Amber and Iron

1

Chemosh stood on the ramparts of his fortress castle, watching the travesty that was taking place on a patch of scorched ground in front of him. The handsome brow of the Lord of Death was furrowed. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Occasionally he would grow so frustrated he had to quit watching and take to pacing the ramparts. He would then halt, looking back in hopes that things would have taken a turn for the better. Instead, it seemed they were going from bad to worse.

“Here you are, my lord,” said Mina, emerging from a door set in one of the corner towers. “I have been searching for you everywhere.”

She went to him and put her arms around him.

He pushed her away, repulsed by her touch. “I am not in a good humor,” he told her. “You would do well to leave me.”

Mina followed his irate gaze to where the death knight, Ausric Krell, was attempting to train the Beloved of Chemosh into a fighting force.

“What is wrong, my lord?” Mina asked.

“See for yourself!” Chemosh gestured. “That undisciplined mob is my army. The army that is going to march below the sea to conquer Nuitari’s tower. Bah!” He turned away in disgust. “That army could not raid a kender picnic!”

Krell was attempting to form the Beloved into ranks. Many of the undead simply ignored him. Those who did obey his commands would take their places in line only to forget why they were there a few moments later and wander off. Krell tried to bully and threaten those who refused to obey, but they were immune to his terrifying presence. He could break all the bones in their bodies and they would shrug it off and take another drink from their hip flasks.

Krell went to round up those who had wandered away and order them back in line. While he was gone, more deserted, forcing Krell to go thudding in pursuit. Some of the Beloved simply stood where they’d been told to stand, taking no interest in anything, staring up at the sky or down at the grass or across at each other.

“This is what I do to recruits who don’t obey my commands!” Krell howled in a rage. “Let this be a lesson to you!”

Drawing his sword, he began slashing at the Beloved, hacking off arms and hands and heads. The Beloved dropped down dead on the ground, where they began to wriggle themselves horribly back together in a few moments.

“There! Did the rest of you see that?” Krell turned around, only to discover the rest of the company had departed, heading in the direction of the nearest town, driven by their desperate need to kill.

“I have created the perfect soldier,” Chemosh fumed. “Impervious to pain. Ten times stronger than the strongest mortal. Unaffected by magic of any type. They know no fear. They can’t be slain. They would kill their own mothers. There’s just one problem.” He drew in a seething breath. “They are all idiots!”

Mina remembered that she had once envisioned an army of dead men—corpses marching to battle. Like the Lord of Death, she had imagined this would be the perfect army. Like him, she now began to realize the very traits that could make a man weak were those that also made him a good soldier.

“Nothing is going right for me!” Chemosh left off watching the ridiculous scene on the parade ground and stalked over to the door that led back inside his castle. “Everyone has failed me. Even you, who profess to love me.”

“Do not say I have failed you, my lord,” Mina pleaded.

She caught up with him and twined her hands around his arm.

“Haven’t you?” He glared at her and flung her away. “Where are my holy artifacts? You were inside the Solio Febalas. You had my artifacts in your grasp, and you came back with nothing. Nothing! And you refuse to go back there.”

Mina lowered her eyes before his rage. She looked down at his hands, at the lace falling over the slender fingers. His hands had not caressed her for many nights now, and she longed for his touch.

“Do not be angry with me, my dearest lord. I have tried to explain. The Solio Febalas is ... holy. Sanctified. The power and majesty of the gods—all the gods—are in the chamber. I could not touch anything. I did not dare! I could do nothing but fall to my knees in worship. . . .”

“Spare me this drivel!” Chemosh snarled. “Perhaps you fooled Takhisis with your show of piety. You do not fool me!”

He walked off, leaving Mina standing in hurt silence. Reaching the door, he paused, then turned around and stalked back.

“Do you know what I think, Mistress?” he said coldly. “I think you took some of those artifacts and you are keeping them for yourself.”

“I would not do such a thing, my lord!” Mina gasped, shocked.

“Or maybe you gave them to Zeboim. You two are such friends—”

“No, my lord!” Mina cried.

He seized hold of her, gripped her tight. Mina flinched in pain.

“Then go back to the Blood Sea Tower! Prove your love for me. Nuitari’s magic cannot stop you. The dragon will let you pass—”

“I cannot go back there, my lord,” Mina said, her voice low and trembling. She shrank in his grasp. “I love you. I would do anything for you. Just... I can’t do that.”

He hurled her from him, flung her back against the stone wall.

“As I thought. You have the artifacts and you want their power for yourself.” Chemosh pointed a finger at her. “I will find them, Mistress! You cannot hide them from me, and when I do ...”

He did not finish his threat, but glared at her, his gaze dark and menacing. Then, turning on his heel, he stalked off. He threw open the door with a bang, entered, and slammed it shut behind him.

Mina slid down the wall, too weak to stand. She was drained, bewildered, and confused. Chemosh had been pleased at her description of the wonders she had discovered in the Hall of Sacrilege. His pleasure had quickly waned when she spoke of her reverence and her awe.

“Never mind that. What wonders of mine did you bring out with you?” he had demanded.

“Nothing, my lord,” Mina had faltered. “How could I dare touch anything?”

He had risen from their bed and stalked out and he had not come back.

Now he believed that she was lying to him, hiding things from him. Worse, he was jealous of Zeboim, who had done all she could to foster his jealousy, though Mina was not aware of that.

“Forgive me for not bringing this charming young human back to you immediately,” Zeboim had said to Chemosh, upon their return. “We took a little side trip. I wanted her to meet my monk. You remember him—Rhys Mason? You traded him to me for Krell. It proved a most interesting experience.”

Chemosh would have thrown himself into the arms of Chaos before he would have given Zeboim the satisfaction of asking her what had occurred. He had asked Mina about the monk, but she had been vague and evasive, arousing his suspicions further.

Mina had not wanted to talk about that fleeting and disturbing visit. She could not get the monk’s face out of her mind. Even now, bitterly unhappy and grieving, Mina could see the man’s eyes. She did not love the monk. She did not think of him in that way at all. She had looked into his eyes and she had seen that he knew her. Just as the dragon knew her.

I am keeping secrets from my lord, Mina admitted to herself, consumed with guilt. Not the secrets of which he accuses me. Still, does it matter? Perhaps I should tell him the truth, tell him why I cannot go back to the Tower. Tell him it is the dragon who frightens me. The dragon and her terrible riddles.

Terrible—because Mina could not answer them.

But the monk could.

Chemosh would not understand. He would mock her or, worse, he would not believe her. Mina, who had slain the powerful Dragon Overlord, Malys, afraid of an elderly, practically toothless sea dragon? Yet Mina was afraid. Her stomach shriveled whenever she heard that reptile voice ask, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”

Chemosh emerged into the great hall to find Krell just entering. Several of the Beloved milled about aimlessly, some calling for ale, others demanding food. A few glanced up at the Lord of Death, but they looked away without interest. They paid no attention at all to Krell, who cursed them and shook his mailed fist at them. They paid no attention to each other, and that was strangest of all.

“You might as well field a regiment of gully dwarves, my lord,” Krell growled. “These numbskulls you have created—”

“Shut up,” Chemosh ordered, for, at the moment, Mina was walking down the stairs. She was very pale and had obviously been crying, for her eyes were red and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. Chemosh felt a stab of remorse. He knew he was being unfair to her. He didn’t truly believe she had stolen artifacts and was keeping them from him. He’d said that to hurt her. He needed to lash out, hurt someone.

Nothing was going right for him. None of his grand schemes were turning out as he’d expected. Nuitari laughed at him. Zeboim mocked him. Sargonnas, who was currently the most powerful god in the Dark Pantheon, lorded it over him. The White Lady, Mishakal, had recently come at him in a blaze of blue-white fury, demanding that he destroy his Beloved or face the consequences. He’d spurned her, of course. She’d left him with a warning that her clerics were declaring open war on his followers and it was her intent to wipe all his disciples off the face of Krynn.

She could not easily destroy his Beloved; he’d seen to that, but Che-mosh did not have all that many living followers, and he was starting to realize their value.

He was brooding on this and his other troubles, when Krell suddenly nudged him.

“My lord,” the death knight said softly. “Look at that!”

The Beloved had, only moments before, been roaming aimlessly about the hall. Some had even bumped into the Lord of Death and never noticed. Now, however, the Beloved were still. They were silent. Their attention was fixed.

“Mma!”

Some spoke her name in reverence.

“Mma!”

Others cried it in agony.

“Mina . . .”

No matter whether spoken in admiration or in supplication or in dread, her name was on the dead lips of all the Beloved.

Her name. Not the name of their god, their lord. Not the name of Chemosh.

Mina stared in astonishment at the throng of Beloved that pressed around the staircase and lifted their hands to her and called out her name.

“No,” Mina said to them in confusion. “Do not come to me. I am not your lord.. . .”

She felt Chemosh s presence, felt it pierce her like a thrown spear. She raised her head, stricken, to meet his gaze.

Hot blood flooded her face. The hot blood of guilt. “Mina, Mina . . .” The Beloved began chanting her name. “Kiss me again!” cried some, and “Destroy me!” wailed others. Chemosh stood there, watching, amazed.

