to kill me, and, yes, my god loves me. For at last I have the answer to my riddle. I know who I am.”
Rhys looked up at her. “I am sorry, Mistress, but I do not know you.”
Mina stared at him seething silence. The amber eyes burned.
“You are wrong, monk,” she said at last, when she could speak. “I will not kill you. I will kill them.” She pointed at Nightshade and Atta. “You have all day to reflect on my riddle, monk—a day in which you can imagine their agony. They will die in excruciating pain. The dog first, and then the kender. I will return with the setting sun.”
She left them, stalking angrily out of the grotto.
Lurking about outside the rock walls, Krell heard Mina announce her departure, and he had just time enough to remove himself from sight before she emerged. Her face was pale, her amber eyes glinted, her lips compressed. Her expression was not the expression of a woman in love. She looked angry clear through, angry and thwarted. Krell was not worried by such details, however. He knew what his master wanted to hear, and he was prepared to tell him.
Now all Krell needed was a name.
He had tried his best to eavesdrop on the conversation, but it had been muffled and indistinct. He understood very little of what was said, but it occurred to him, after several moments, that the man’s voice sounded familiar to him.
Krell was positive he’d heard that voice somewhere before. He could not recall where. He’d heard so many voices lately that all of them rattled around in confusion inside his empty helm. What he did know was that the sound of the man’s calm voice dredged up some very violent feelings. Krell had a grudge against that voice. If only he could remember what.
The death knight followed Mina until he saw she was headed back to the castle, and then he turned back to the grotto. He was intending to enter, to see this man for himself, and discover just where and when they’d met …
A blast of wind and rain, sea foam and fury spewed out of the cave.
“What do you mean you are sworn to Majere?” The goddess shrieked and howled. “You are mine! You gave yourself to me!”
Krell knew that voice if he knew no other. Zeboim. And she was in a tempest.
Krell had no idea why his nemesis was in there; nor did he care, for it had just occurred to him that Chemosh would be impatient for his report.
“I must not keep my master waiting,” Krell said to himself and turned and fled.
hat do you mean you are sworn to Majere?” Zeboim cried tempestuously. “You are mine, monk! You gave yourself to me!”
The goddess had materialized in the grotto in a gust of wind and drenching rain. Her green dress foamed around her. Her long hair, whipped by the wind, lashed Rhys’s face, drawing blood. Her gray-green eyes scorched him. Gnashing her teeth, she struck at Rhys, nails curled to claws.
“You ungrateful wretch! After everything I’ve done for you! I could scratch your eyes out! Eyes be damned, I could rip out your liver!”
Nightshade cowered against the wall. Atta whined. Rhys said a silent prayer to Majere and waited.
Zeboim straightened, her hands twitching. She drew in a breath, then drew in another. Slowly she mastered her fury. She even managed a tight-lipped smile.
Zeboim knelt beside Rhys, slid her hand seductively up his arm, and said softly, “I will give you another chance to come back to me, monk. I will save you from Mina. I will save you from Chemosh. I ask only one little favor in return.”
“Majesty, I—”
Zeboim put her fingers over his mouth. “No, no. Wait until you have heard what I want. It is small, smaller than small. Infinitesimal. A mere nothing. Just … tell me the answer.”
Rhys was puzzled.
“The answer to the riddle,” Zeboim clarified. “Who is Mina? Where does she come from?”
Rhys sighed and closed his eyes. “In truth, I do not know, Majesty. How could I? Why does it matter?”
Zeboim rose to her feet. Clasping her arms together, her fingers drumming, she began to pace the cavern, her green dress roiling around her ankles.
“Why does it matter? I ask myself the same thing. Why does it matter who brought this irritating human into the world? It doesn’t matter to me. It matters to my brother for some bizarre reason. Nuitari even went so far as to visit Sargonnas to ask him what he knew about Mina. Apparently she had a friend who was a minotaur or some such thing. This Galdar was found, but he was of no help.”