“My lord!” Mina’s despairing voice rose over the growing tumult. She ran down the stairs, tried to approach him, but the Beloved surged around her, desperate to touch her, plead with her, curse her.

Chemosh recalled a conversation he had overheard between Mina and the minotaur, Galdar, who had been her loyal friend.

“I raised an army of the dead,” said Mina. “I fought and killed two mighty dragons. I conquered the elves and brought them under the heel of my hoot. I conquered the Solamnics and saw them run from me like whipped dogs. I made the Dark Knights a power to he feared and respected!”

“All in the name of Takhisis” said Galdar. “I wanted it to he in my name. . . .” I wanted it to be in my name.

“Silence!” Mina’s voice rang through the hall. “Stand aside. Do not touch me.”

At her order, the Beloved fell back.

“Chemosh is your lord,” Mina continued, and her guilt-ridden gaze went to him, standing at the opposite end of the hall. “He is the one who gave you the gift of unending life. I am but the bearer of his gift. Never forget that.”

None of the Beloved said a word. They stood aside, allowing her to pass.

Krell snorted. “She thinks she’s so smart. Let her command your sorry excuse for an army, my lord.”

The death knight had no idea how close he came to being snapped in twain and tossed into oblivion. Chemosh contained his fury, however.

Mina walked swiftly through the throng of the Beloved. She crossed the hall, her pace increasing. Reaching him, she fell to her knees before him.

“My lord, please do not be angry with me! They don’t know what they are saying—”

“I am not angry, Mina.” Chemosh took hold of her hands and raised her to her feet. “In truth, I am the one who should be asking for your forgiveness, my love.”

He kissed her hands then kissed her lips. “I am in an ill humor these days. I took out my frustration and anger on you. I am sorry.”

Mina’s amber eyes shone with pleasure and, he noted, relief.

“My lord, I love you dearly,” she said softly. “Believe that if you believe nothing else.”

“I do,” he assured her, stroking her auburn hair. “Now, go to our chamber and make yourself lovely for me. I will join you shortly.”

“Come to me soon, my lord,” she said and, giving him a lingering kiss, she left him.

Chemosh looked with annoyance at the Beloved who, now that Mina was gone, were once more milling about. Scowling, he made a peremptory gesture to Krell.

The death knight scented blood, and he came forward with alacrity. “What is your command, my lord?”

“She is up to something, and I need to know what. You will watch her, Krell,” said Chemosh. “Day and night. I want to know her every movement. I want to hear her every word.”

“You will have the information, my lord.”

“She must not suspect she is being spied upon,” Chemosh cautioned. “You cannot go bumbling about, rattling and clanking like a steam-powered golem created by some mad gnome. Can manage that, Krell?”

“Yes, my lord,” Ausric Krell assured him.

Chemosh saw the fiery glow of hatred burning in the empty eye sockets, and his doubts were satisfied. Krell had not forgotten that Mina had bested him in his own tower, taken him by surprise, nearly destroyed him. Nor would he forget that the Beloved had meekly obeyed her commands, while they’d scoffed at his.

“You can rely on me, my lord.”

“Good,” said Chemosh.

Mina sat before a mirror in her bedchamber, brushing her long auburn hair. She wore a gown of finest silk that her lord had given her. Mina’s heart beat fast in the anticipation of his touch and with the joyful knowledge that Chemosh loved her still.

She wanted to make herself pretty for him, and it was then she saw a string of black pearls lying on the nightstand. Thinking of her lord, Mina lifted the pearls. She heard instead the voice of Zeboim, found the goddess standing behind her.

“The necklace is enchanted,” the sea goddess said. “It will bring you your heart’s desire.”

Mina was troubled. “Majesty, thank you, but I have all that I desire. There is nothing I want...”

She stopped in midsentence. She had just remembered there was something she wanted. Wanted very much.

“The pearls will lead you to a grotto. Inside you will find what you long for. No need for thanks, child,” the sea goddess said. “I delight in making mortals happy.”

Zeboim fussed with the pearls, arranged them to best advantage on Mina’s slender neck.

“Remember who did this for you, child,” Zeboim told her as she vanished, leaving behind the lingering odor of bracing sea air.

Chemosh entered the room to find Mina brushing her hair.

“What—” He stared. “Where did you get that necklace?”

“Zeboim gave it to me, my lord,” said Mina. She kept her gaze on her reflection as she continued to brush her hair. “I have never seen black pearls before. They shine with a lovely, strange radiance, don’t they? Like a dark rainbow. I think they are very beautiful.”

“I think they look like rabbit turds on a string,” Chemosh said coldly. “Take them off.”

“I believe you are jealous, lord,” said Mina.

“I said take them off!” Chemosh commanded.

Mina sighed, reluctantly raising her hands to the clasp. She fumbled at it. unable to release it. “My lord, if you could help me—”

Chemosh was prepared to rip the pearls from her throat. . . Then he paused.

Since when does the Sea Witch bestow gifts on mortals? he asked himself. Since when does that selfish bitch give gifts to anyone, for that matter? Why should Zeboim bring Mina pearls? There is more to this than meets the eye. They plot against me. I do wrong to object. I must appear to be as stupid as they obviously think I am.

Chemosh lifted Mina’s luxuriant hair and put it aside. The tips of his ringers brushed the pearls.

“There is magic here,” he said accusingly. “Godly magic.”

Mina’s reflection looked out at him. Her amber eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “The pearls are enchanted, my lord. Zeboim told me that they would bring me my heart’s desire.”

Mina took his hand, pressed her lips upon it. “I know that I have lost your regard. I would do anything to raise myself again in your esteem. Anything to recover the happiness we once shared. You are my heart’s desire, my lord. The pearls are meant to please you, to bring you back to me!”

She was so lovely, so contrite. He could almost believe she was telling the truth.

Almost.

“Keep the pearls,” Chemosh said magnanimously. He took the brush from her and set it aside. He gathered her into his embrace. “The necklace is beautiful, but not so beautiful as you, my dear one.”

He kissed her, and she yielded to his touch, and he gave himself to pleasure.

He could afford to enjoy her.

Ausric Krell was watching from the shadows.

2

Mina slept fitfully, drifting in and out of dreams. She woke to find herself alone in the bed. Chemosh had left sometime during the night; she was not certain when.

Unable to go back to sleep, Mina watched the pale, gray shadow of morning steal through her window and thought of Zeboim and the goddess’s gift. Her heart’s desire.

She had not lied to the god. Chemosh was her heart’s desire, but there was another, something else she wanted just as much as she wanted his love. Something she needed, perhaps more than his love.

She threw off the blankets and rose from her bed. She cast off the silken gown and dressed in a plain linen shift she had found in the abandoned servants’ quarters and a pair of soft leather shoes. She hoped to be able to slip out of the castle without attracting Chemosh’s attention. If she did run into him, she had her excuse prepared. She did not like lying to her lord, however, and hoped she could avoid him and also avoid the Beloved who, if they saw her, would start their clamorous pleading and moaning.

She wrapped herself in a thick, warm shawl and drew it over her head. Leaving her bedchamber, Mina padded softly through hallways that were still dark.

She pondered her lies to her lord. She had told Chemosh the truth when she said that she loved him and would do anything to regain his favor. She did love him, more than her life. Why lie to him about this? Why not tell him the truth?

Because a god would not understand.

Mina was not sure she herself understood entirely. Goldmoon had told her time and again it did not matter who Mina’s parents had been. The past was past. It was the here and now of her life that mattered. If her father had been a fishmonger, and her mother a fishmonger’s wife, would that make a difference?

“But what if,” the small Mina had argued, “my father was a king and my mother a queen? What if I am a princess? Wouldn’t that make a difference?”

Goldmoon had smiled and said, “I was a princess, Mina, and I thought that made a difference. I found out, when I opened my heart to Mishakal, that such titles are meaningless. It is what we are in the sight of the gods that truly matters. Or rather, what we are in our hearts,” Goldmoon had added with a sigh, for the gods had been gone a long time by then.

Mina had tried to understand and tried to put all thoughts of her parents from her mind, and for a time, she had succeeded. She had, of course, asked the One God, but Takhisis had given Mina much the same answer as Goldmoon, only not as gently. The One God had considered this longing of Mina’s a weakness, a cancer that would eat away at her unless it was swiftly and brutally cut out.

Perhaps it was the terrible memory of Takhisis’s punishment that made Mina reluctant to speak of this to Chemosh. He was a god. He could not possibly understand. Her secret was only a little one. It was harmless. She would tell him everything once she knew the truth. Then, together, they could both laugh over the fact that she was a fishmonger’s daughter.

Keeping to back stairs and ruined passages, Mina made her way to what had once been the kitchen and from there to a buttery, where the castle’s former owners had stored barrels of ale, casks of wine, baskets of apples and potatoes, smoked meats, bags of onions. The ghosts of good smells still lingered, but there were so many ghosts flitting about the palace of the Lord of Death that Mina paid scant attention. She hungered, but not for food.

Mina had no idea where Chemosh was. Perhaps he was recruiting disciples or judging souls or playing khas with Krell, or doing all three at once. She would have given odds that she knew where he wasn’t—in the storeroom. His sudden appearance, therefore, standing right in front of her, came as a considerable shock.

She expected recriminations, accusations, a tirade. He regarded her with mild interest, as though they’d met over breakfast, and asked, “You are up early, my dear. Going out?”

“I thought I would go for a swim in the sea, my lord,” Mina replied faintly, giving the excuse she had prepared.

She could not know, of course, that this was the one excuse that Chemosh would find most suspicious.

“Isn’t it a bit cold for sea-bathing?” he asked archly, a peculiar smile on his lips.

“Though the air is cold, the water is warm and will seem that much warmer,” Mina faltered, her cheeks burning.

“You still wear the pearls, I see. They hardly go with such a plain gown. Aren’t you afraid you will lose them?”

“The clasp is strong, my lord,” Mina said. Her hand went involuntarily to the necklace. “I don’t think—”

“Why are you in the storeroom?” he asked, glancing around.

“This way is closer to the shore, my lord,” Mina returned. She had overcome her shock and was now starting to feel irritated. “My lord, am I your prisoner, that you feel the need to question my comings and goings?”

“I lost you once, Mina,” Chemosh said quietly. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

244

Mina was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. “I am yours, my lord, always and forever, until—”

“Until you die. For you will die someday, Mina.”

“That is true, my lord,” she replied. She looked at him uneasily, wondering if this was a threat.

He was opaque, unreadable.

“Have a good swim, my dear,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

Mina remained for long moments after he left, her hand clutching the pearls. Her heart failed her. Her conscience rebuked her. She almost turned to run back to her room.

To do what? To pace away the hours, as she had done in the Tower of High Sorcery? To be a pawn of first one god, then another, then another, and another after that. Takhisis, Chemosh, Zeboim, Nuitari... “What is it they want of me?” Mina demanded in frustration.

She stood alone in the cold and empty storeroom, staring, unseeing, into the darkness. “I don’t understand! I give and I give to them, and they give me nothing in return. Oh, they say they do. Chemosh claims he gave me power over the Beloved, yet when he sees that I wield power over them, he is clearly jealous. Zeboim gives me pearls that promise me my heart’s desire and they bring me nothing but trouble. I cannot please these gods. Any of them!

“I must do something for me. For Mina. I must know who I am.”

Resolute, she continued on her way.

Chemosh had given her the secret to the magical portals that allowed entrance and exit from the castle. Mina feared he might have negated the magic, and she was relieved when the portal worked and she was able to leave. The storeroom opened into a yard filled with tumbledown outbuildings. Beyond this, a gate in the wall opened onto a path leading to the shore. The gate itself was gone. Rusting iron bands and blackened timbers were all that was left.

Once outside the castle wall, Mina stopped to look around. She had no clear idea where to go to find this grotto. Zeboim had said only that the pearls would guide her. Mina touched the pearls, thinking she might feel some sensation or an image would leap into her head.

The early morning sun shone on the water. The castle was built on a rock-bound promontory. Here, where Mina stood, the shoreline swept back from the promontory to form an inlet that had been carved out of the rock and was fronted by a crescent-shaped sandy beach that extended for about a half-mile, ending at a rock groin jutting out into the water. The groin on one side and the cliffs on the other broke the force of the waves, so that by the time they came to shore on the beach, they rolled meekly over the sand, leaving behind bits of foam and seaweed.

The sand was wet, and so were the rock walls behind it. Mina—child of the sea—realized that when the tide was in, the beach would be under water. Only when the tide was out could someone walk or play on the shore.

Mina scanned the cliff face and saw no grotto. She felt a bleak sense of disappointment. Her fingers ran over the pearls, one by one.

They felt bumpy—like pearls.

Movement out to sea caught her eye. A ship—a minotaur vessel to judge by the garishly painted sail—plied the ocean. She watched curiously, thinking it might be sailing in her direction, then realized it was moving rapidly away from her. She watched the ship until it vanished over the horizon line and disappeared from sight.

Mina sighed and looked around again and wondered what to do. She decided to go for a swim.

Her story concocted, she had better keep to it. Chemosh might be watching. That thought in mind, she glanced back at the castle ramparts. He was not there, or if he was, he was taking care not to be seen.

She stepped onto the path leading down to the beach. The moment her foot touched it, Mina knew exactly where to go. Though she had never set foot upon this path, she felt she knew it as well as if she had walked it every day for the past year.

Whispering an apology to Zeboim for having doubted her, Mina hastened toward the beach. She did not know where she was going, yet she knew where she was and she knew that every footfall brought her closer. The sensation was most disconcerting.

Mina kept on, running across the wet sand that was firm underfoot. She eyed the waves, trying to determine if the tide was coming in or going out. Judging by the wetness of the rocks, the tide was coming in. When the tide was in, the water level would be at least up to her shoulders, maybe higher, depending on the cycle of the moons.

Mina reached the rock groin with still no sign of a grotto. She clambered over jagged-edged boulders of granite, cursing the fact that her soft leather shoes had not been made for rock climbing.

On the far side of the groin, the shoreline curved sharply. Mina, looking back over her shoulder, could not see the castle, and anyone walking the castle walls could not see her.

Sand dunes extended beyond the rock groin. At the top, the land flattened out. There was likely a road up there, a road that led to the castle. Mina took a step forward, heading into the dunes, and knew immediately this was the wrong way. She was lost, with no idea where she was or where she was going.

Mina shifted direction, walking back toward the cliffs, and the sensation of being somewhere familiar returned. She continued on, leaving the sand dunes behind and climbing over rock-strewn ground, pausing every so often to look at the cliffs, trying to spot an opening.

She saw nothing but trusted now that she was heading in the right direction, and she kept going. She was further convinced by signs on the ground that someone else had recently come this way before her. She saw the print of a boot in a sandy patch—an extremely large boot.

Mina began to think she should have brought a weapon. She kept on walking, moving more cautiously, keeping her ears and eyes open.

The grotto turned out to be so well concealed she passed it without knowing. Only when the next step gave her the sinking sensation of being lost did she realize she’d missed the mark. She turned around and stared at the cliff face, and still she could not find it.

At length, she ventured around a large heap of rock and there was the opening to the grotto, half-buried by a rockslide. At one time the grotto must have been wholly buried, she realized, venturing near it. She could see where debris had been cleared, piled up on either side. The work had been done recently, by the looks of it. The ground beneath the slide was still moist.

Mina stood outside the grotto. Now that she’d reached it, she was hesitant to go inside. This was an ideal place for an ambush, out of sight of the castle walls. No one could see or hear her if she needed help. She remembered the large boot print. It had been three times the size of her own foot.

Putting her hand to the pearls, Mina felt their reassuring warmth. She had come all this way, risked her lord’s ire. She could not go back now.

The opening was large enough for two broad-shouldered men to pass through it, but the ceiling was low. She had to stoop her head and shoulders to make her way inside. She was bending down when, from somewhere inside, she heard a dog bark.

Mina’s heartbeat quickened in excitement. Fear vanished. The monk had been in her mind’s eye ever since their encounter. His visage was clear; she could have painted his portrait. She could see his face—chiseled, gaunt. Eyes—large and calm as dark water. Orange robes—the color sacred to Majere, decorated with the god’s rose motif, hung from his thin, muscular shoulders; the robes were belted around a lean waist. His every move, his every word—controlled and disciplined.

And the dog, black and white, looking to the monk as master.

“Thank you, Majesty,” Mina said softly, and she raised the pearls to her lips and kissed them.

Then she entered the grotto.

Ausric Krell, moving silently and stealthily, followed Mina at a discreet distance. Surprisingly, Krell could move silently and stealthily when he wanted to. The death knight didn’t like sneaking around like some slimy gutter-living thief. Krell enjoyed clanking about in his armor. Rattling steel meant death, struck terror into those who heard him coming. But he could manage stealth when required. Like his life, his armor was the stuff of accursed magic, and though he was bound to his armor forever, he could clang and clatter or not, as he chose.

Krell would have sacrificed far more in order to be able to knock Mina off that high perch on which she stood, sneering down at him.

Mina had never made any secret of the fact that she despised him for his betrayal of Lord Ariakan. Not only that, she had bested him in combat, and she had humiliated him in front of the Lord of Death. The Beloved had no respect for Krell, not even when he was hacking them to bits, but Mina had only to quirk her little finger and they fawned over her and cried out her name.

Krell could have killed her outright, but he knew he would never get away with it. Chemosh might glower at her and curse her, but he still jumped into her bed every night. Then there was Zeboim, his archenemy, lavishing gifts on her. Zeboim might take offense if Krell murdered her darling and thus the death knight had to restrain himself, act subtly. A difficult task, but hatred can move mountains.

Now all Krell had to do was catch Mina in an act of betrayal. He knew from sad experience what happened when you angered a god, and Krell entertained himself, as he sneaked after her, by picturing in vivid detail the torment Mina was going endure. It is amazing how long someone can live after being disemboweled.

As Krell watched Mina enter the grotto, he leaped to the conclusion that she was going to meet a lover. Slipping close, Krell was immensely pleased to hear a man’s deep voice. He was somewhat disconcerted to hear what sounded suspiciously like the shrill voice of a kender as well, but Krell was open-minded. Whatever takes your fancy had always been his motto.