Zeboim gave an exasperated sigh. “The long and short of it is—now all of the gods are exercised over this stupid question. The dragon who started it has vanished without a trace, as though the seas swallowed her up, which they didn’t. I can vouch for this much at least. That leaves you.”
“Majesty,” Rhys said. “I do not know—”
Zeboim halted in her pacing and turned to face him. “She claims you do.”
“She also claims I was wearing the orange robes of Majere when we met. You were there, Majesty. You know I was dressed in the green robes you gave me.”
Zeboim looked at him. She looked at his robes. She looked back to him. She ceased to see him. Her gaze grew abstracted.
“I wonder …” she said softly.
Her eyes narrowed, her focus coming back to him. She crouched in front of him, lithe, graceful and deadly. “Give yourself to me, monk, and I will set you free. This minute. I will even free the kender and the mutt. Pledge your faith to me, and I will summon the minotaur ship, and they will carry you wherever it is in this wide world that you want to go.”
“I cannot pledge to you what I no longer have to give, Lady,” Rhys replied gently. “My faith, my soul are in the hands of Majere.”
“Mina is as good as her word,” Zeboim returned angrily. She pointed at Nightshade. “She will kill both your dog and the wretch of a kender. They will die slowly and in agony, all because of you.”
“Majere watches over his own,” Rhys said. He looked at the staff, propped up against the wall.
“You will let those who trust you die in torment just so you can find salvation! A fine friend you are, Brother!”
“Rhys is not letting us die in torment!” Nightshade cried stoutly. “We want to die in torment, don’t we, Atta! Oops,” he added in a low voice. “That didn’t come out quite right.”
Zeboim rose, majestic and cold. “So be it, monk. I would slay you myself right now, but I would not deprive Mina of the pleasure. Rest assured, I will be watching and savoring every drop of blood! Oh, and just in case you were thinking that this might help you—”
She pointed a finger at the staff, and it exploded in a blast of ugly green flame. Splinters of wood flew about the cavern. One of the splinters sliced the flesh on Rhys’s hand. He covered the wound swiftly, so that Zeboim would not see.
The goddess vanished with a clap of thunder, a gust of rain-laden wind, and a sneer.
Rhys looked down at his hand, at the long, jagged tear made by the splinter. Blood welled from the wound. He pressed the hem of his sleeve over it. All that remained of the staff—the splinter that had cut him—lay on the floor at his side. He picked up the splinter and closed his hand over it.
He had Majere’s answer, and he was content.
“Don’t look sad, Rhys,” Nightshade was saying cheerfully. “I don’t mind dying. Neither does Atta. It might be kind of fun to be a ghost—I could slide through walls and go bump in the night. Atta and I will come visit you in our ghostly forms. Not that I’ve seen many dog ghosts, mind you. I wonder why? Maybe because the souls of dogs have already completed their journeys, and they are free to run off to play forever in grassy fields. Maybe they chase the souls of rabbits. That is, if rabbits have souls—don’t get me started on rabbits.…”
Rhys waited patiently for the kender to finish his metaphysical ramblings. When Nightshade had talked himself out and was settling down to play rock, cloth, and knife with Atta, Rhys said, “You can squeeze
your hands through the manacles, can’t you?”
Nightshade pretended not to hear. “Cloth covers rock. You lose again, Atta.”
“Nightshade …” Rhys persisted.
“Don’t interrupt us, Rhys,” Nightshade said, interrupting. “This is a very serious game.”
Rhys tried again. “Nightshade, I know—”
“No, you don’t!” cried Nightshade, glaring at Rhys. Going back to the game, the kender slapped Atta lightly on the paw. “That’s cheating. You can’t change your mind in the middle! You said ‘rock’ the first time.…”
Rhys kept quiet.
Nightshade kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, squirming uncomfortably. He continued to play, but he forgot what he’d said he was—rock, cloth, or knife—and that confused the game.
Suddenly he cried, “All right already! The manacles on my wrists might be a little loose.”
He looked down at his feet and brightened. “But I could never squeeze my feet through the manacles on my ankles!”
“You could,” Rhys said, “if you smeared some of the grease from the salt pork on them.”