Rubbing his gloved hands in glee, he sidled near the entrance, hoping to hear more clearly. He found, to his disappointment, that the sounds emanating from the grotto were muffled and indistinct. Krell was not worried. It didn’t matter what was truly going on in there. He could always make something up. The jealous Chemosh would be quick to believe the worst. Krell hunkered down outside the grotto and waited for Mina to emerge.

3

Rhys lost all sense of time aboard the minotaur ship. The journey through the lashing waves of night, tossed on the storms of magic, seemed endless. Winds wailed in the rigging, sails billowed. The ship heeled precariously. The captain roared, and the crew cheered and shouted defiance into the wind.

As for him, he spent the dark night in prayer. Rhys had quit the god, but his god had refused to quit him. He knelt on the deck, his head bowed in shame and contrition, his cheeks wet with tears, as he asked humbly for the god’s forgiveness. Though the night and the ghostly voyage were terrible, he was at peace.

Day dawned. The ship sailed out of the sea of magic and settled down on calm water. The minotaur captain hauled the quivering kender and the limp dog out of their crates and handed them over to his crew. He looked down at Rhys, who still knelt on the deck.

“You’ve been praying, I suppose,” said the captain with an approving nod. “Well, Brother, your prayers are answered. You made it safely through the night.”

“I did indeed, sir,” said Rhys quietly, and he rose to his feet.

The minotaurs manhandled them into the shore boat, then rowed them onto an unknown landing. Rhys stared down into seawater that was the color of blood. He looked into a sun rising up out of the sea, and realization smote him. During the tumultuous night, their ship had sailed through time and space. They were now on the other side of the continent.

Rhys saw a fortress castle silhouetted against the fading stars, but that was all he saw before the minotaurs lifted him from the boat and dragged him over a wet beach and across sand dunes to the side of a cliff.

Arriving at the site of a rockslide, the minotaurs dumped Rhys and the kender and the dog onto the ground and began to lift up gigantic boulders and hurl them aside. He did not understand their language, but he heard the words “grotto” and “Zeboim” and he had the impression, from their hushed and reverent attitude, that behind the rockslide was some sort of shrine to the sea goddess.

At last, the minotaurs cleared the slide and entered the grotto, leaving Rhys outside with a guard. He heard banging and hammering and the clanking of iron. The minotaurs returned and picked up Rhys and hauled him inside, along with Atta and Nightshade.

Chains dangled from iron rings that had been newly driven into the stone walls. Working by the dim light that managed to straggle inside, the minotaurs chained Rhys and Nightshade to the iron rings, tossed down a small sack of food and a bucket of water, then departed without a word, refusing to answer any of Rhys’s questions.

The chains were attached to heavy manacles at the ankles and wrists and were long enough to allow Rhys and Nightshade limited movement. Each of them could lie down on the stone floor or stand up and walk about five paces.

Traumatized by the events aboard ship, Atta was too shaken to stand. She rolled over onto her side and lay panting on the cavern floor. Rhys, exhausted, took the terrified dog in his arms and did his best to try to soothe her. Nightshade’s clothes were soaked, and the grotto was cold.

He sat huddled in a miserable heap, trying to warm himself by slapping himself on the arms.

“Those minotaurs weren’t ghosts, Rhys,” Nightshade said. “I thought at first they might be, but they weren’t. They were extremely real. Too real, if you ask me.” He rubbed his shoulder where one of the minotaurs had pinched him. “I’ll be black and blue for a month.”

There was no answer, and Nightshade saw that Rhys had fallen asleep sitting up, with his back against the rock wall.

“I guess there’s nothing else to do except sleep,” Nightshade said to himself. He closed his eyes and hoped that when he woke up, this would prove a dream, and he would find himself in the Inn of the Last Home on chicken dumpling day....

Rhys woke suddenly, jolted out of sleep by a bright shaft of sunlight falling on his face. The light illuminated the grotto, and he could see, at the far end, a few feet from him, an altar carved out of stone. The altar was covered with dust and had seemingly been long abandoned. Frescoes adorned the cavern walls. They were so faded he could not make out what they had been. A large conch shell adorned the altar.

Nightshade lay on the floor beside him. Atta was curled around his legs. And there was his staff propped up against a wall some distance away. On orders of their captain, the minotaurs had brought the staff wrapped up in a large piece of leather. They had left it for him, though out of his reach.

The grotto in which they were imprisoned was circular in shape, about twenty paces across in any direction. The ceiling was high enough that the minotaurs had been able to stand without stooping, though Rhys remembered the large beasts had experienced considerable difficulty making their way inside and down the narrow corridor that opened into this chamber.

Fresh air flowed into the grotto from the shaft. Rhys did not remember seeing any other passages, but he was the first to admit he’d been too drained and exhausted to pay much attention.

Atta woke refreshed from her nap. Jumping to her feet, she regarded Rhys expectantly, tail wagging, ready for him to say they were going to leave this place and head out for the road. Rhys rose stiffly to his feet, chains clanking. The sound frightened Atta. She jumped back away from him, as the chains dragged across the stone floor. Then, warily, she crept forward to give the chains a sniff and watched in puzzled wonderment as Rhys, grimacing from the stiffness in his back and neck, hobbled across the floor to the water bucket.

The minotaurs had left a tin cup for dipping and drinking. Rhys gave Atta water and then drank himself. The water was brackish but slaked his thirst. He glanced at the food sack, but the smell was rank and he decided he wasn’t that hungry. He hobbled back to his place against the wall and sat down.

Atta stood over him, staring at him. She nudged him with her nose.

“Sorry, girl,” Rhys said, reaching out to fondle her ears. He showed her his manacled wrists, though he knew she couldn’t understand. “I’m afraid—”

Nightshade woke with a terrified yelp. He sat bolt upright, staring around wildly. “We’re sinking!” he cried. “We’re all going to drown!”

“Nightshade,” said Rhys firmly. “You’re safe. We’re not on the ship anymore.”

It took Nightshade a while for this to penetrate. He peered about the grotto in perplexity, then looked down at his hands. He felt the weight of the manacles and heard the clank of the chains, and he let out a glad sigh.

“Whew! Prison! That’s a relief!”

Rhys could not help but smile. “Why is prison a relief?”

“It’s secure and it’s on solid ground,” said Nightshade, and he gave the stone floor a grateful pat. “Where are we?”

Rhys paused a moment, wondering how to put this, then decided the best way was just to be blunt. “I think we’re on the coast of the Blood Sea.”

Nightshade gaped at him. “The Blood Sea.”

“I think so,” said Rhys. “I can’t be sure, of course.”

“The Blood Sea,” repeated the kender. “The one on the other side of the continent?” He laid emphasis on this.

“Are there two Blood Seas?” Rhys asked.

“There might be,” said Nightshade. “You never know. Red water, the color of blood, and—”

“—the sun rising up out of it,” Rhys concluded. “All of which leads me to believe we are on the eastern coastline of Ansalon.”

“Well, I’ll be a dirty yellow dog,” breathed Nightshade. “No offense,” he added, patting Atta. He spent a few moments letting this sink in, then, sniffing the air, he saw the sack and brightened. “At least, they’re not going to starve us. Let’s see what’s for breakfast.”

He stood up, and very quickly and inadvertently sat back down. “Heavy!” he grumbled, meaning the manacles.

He tried again, standing up carefully and then sliding his feet forward, jerking at his arms to drag the iron chains along with him. He managed to reach the sack, but the effort cost him, and he had to stop to rest once he got there. Opening the sack, he peered inside.

“Salt pork.” He grimaced, adding sadly, “I hope that’s not my neighbor—the pig in the next crate. She and Atta and I got kind of friendly.” He started to reach in his hand. “Still, bacon is a pig’s destiny, I guess. Are you hungry, Rhys?”

Before he could respond, Atta began to bark.

“Someone’s out there,” warned Rhys. “Perhaps you should sit back down.”

“But they left us food to eat,” Nightshade argued. “They might be hurt if we didn’t.”

“Nightshade, please .. .”

“Oh, all right.” The kender shuffled his way back to his place by the wall and squatted down.

“Atta, quiet!” Rhys ordered. “To me!”

The dog swallowed her barks and came back to lie down beside him. She remained alert, her ears pricked, her body tensed to spring.

Mina entered the cave.

Rhys didn’t know what he had expected—Zeboim, the minotaur captain, one of the Beloved. Anything but this. He stared at her in astonishment.

She, in turn, stared at him. The light inside the small chamber had grown increasingly brighter with the rising of the sun, but still it took a while for her eyes to adjust to the grotto’s shadowy interior.

After a few moments, Mina walked over and stood gazing down at Rhys. Amber eyes regarded him intently, and she frowned.

“You are different,” she said accusingly.

Rhys shook his head. His brain was numb with exhaustion, his thought process as stumbling as the chained-up kender.

“I am afraid I do not know what you mean, Mistress—”

“Yes, you do!” Mina was angry. “Your robes are different! You were wearing orange robes decorated with roses when I saw you at that tavern, and now your robes are a dirty green. And your eyes are different.”

“My eyes are my eyes, Mistress,” said Rhys, baffled. He wondered where she’d dredged up that image of him as he had been, not as he was. “I cannot very well change them. And my robes are the robes I was wearing when we met—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Mina slapped him across the face.

“Atta, no!” Rhys seized hold of the furious dog by the ruff and dragged her bodily back from the attack.