The kender thrust out his lower lip. “It’ll ruin my boots.”
Rhys glanced at the boots. Two of the kender’s pink toes could be seen poking out through holes in the soles.
“When it grows dark,” Rhys said, “you will squeeze loose and take Atta and leave.”
Nightshade shook his head. “Not without you. We’ll use the grease to free your hands—”
“The manacles are tight on my wrists and tighter still around my ankles. I cannot escape. You and Atta can.”
“Don’t make me go!” Nightshade pleaded.
Rhys put his arm around the kender’s shoulders. “You are a good and loyal friend, Nightshade, the best friend I have ever known. Your wisdom brought me back to my god. Look at me.”
Nightshade shook his head and stared stubbornly at the floor.
“Look at me,” Rhys said gently.
Nightshade lifted his head. Tears stained his cheeks.
“I can bear the pain,” Rhys said. “I am not afraid of death. Majere waits to receive me. What I could not bear is to see the two of you suffer. My death will be so much easier if I know you and Atta are both safe. Will you make this last sacrifice for me, Nightshade?”
Nightshade had to swallow a few times, and then he said miserably, “Yes, Rhys.”
Atta gazed at her master. It was a good thing she could not understand what he was saying. She would have most decidedly refused.
“That is well,” said Rhys. “Now I think we should have something to eat and drink, and then get some rest.”
“I’m not hungry,” Nightshade mumbled.
“I am,” Rhys stated. “I know Atta is.”
At the mention of food, the dog licked her chops and stood up, wagging her tail.
“I think maybe you are, too,” Rhys added, smiling.
“Well, just a little,” said Nightshade and, with a mournful sigh, he slipped his hands out of the manacles and clanked over to the sack of salt pork.
he ocean boiled as Zeboim stalked into the water, and she was wreathed in steam when she boarded the minotaur vessel. The captain bowed low to her, and the crew knuckled their shaggy foreheads. “Where are you bound, Most Glorious One?” the captain asked humbly.
“The Temple of Majere,” said the goddess.
The captain rubbed his snout and regarded her with an apologetic air. “I fear I do not know—”
Zeboim waved her hand. “It is on some mountain somewhere. I forget the name. I will guide you. Make haste.”
“Yes, Most Glorious One.” The captain bowed again and then began to bellow orders. The crew raced into the rigging.
Zeboim lifted her hands and summoned the wind, and the sails billowed.
“North,” she said, and the waves curled and foamed beneath the prow as the wind bore the ship over the waves and up into the clouds.
The winds of the goddess’s will drove her ship through the ethers foaming beneath the keel and carried her to a remote realm that appeared on no maps of Krynn, for few mortals had ever seen it or were aware it existed. Those who did know of it had no need to map it, for they knew where they were.
It was a land of tall mountains and deep valleys. Nothing grew on the towering mountains. The valleys were gashes cut into the stone with smatterings of grassy hillocks and the occasional scraggly pine or wind-bent spruce. The nomads who dwelt in this desolate region roamed the mountains with their herds of goats, eking out a harsh existence. These humans lived now as they had lived centuries ago, knowing nothing of the world beyond and asking nothing from that world except to be left alone.
As the goddess neared her destination, she shrouded the ship in clouds, for fear Majere, who was a solitary, reclusive god, would know of her coming and depart before she could speak to him.
“Gracious Lady, this is madness,” said the minotaur captain. He cast a haggard look over the prow. Whenever the clouds parted, he could see his ship sailing perilously close to jagged, snow-capped peaks. “We will smash headlong into a mountain and that will be the end of us!”
“Anchor here,” Zeboim ordered. “We are close to my destination. I will make the rest of the journey on my own.”
The captain was only too happy to obey. He heaved the ship to, and they drifted on the clouds.
Wrapping herself in a gray mist that she wound around her like a silken scarf, Zeboim descended down the side of the mountain, searching for Majere’s dwelling. She had not been here in eons and had forgotten precisely where it lay. Emerging onto a plateau that spanned the distance between two peaks, she thought this place looked familiar, and she lifted the veil of mist with her hands and peered out. She smiled in satisfaction.