“Do something with that mutt,” said Mina coldly, “or I’ll break its neck.”

Rhys’s cheek stung. His cheekbone ached. He held fast to the outraged dog. “Atta, go to Nightshade.”

Atta looked at him to make certain he meant it, then, her head down and her tail drooping, she slunk off to lie down beside the kender.

“I am telling you the truth, Mistress,” Rhys said quietly. “I do not lie.”

“Of course you lie,” Mina said scornfully. “Everyone lies. Gods lie. Men lie. We lie to ourselves, if there is no one else to lie to. The last time I saw you, you were wearing orange robes and you recognized me. You looked at me and I could see in your eyes that you knew all about me.”

“Mistress,” said Rhys helplessly, “that was the first time I ever saw you in my life.”

“That look isn’t in your eyes now, but it was there when we met before.” Mina’s fist clenched, her nails dug into her palms. “Tell me what you know about me!”

“All I know is you took my brother’s life and made him one of your slaves—”

“Not my slave!” Mina cried with unexpected vehemence. She glanced around guiltily, as though fearing someone might be listening. “He is not my slave. None of them are my slaves. They are followers of my lord Chemosh. Stop that blubbering, kender! What’s wrong with you? You were sniveling like that the last time I saw you!”

She rounded on Nightshade, who crouched on the floor, his eyes brimming with tears that trickled down his cheeks. He was trying to be quiet. His lips were clamped shut, but every so often a whimper would escape him.

“I can’t help it, ma’am.” Nightshade wiped his sleeve across his nose. “It’s so sad.”

“What’s so sad? If you don’t quit that, I will give you something to cry about.”

“You already have,” said Nightshade. “It’s you. You’re so sad.”

Mina laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous! I am not sad. I have everything I want. I have my lord’s love and trust, and I have power . . .”

She fell silent. Her laughter died away, and she clutched the shawl more closely around her. The air in the grotto was chill, after being out in the warmth of the sunshine. “I am not sad.”

“I don’t mean you are sad,” Nightshade faltered. He glanced at Rhys, seeking his help.

Rhys had none to give. He had no idea what the kender was talking about.

“When I look at you, I feel sad.”

“You should,” Mina said ominously. She turned back to Rhys. “Tell me, monk. Tell me the answer to the riddle.”

“What is the riddle, Mistress?” Rhys asked wearily.

Mina thought back. “The dragon seemed surprised to see me. She was not angry or furious. She was surprised. She said, ‘Who are you? Where did you come from?’ ”

Mina knelt down in front of Rhys to meet him at eye level. “That is the riddle. I cannot answer it, but you can. You know who I am.”

Rhys tried his best to explain. “Mistress, the dragon asked you the eternal riddle—the riddle all mankind asks and which none can answer. ‘Who am I? Where do I come from?’ We strive throughout our lives to understand—

Mina’s gaze grew abstracted. She stared at him, but she did not see him. She was seeing the dragon.

“No,” she said softly. “That is not right. That is not how she said it. The inflection is wrong.”

“Inflection?” Rhys shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean, Mistress.”

“The dragon did not say, ‘Who are you?’ The dragon said, ‘Who are you? Where did you come from?’ ”

Mina’s amber eyes focused again on him. “Do you hear the difference?”

Rhys shrugged. “I don’t know the answer. It is the dragon to whom you should be talking, not to me.”

“The dragon grew angry. She thought I mocked her, and she would have nothing more to do with me. I truly do not know what she meant, but you do, and you will tell me.

Mina caught hold of his chin and slammed his head against the jagged stone wall. The blow sent splinters of fiery pain through his skull. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he was afraid he would pass out. He tasted blood in his mouth from biting the inside of his cheek. His head throbbed.

“I cannot tell you what I do not know,” Rhys said, spitting out blood.

“Will not tell me, you mean.”

Mina glared at him. “I have heard you monks are trained to withstand pain, but that’s only when you are alive.”

She leaned over him, put her hands on the stone floor on either side of him. Her amber eyes, up close, seemed to swallow him. “One of the Beloved would tell me whatever I wanted him to tell me. The Beloved would not lie to me. You could taste Mina’s kiss, monk.”

Her lips brushed his cheek.

Rhys’s stomach clenched. His heart shriveled. He thought of Lieu, a monster burning with pain who could find ease only in murder.

Rhys drew in a breath and said, as calmly as he could manage, “I must swear an oath to Chemosh, and that I will never do.”

Mina smiled in disdain. “Do not pretend to be so righteous, monk. You are sworn to Zeboim. She told me as much. If I ask her, she will sell your soul to Chemosh—”

“I am sworn to Majere,” said Rhys quietly.

Mina sat back on her heels. Her lip curled. “Liar! You abandoned Majere. Zeboim told me as much.”

“Thanks to a kender’s wisdom and my god’s refusal to abandon me, I have learned my lesson,” Rhys said. “I asked Majere’s forgiveness and he granted me his blessing.”

Mina laughed again and gestured to Rhys. “Here you are, chained to a wall in a grotto far from anywhere. You are completely at my mercy. This is a strange way for a god to show his love.”

“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.

4

“What 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.

5

The 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?

“It all has to do with this business of free will.” The goddess rubbed her arms, trying to keep warm. “You gods of Light are always promoting free will, and here we have a prime example of why such a notion is so utterly ridiculous. Here you are, in desperate need of your disciple, and what does he do? He exerts his free will. He abandons you and turns to me for help.

“You refuse to abandon him, however. Very forgiving and understanding of you, I have to admit,” Zeboim added with a shrug. “Had one of my disciples done that, I would have drowned him in his own blood. But not you. Patiently you walk alongside him. Patiently you try to guide him, but somewhere, again, something goes wrong. I’m not sure what, but something.”

Majere continued his exercise. He did not speak. He did not look at her. He was listening to her, though. She was certain of that.

“I sprang Mina on you, or rather, on Rhys. I didn’t really mean to. We were in a hurry. I had to return her to Chemosh as part of a bargain we made. I thought I should introduce the two, however, since I was the one insisting that Rhys find her. I wanted him to know what she looked like. Well, sir! Imagine my shock when Mina claims he knows her! He claims he doesn’t, and it’s perfectly obvious to me he is telling the truth. The poor sod doesn’t know how to lie. I believe him, but Mina doesn’t.

“I do. I decide to bring these two together again. As an added bonus, by doing so, I make Chemosh’s life miserable, but that’s neither here nor there. Mina meets Rhys, and now he doesn’t know her and she knows he doesn’t know her. She’s confused, poor darling. I can’t say that I blame her. She says something very interesting to him, however. She says that the first time she saw him he was wearing orange robes. Rhys was wearing no such thing. He was wearing quite charming green robes, which I had given to him, so either Mina is color-blind, or she is daft.”

Zeboim paused for breath. Simply watching Majere seemed to wear her out. She no longer expected him to speak.

“I don’t believe Mina is either color-blind or crazy. I believe she saw what she saw. I believe she saw Rhys Mason at a time in his life when he is wearing orange robes and when he does know who she is. Not now, because he doesn’t. Not in the past, because he didn’t. Which leaves—a time when he will”

Zeboim paused for effect, then said, “Mina saw your monk in the future, a future in which he has returned to you, a future in which he knows something about Mina. He knows something, because you’ve told him.”

Zeboim shrugged. “The problem you have, Majere, is that now this future will never come to pass, because Mina plans to torture your poor monk to death.

“Then there’s the matter of the kender bursting into sloppy, wet blubbers whenever he sees Mina, but I won’t bore you with that. He’s a kender, after all. You can’t expect anything sensible from them.”

Zeboim eyed Majere.

“Go ahead. Do your little dance. Pretend you are above all this. The truth is—you’re in a pickle. I’m not alone in wondering what is going on with this Mina mortal. My brother, Nuitari, may be a pain in the backside, but he’s not stupid. He and the weird cousins are asking questions. Sargonnas does not like the fact these Beloved are congregating in east Ansalon, so near his empire. Nuitari does not like them so near his precious Tower. Mishakal is furious that the hand of a child must be used to destroy them—a marvelous touch of Chemosh’s, I must admit. I am quite amused by the thought of sweet little tykes forced to become bloodthirsty murderers.

“Why am I here, Majere? I can see you asking yourself that question. I came to warn you. I am the first god to visit you, but I won’t be the last. All the signposts point to you. The rest will find their way to your mountain fastness, and some—I’m thinking specifically of my father—will not be as sweet and charming as I have been. You had best do something before you lose control of the situation completely. If you haven’t already, that is.”

“Perhaps you’d like to unburden yourself? Tell me the truth? I would be glad to help Rhys Mason—for a price. I’ll placate my father and brother, keep them from disturbing you. Tell me what you know about Mina. It will be our secret—I swear it!”

Zeboim waited, rubbing her arms and stamping her feet.

Majere kept moving, gliding over the chill stone. His face was devoid of expression. His eyes fathomless, inscrutable.

“Keep your secret then!” Zeboim cried in nasty tones. “You will have no trouble doing so. Your poor monk will die before he reveals it. Ah, I forgot!” She clapped her hands. “He can’t reveal it because he doesn’t know it! He will be tortured for information he doesn’t have and so can never tell. What a marvelous joke on the poor fellow. That will teach him to put his faith in a god such as you!”