A simple house, built of time, with spare, elegant lines, stood on the plateau. In addition to the house was a paved yard and a garden, all surrounded by a wall that had been constructed stone by stone by the hands of the owner. Those same hands had built the house and they also tended the garden.
“Ye gods, I’d go crazy as a blowfish, stuck here all alone,” Zeboim muttered. “No one to listen when you speak. No one to obey your commands. No mortal lives to tangle and twist. Except … that’s not quite true, is it, my friend?” Zeboim smiled a cruel, sardonic smile. Then she shuddered.
“Listen to me. I’ve been here only a few moments and already I’m talking to myself! Next thing you know I’ll be chanting and prancing around, waving my hands and ringing little bells. Ah, there you are.”
She found her prey alone in the courtyard, performing what appeared to be some sort of exercise or perhaps a slow and sinuous dance. Despite the bone-chilling cold that set the Sea Goddess’s teeth to chattering, Majere was bare-chested and bare-footed, wearing only loose-flowing pants bound around his waist with a cloth belt. His iron-gray hair was tied in a braid that fell to his waist. His gaze was turned inward, body and mind one as he moved to the music of the spheres.
Zeboim swooped down on him like a diving cormorant and landed in the courtyard right in front of him.
He was aware of her. She knew by the slight flicker of the eyes. Perhaps he’d been aware of her for a long time. It was hard to tell, because he didn’t acknowledge her presence, not even when she spoke his name.
“Majere,” she said sternly, “we need to talk.”
The gods have no corporeal forms, nor do they need them. They can communicate with each other mind-to-mind, their thoughts roving the universe, knowing no bounds. Like mortals, however, the gods have secrets—thoughts they do not want to share, plans and schemes they do not want to reveal—so they find it preferable to use their avatars not only when they need to communicate with mortals but also with each other. The god permits only a portion of himself or herself to enter into the avatar, thus keeping the mind of the god hidden.
Majere’s avatar continued with the exercise—hands moving gracefully through the thin, crisp air; bare
feet gliding over the flagstone. Zeboim was forced to do her own dance—dodging out of his way, leaping to one side—as she sought to keep up with him and keep his face in view.
“I don’t suppose you could stand still for a moment,” she said, finally irritated. She had just tripped over the hem of her gown.
Majere continued to perform his daily ritual. His gaze looked to the mountains, not to her.
“We both know why I’m here. That monk of yours—the monk Mina is about to disembowel, or flay, or whatever bit of fun she plans to have with him.”
Majere turned away from her, his movements slow and proscribed, but not before she had seen a flicker in his gray eyes.
“Ah ha!” cried Zeboim, darting around to confront him. “Mina. That name is familiar to you, isn’t it? Why? That’s the question. I think you know something about her. I think you know a lot about her.”
The hand of the god moved in a graceful arc through the air. Zeboim reached out and caught hold of his wrist. Majere was forced to look at her.
“I think you made a mistake,” she said.
Majere remained standing perfectly still, calm and composed. He had every appearance of continuing to stand like that for the next century, and the impatient Zeboim released her grasp. Majere continued with his exercise as though nothing had happened to interrupt him.
“Here’s my theory,” said Zeboim. She was worn out from trying to keep up with the god and seated herself on the stone wall as she expounded her views. “You either knew or realized something about Mina. Whatever this is or was, you decided to have your monks deal with it, and thus Mina’s first disciple—the monk’s wretched brother—arrived at your monastery. What was supposed to happen? Were the monks meant to pray him back to life? Remove the curse from him?”
She paused to allow Majere to provide her with answers, but the god did not respond.
“Anyway,” Zeboim continued, “whatever was supposed to happen didn’t, and what did happen was disastrous. Perhaps Chemosh found out and acted to thwart your plans. His disciple murdered the monks. All except one—Rhys Mason. He was to have been your champion, but oops! You lost him. He was, understandably, furious at you. Where were you when your monks were being slaughtered? Off doing your little dance?
Amber and Iron Page 24