Zeboim left in huff, trailing fog and mist behind her. Returning to her ship, she ordered the minotaurs to up anchor and make haste to find warmer climes.

In the courtyard, Majere tried to continue his ritual, but he found he could not. The mind has to be quiet and still for meditation, and his mind was in turmoil.

“Paladine,” he said softly, “Your mortal body cannot hear me, but perhaps your soul can. I have failed you. I ask your forgiveness. I will try to make amends.

“Though I fear it is already too late.”

6

Chemosh stood on the battlements of Castle Beloved (he was seriously considering changing the name) watching Mina running along the beach. The waves lapped at her feet, washing away her footprints. He watched until Mina had returned to the castle and he could no longer see her.

Turning, he almost stepped on Ausric Krell.

Chemosh cursed, falling back.

“What do you mean? Sneaking up on me like that!”

“You were the one who ordered me to be discreet,” Krell returned sullenly.

“Around Mina, you walking soup kettle! When you are around me, you may clank and rattle as much as you like. Well?” he added, after a pause. “What news?”

“You were right, Lord,” said Krell, exultant. “She went to meet Zeboim!”

“Not a lover?” Chemosh repeated, astonished.

Krell saw that he’d made a mistake. “That, too,” he said hastily. “Mina went to meet the Sea Witch and a lover.” He shrugged. “Probably some priest of Zeboim’s.”

“Probably?” Chemosh repeated, frowning. “You do not know? You did not see him?”

Krell was flustered. “I... uh ... could hardly do that, my lord. Zeboim was there and . . . and you would not want her to know that we were spying—”

“What you mean is you did not want her to know that beneath all that steel plating hides a craven coward.” Chemosh began to walk toward the stair tower. “Come along. You will show me where to find this lover. I would like to meet him.”

Krell was in a quandary. His story was believable—as far as it went. He’d left out the kender and the dog, which, the more he thought about it, didn’t add anything to his tale of lovers and secret assignations. Then there was the liberty he’d taken in the timing of events—Zeboim had arrived, but only after Mina had left, something that was odd for two who were supposed to be in a conspiracy.

“Wait, my lord!” Krell cried urgently.

“For what?” Chemosh looked back impatiently.

“For .. . nightfall,” said Krell, saved by inspiration. “I heard Mina tell this man she would return to him in the night. You could catch them in the act,” he added, certain this would please his master.

Chemosh went exceedingly pale. His hands, beneath the ragged lace, clenched and unclenched. His unkempt hair ruffled in the wind.

“You are right,” said Chemosh in a toneless voice. “That is what I will do.”

Krell gave a great, though inward, sigh of relief. He saluted his lord, turned on his heel. He would go back to the cave, ensure that when Chemosh arrived he would find what Krell had told him to expect.

“Krell,” said Chemosh abruptly. “I am bored. Come play khas with me. Take my mind off things.”

Krell’s shoulders slumped. He hated playing khas with Chemosh. For starters, the god always won. Not difficult when you can see at a glance all possible moves, all possible outcomes. For finishers, Krell had urgent business in that cave. He had a kender and a dog to dispatch.

“I would be only too happy to give you a game, my lord, but I have the Beloved to train. Why don’t you have a romp with Mina? You may as well get your money’s worth—”

Krell realized as he was speaking that he’d made a mistake. He would have swallowed his words, if he could, and himself as well, but it was too late for that. The dark eyes of Chemosh had a look in them that made the death knight wish he could crawl inside his armor and never come out.

There was a moment’s horrible silence, then Chemosh said coldly, “From now on, Mina will train the Beloved. You will play khas.”

“Yes, lord,” mumbled Krell.

The death knight clumped after Chemosh, following him down the stairs and into the hall. Krell might be in disgrace, but he had one consoling thought: he would not be in Mina’s boots right now for anything heaven or the Abyss had to offer.

Mina took a swim in the ocean, though it was not precisely intentional. The waves kicked up by Zeboim’s ire flooded the narrow strip of beach that ran from the rock groin to the cliff on which stood the castle. The water was not deep, and the force of the waves was broken by the rocks. Mina was a good swimmer, and she enjoyed the exercise that warmed her muscles and freed her mind, forced her to acknowledge an unpleasant truth.

She believed the monk. He was not lying. She knew men, and he was the sort who was incapable of lying. He reminded her, in an odd way, of Galdar, her officer and loyal friend. Galdar, too, had been incapable of telling a lie, even when he knew she would have preferred a lie to the truth. Mina wondered, with a pang, where Galdar was. She hoped he was doing well. She wished suddenly she could see him. She wished, for one moment, he was there to put his arm around her—the arm she had miraculously restored—and tell her all would be all right.

Emerging from the sea, Mina wrung the water from her hair and from her sodden gown and gave up wishing for what could never be. She had to decide what to do with the monk. He didn’t know her now, but he had known her when she had first met him. There had been recognition, knowledge in his eyes. He’d forgotten, or something had happened to cause him to forget.

One way to restore memory was through pain. Mina had ordered torture used on her prisoners. The dark knights had been experts at it. She had watched men suffer and sometimes die, confident she was doing right, serving a laudable cause—the cause of the One God.

Now she was unsure, uncertain. She was starting to doubt. This morning she had been angry enough that she could have flayed the skin from the monk’s bones and never felt a qualm. On reflection she wondered: Can I torture a man in cold blood? If I did, can I trust information gained by duress?

Galdar had always been dubious about torture as a means to elicit information.

“Men will say anything to stop the pain,” he had once warned her.

Mina knew the truth of that. She was the one in torment, and she would do anything to stop her pain.

There was another way. The dead have no secrets. Not from the Lord of Death.

Putting her hand to the necklace of black pearls, Mina made up her mind. She would tell Chemosh everything. Lay her soul bare to him. He would help her drag the truth out of the monk.

Mina grasped the necklace and tore it from around her neck and tossed it into the sea. Her heart eased, she returned to the castle, dressed herself in something pretty, and went to seek out Chemosh.

She found the Lord of Death in his study, playing khas with Krell. Mina and the death knight exchanged looks that acknowledged their mutual loathing, then Krell went back to studying the board. Mina observed him more closely. He looked the same cruel, boorish brute he always looked, yet there was a sleek smugness about him that she found new and troubling. She also found it troubling that he and her lord seemed quite cozy together. Chemosh was actually laughing at something Krell had been saying as she entered the study.

Mina started to speak, but Chemosh forestalled her. He cast her a negligent glance.

“Did you enjoy your swim, Mistress?”

Her heart trembled. His tone was chill, his words an insult. Mistress! He might have been speaking to a stranger.

“Yes,” Mina replied, and went on quickly before she lost her nerve. “My lord, I must talk with you.” She flicked a glance at Krell. “In private.”

“I am in the middle of a game,” Chemosh returned languidly. “It appears as though Krell might beat me. What do you think, Krell?”

“I have you on the run, my lord,” said the death knight without enthusiasm.

Mina swallowed. “After your game, then, my lord?”

“I am afraid not,” said Chemosh. He reached out and moved a knight, sliding it across the board and using it to knock one of Krell’s pawns to the floor. “I know all about your lover, Mina, so there is no need for you to keep lying to me,”

“Lover?” Mina repeated, astonished. “I do not know what you are talking about, my lord. I have no lover.”

“What about the man you have hidden away in the grotto?” Chemosh asked, and he twisted around in the chair to look her full in face.

Mina trembled. She could think often things to say in her defense, but none of them sounded plausible. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. The hot blood rushed to her cheeks, and she knew in an instant that her flush and her silence had just proclaimed her guilt.

“My lord,” she said desperately, finding her voice. “I can explain—”

“I am not interested in explanations,” Chemosh said coolly, and turned back to his game. “I would slay you for your betrayal, Mistress, but I would then be plagued for eternity by your pitiful ghost. Besides, your death would be a waste of a valuable commodity.”

He did not look at her as he continued to speak, but pondered his next move on the board.

“You are to take command of the Beloved, Mistress. They listen to you, obey you. You have battlefield experience. You are the right commander, therefore, to mold them into an army and ready them to march on Nuitari’s Tower. You will organize the Beloved and take them off to a camp I have established at a remote place far from here.”

The room went dark. The floor tilted, the walls moved. Mina had to grasp hold of a table in order to remain standing.

“Are you banishing me from your presence, my lord?” she asked faintly, barely able to find breath enough to speak the question.

He did not deign to reply.

“I could train them here,” she said.

“That would not be to my liking. I find that I grow weary of the sight of them. And you.”

Mina moved numbly across a floor that lurched and shook beneath her feet. Coming to Chemosh, she sank to her knees at his side and caught hold of his arm.

“My lord, let me explain! I beg you!”

“I told you, Mina, I am in the middle of a game—“

“I threw away the pearls!” she cried. “I know I have displeased you. I need to tell you—”

Chemosh removed his arm from her grasp and rearranged the lace she had disturbed. “You will leave tomorrow. This day, you will remain locked in your chamber under guard. I plan to visit your lover this evening, and I do not want you to sneak off to try to warn him.”

Mina was near collapse. Her legs trembled; her hands shook. She was covered in chill sweat. Then Krell made a noise. He chuckled, low and deep. She looked into the fiery, piggy eyes of the death knight, and she saw triumph. She knew then who had spied on her.

Her hatred of Krell gave her the strength to rise to her feet, burned away her tears, and lent her the courage to say, “As you will, my lord.” Chemosh moved another piece. “You have leave to go.” Mina walked out of that room; she had no idea how. She could not see anything. She could not feel anything. She had lost all sensation. She staggered on as far as she could and managed to reach her bedchamber before darkness overcame her and she sank to the floor and lay there like a dead thing.

After she had gone, Krell looked down at the board and realized, to his astonishment, he had won.

The death knight moved a pawn, snatched up the black queen, and carried her off.

“Your king is trapped, my lord,” Krell stated exultantly. “Nowhere to go. The game is mine.”

Chemosh looked at him.

Krell gulped. “Or maybe not. That last move ... I made a mistake. That was an illegal move.” He quickly slid the queen back onto her hex. “I apologize, my lord. I have no idea what I was thinking—”

Chemosh picked up the khas board and flung it in Krell’s face.

“Should you need me, I will be in the Hall of the Souls Passing. Do not let Mina out of your sight! And pick up the pieces,” Chemosh added, as he walked away.

“Yes, my lord,” muttered Ausric Krell.

283

7

The cold of the stone floor roused Mina from her swoon. She was shivering so she could barely stand. Dragging herself to her feet, she wrapped herself in the blanket from her bed and went to stand by the window.

The breeze was moderate. The Blood Sea was quiet. Rolling swells washed over the rocks with barely a splash. Pelicans, flying in formation like a wing of blue dragons, searched for fish. A dolphin’s glistening body broke the surface and glided back down.

She had to talk to Chemosh. She had to make him listen to her. This was a mistake or rather, mischief.

Mina walked to the door of her chamber and found it was not bolted as she had feared it might be. She flung it open.

Ausric Krell stood in front of her.

Mina cast him a scathing glance and started to walk around him.

Krell moved to block her.

Mina was forced to confront him. “Get out of my way.”

“I have my orders,” Krell said, gloating. “You are to remain in your chamber. If you need to occupy your time, I suggest you start packing for your journey. You might want to pack everything you own. You won’t be coming back.”

Mina regarded him with cold fury.

“You know that the man in the cave is not my lover.”

“I know no such thing,” Krell returned.

“A maiden does not usually chain her lover to a wall and threaten him with death,” Mina said caustically. “What of the kender? Is he my lover, too?”

“People have their little quirks,” Krell stated magnanimously. “When I was alive, I liked my women to put up a struggle, squeal a bit. I am not one to sit in judgment.”

“My lord is no fool. When he goes to that cave this night and finds an emaciated monk and a sniveling little kender chained to a wall, he will know you lied to him.”

“Maybe,” said Krell stolidly. “Maybe not.”

Mina clenched her fists in frustration. “Are you as stupid as you look, Krell? When Chemosh finds out you lied to him about me, he will be furious with you. He might well hand you over to Zeboim. But you can still save yourself. Go to Chemosh and tell him that you have thought this over and you were mistaken. . . .”

Krell was not stupid. He had thought it over. He knew just what he had to do to protect himself.

“My lord Chemosh has given orders he is not to be disturbed,” said Krell, and he gave Mina a shove that propelled her backward into the room.

He slammed the door shut, bolted it from the outside, and resumed his stance before it.

Mina went back to the window. She knew what Krell plotted. All he had to do was go to the cave, dispose of the kender and the dog, kill the monk and remove his chains, and leave the body for Chemosh to find, along with evidence to prove the grotto had been her love nest.

Perhaps Krell had already done this. That would certainly account for his smugness. Mina didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. Hours, at least. The castle faced east and its shadow lay dark on the blood-red waves. The sun was already sinking toward the end of day.

Mina stood at the window. I have to win back my lord’s trust and affection. There must be a way to prove my love. If I could give him a gift. Something he yearns to possess.

But what is there a god cannot have if he wants it?

One thing. One thing Chemosh wanted and he could not get.

Nuitari’s Tower.

“If I could give him that, I would do it,” Mina said softly, “though it cost me my life.. ..”

She closed her eyes, and she found herself beneath the sea. The Tower of High Sorcery stood before her. Its crystalline walls reflected the clear blue water, the red coral, and the green sea plants and multi-colored sea creatures—a constant panorama of sea life glided across its faceted surface.

She was inside the Tower, in her prison, talking with Nuitari. She was in the water of the globe, speaking with the dragon. She was in the Solio Febalas, overcome by awe and wonder, surrounded by the sublime miracle that was the gods.

Mina held out her hands. Her longing intensified, welled up inside her. Her heart pounded, her muscles stiffened. She sank to her knees with a moan, and still she held out her hands to the Tower that was everywhere inside her.

The longing took control of her and swept her up. She could not stop. She did not want to stop. She gave herself to the longing, and it seemed her heart would tear itself apart. She gasped for breath. She tasted blood in her mouth. She shuddered and moaned again, and suddenly something snapped within her.

The longing, the desire, flowed out of her outstretched hands and she was calm and at peace. . ..

Krell had figured a way out of his predicament, though not the way Mina had guessed. Her plan required that he leave the castle and he was terrified to do so, for fear Chemosh would return at any moment. Krell might have the brains of a rodent, but he had twice the low cunning to make up for it. His plan was simple, and it was direct.

He didn’t have to kill the kender, the monk, or the dog. All he had to do was kill Mina.

Once Mina was dead, end of story. Chemosh would have no reason to go to the cave to confront her lover, and Krell’s problem would be solved.

Krell detested Mina, and he would have murdered her long ago, but he feared that Chemosh would have murdered him—not an easy thing to do, since Krell was already dead, but Krell was fairly certain the Lord of Death would find a way and it would not be pleasant.

Krell deemed it safe to kill Mina now. Chemosh despised her. He loathed her. He couldn’t stand the sight of her.

“She tried to escape, my lord,” Krell said, rehearsing his speech. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I just don’t know my own strength.”

Having made up his mind to slay Mina, Krell had only to decide when. In this regard, he dithered. Chemosh had said he was going to the Hall of Souls Passing, but did he mean it? Had the god departed, or was he still lurking about the castle?

Every time Krell started to put his hand on the handle of the door, he had a vision of Chemosh entering the room in time to witness the death knight slitting his mistress’s throat. Chemosh might well despise her, but such a gruesome sight could still come as a shock.

Krell dared not leave his post in order to go find out. At last, he snagged a passing spectral minion and ordered it to make inquiries. The minion was gone for some time, during which Krell paced the corridor and pictured his revenge on Mina, growing more and more excited at the thought.

The minion brought welcome news. Chemosh was in the Hall of the Souls Passing and apparently in no hurry to return.

Perfect. Chemosh would be there to witness Mina’s soul arrive. He would have no reason to go to the cave. No reason at all.

Krell started to reach for the door handle then stopped. Amber light began to glow around the door frame. As he watched, frowning, the glowing light grew stronger and stronger.

Then Krell smiled. This was better than he’d hoped for. Mina had apparently set the place on fire.

He struck the door with his fist, drew his sword, and strode inside.

8

The grotto was redolent with the smell of salt pork. Atta licked her chops and stared longingly at Nightshade, who was dutifully, if dolefully, scrubbing the insides of his boots with a hunk of greasy meat. Rhys had reasoned it would be easier for the kender to slide his feet out of the boots rather than try to slide the boots out of the manacles.

“There, I’ve finished!” Nightshade announced. He fed what was left of the mangled pork to Atta, who swallowed it in a gulp and then began to sniff hungrily at his boots.

“Atta, leave it,” Rhys ordered, and the dog obediently trotted over to lie down at his side.

Nightshade gave his right foot a wriggle and a grunt. “Nope,” he said, after a moment’s exertion. “It won’t budge. I’m sorry, Rhys. It was worth a try—”

“You have to actually move your foot, Nightshade,” Rhys said with a smile.

“I did move it,” Nightshade protested. “The boots are on there good and tight. They were always a little small for me. That’s why my toes broke out there at the tip. Now let’s talk about how we’re both going to escape.”

“We’ll talk about that after you’re free,” Rhys countered.

“Promise?” Nightshade eyed Rhys suspiciously.

“Promise,” said Rhys.

Nightshade grabbed hold of the iron band that was clamped around his ankle and began to push on the band and the boot.

“Bend your foot,” said Rhys patiently.

“What do you think I am?” Nightshade demanded. “One of those circus guys who can tie both his legs in a knot behind his neck and walk on his hands? I know I can’t do that, because I tried it once. My father had to unknot me—”

“Nightshade,” said Rhys, “we’re running out of time.”

The daylight outside was fading. The grotto was growing darker.

Nightshade heaved a deep sigh. Squinching up his face, he pushed and pulled. His right foot slipped neatly out of the boot. The left foot 292 followed. He removed his boots from the manacles and eyed them ruefully.

“Every dog from six shires will be chasing after me,” the kender said grumpily. He pulled on his greasy boots and, grabbing another hunk of salt pork, bent down next to Rhys. “Your turn.”

“Nightshade, look.” Rhys pointed to the manacles that fit close around his bony ankles. He held up the manacles that were clamped tightly over his wrists, so tightly they had rubbed the skin raw.

Nightshade looked. His lower lip quivered. “It’s my fault.”

“No, of course, it isn’t your fault, Nightshade,” said Rhys, shocked. “What makes you think that?”

“If I were a proper kender, you wouldn’t be stuck here to die!” Nightshade cried. “I would have lock-pick tools, you see, and I could pick these locks like that.” He snapped his fingers, or tried to. Due to the grease, the snap didn’t come off very well. “My father gave me my set of lock-pick tools when I was twelve, and he tried to teach me how to use them. I wasn’t very good. Once I dropped the pick and it went ‘bang!’ and woke up the whole house. Another time the pick went right through the lock—I’m still not sure how—and ended up on the wrong side of the door, and I lost that one....”

Nightshade crossed his arms over his chest. “I won’t go! You can’t make me!”

“Nightshade,” said Rhys firmly. “You have to.”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s the only way to save me,” Rhys said in solemn tones.

Nightshade looked up.

“I’ve been thinking,” Rhys continued. “We’re on the Blood Sea. We must be somewhere close to Flotsam. There is a temple of Majere in Flotsam—”

“There is? That’s wonderful!” Nightshade cried, excited. “I can run to Flotsam and find the temple, round up the monks, bring them back, and they’ll kick butt and we’ll all rescue you!”

“That’s an excellent plan,” said Rhys.

Nightshade scrambled to his feet. “I’ll leave right now!”

“You must take Atta with you,” Rhys said. “For protection. Flotsam is a lawless town, or so I’ve heard.”

“Right! C’mon, Atta!” Nightshade whistled.

Atta rose to her feet but didn’t follow. She looked at Rhys. She sensed something wasn’t right.

“Atta, guard,” he said and pointed at the kender.

He often had her “guard” something, which meant she was to watch over an object, not let anyone near it. He’d left her to guard sick sheep while he went to go seek help. He’d often told her to guard Nightshade.

In this case, however, Rhys wasn’t leaving. He was staying, and the object she was supposed to guard was leaving. He didn’t know if she would understand and obey. She was accustomed to watching over the kender, however, and Rhys hoped she would go along with this now as she had done in the past. He had thought of trying to form a leash for her, but she had never known what it was to be tied up. He guessed that she would fight a leash and he didn’t have time for that. Night was coming very fast.

“Atta, here.”

The dog came to him. He put his hands over her head and looked into her brown eyes.

“Go with Nightshade,” he said. “Watch him. Guard him.”

Rhys drew her near and kissed her gently on the forehead. Then he let her go.

“Call her again.”

“Atta, come,” said Nightshade.

Atta looked at Rhys. He gestured toward the kender.

“Walk away now,” Rhys ordered Nightshade. “Quickly.”

Nightshade obeyed, walking toward the grotto’s entrance. Atta cast one more look at Rhys, then she obediently followed the kender. Rhys breathed a soft sigh.

Nightshade paused. “We’ll be back soon, Rhys. Don’t—don’t go anywhere.”

“Be safe, my friend,” Rhys replied. “You and Atta take care of each other.”

“We will.” Nightshade hesitated, then turned and bolted out of the cave. Atta dashed after the kender, just as she’d done many times before.

Rhys sank back against the rock wall. Tears came to his eyes, but he smiled through them.

“Forgive me the lie, Master,” he said quietly.

In all the long history of the monks of Majere, they had never built a temple in Flotsam.

Chemosh was always in the Hall of the Souls Passing and he went there very little—a contradiction that can be explained by the fact that one of the aspects of the Lord of Death was always present in the Hall, seated on his dark throne, reviewing all those souls who had left their mortal flesh behind and were about to embark on the next stage of the eternal journey.

Chemosh rarely returned to this aspect of himself. This place was too isolated, too far removed from the world of gods and men. The other gods were prohibited from coming to the Hall, lest they exert undue interference on the souls undergoing judgment.

The Lord of Death was permitted his final chance to try to sway souls to his evil cause, to prevent them from traveling on, to seize them and keep them. Souls who had learned life’s lessons were easily able to avoid his snares, as were innocent souls, such as those of infants.

One of the gods of Light or Neutrality could intercede on behalf of a soul, but only by casting a blessing on that soul before it entered the Hall. One such soul was standing before the onyx and silver throne now—a soul that was blackened yet shot through with blue light. The man had committed foul deeds, yet he had sacrificed his life to save children trapped in a fire. His soul’s journey would not be easy, for he still had much to learn, but Mishakal blessed him, and he managed to escape the bony, grasping hand of the Lord of Death. When Chemosh snagged a soul, he would seize it and fling it into the Abyss or send it back to inhabit the dead body that would now become its dreadful prison.

The gods of Dark might claim souls as well. Souls already promised to Morgion or cursed by Zeboim would enter the Hall bound in chains to be handed over by the Lord of Death to those gods they had sworn to serve.

Chemosh in his “mortal” aspect came to the Hall only during those times when he was deeply troubled. He enjoyed being reminded of his power. No matter what god a mortal worshipped in life, when that life ended, every soul stood before him. Even those who denied the existence of the gods found themselves here—a bit of a shock for most. They were judged on how they had lived their lives, not by whether or not they had professed a belief in a god during that life. A sorceress who had helped people throughout her life was sent on her way, while the grasping, covetous soul who had regularly cheated customers, yet never missed a Mi prayer service, fell victim to the blandishments of the Lord of Death and ended up in the Abyss.

Some souls could have departed but chose not to. A mother was reluctant to leave her little children; a husband did not want to leave his wife. These remained bound to those they loved until they could be persuaded that it was right for them to continue on, that the living had to go on with their lives and the dead should move forward as well.

Chemosh stood in the Hall watching the line of souls form, a line that was meant to be eternal, and he recalled the terrible time when the line had come to an abrupt and unexpected end. The time when the last soul had appeared before him, and he had looked about in an astonishment that knew no bounds. The Lord of Death had risen from his throne for the first time since he’d taken his place there at the start of creation, and he had stormed out of the Hall in a rage only to find that Takhisis had stolen away the world and taken the souls with her.

Chemosh had then learned the truth of a mortal adage: One never appreciated what one had until it was lost.

One also vowed that one would never lose it again.

Chemosh watched the souls come before him, and he listened to their stories, and wheeled and dealed and passed his judgment, and seized a few and let go a few, and waited to feel the warm glow of satisfaction.

It did not come this day. He felt distinctly dissatisfied. What was supposed to go right was going all wrong. He’d lost control, and he had no idea how it had slipped away. It was as if he were cursed....

With that word, he realized suddenly why he had been drawn here, realized what it was he sought.

He stood in the Hall of Souls Passing, and he saw again the first soul that had come before him when the world was returned—the mortal soul of Takhisis. All the gods had been present at her passing. He heard again her words—part desperate plea and part defiant snarl.

“You are making a mistake!” Takhisis had said to them. “What I have done cannot be undone. The curse is among you. Destroy me, and you destroy yourselves.”

Chemosh could not judge her. None of the gods could do that. She had been one of them, after all. The High God had come to claim the soul of his lost child, and the reign of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, was ended, and time and the universe continued on.

Chemosh had thought nothing of her prediction then. Rants, ravings, threats—Takhisis had spewed such venom for eons. He could not help but think of it now, think of it and wonder uneasily just what the late and unlamented Queen had meant.

There was one person who might know, one person who’d been closer to the Takhisis than anyone else in history. The one person he’d banished from his sight.

Mina.

9

Nightshade left the grotto with a heavy heart—a heart that was too heavy to stay properly in his chest but sank down to his stomach, where it took offense to the salt pork and gave him a bellyache. From there, his heart sank still further, adding its weight to his feet so they moved slower and slower, until it was an effort to make them move at all. His heart grew heavier the farther he went.

Nightshade’s brain kept telling him he was on an Urgent Mission to save Rhys. The problem was his heart didn’t believe it, so that not only was his heart down around his shoes, flummoxing his feet, his heart was in an argument with his head, not to mention the salt pork.

Nightshade ignored his heart and obeyed his head. The head was Logic, and humans were impressed with Logic and were always stressing how important it was to behave logically. Logic dictated Nightshade would stand a better chance of rescuing Rhys if he brought back help in the form of monks of Majere than if he—a mere kender—stayed with Rhys in the grotto. It was the Logic of Rhys’s argument that had persuaded Nightshade to leave, and this same Logic kept him moving ahead when his heart urged him to turn around and run back.

Atta stayed close at his heels, as she’d been commanded. Her heart must have bothered her as well, for she kept stopping, drawing severe scoldings from the kender.

“Atta! Here, girl! You’ve got to keep up with me!” Nightshade admonished. “We don’t have time for lollygagging about.”

Atta would trot after him because that was what she’d been told to do, but she was not happy, and neither was Nightshade.

The walking itself was another problem. Solinari and Lunitari were both in the sky this night. Solinari was half-full and Lunitari completely full, so that it seemed the moons were winking at Nightshade like mismatched eyes. He could see the ridgeline up above where he walked and he calculated—logically—that on top of this ridge he would find a road, and that road would lead to Flotsam. The ridge didn’t look to be that far away—just a hop, skip, and a jump over some sand dunes, followed by a scramble among some boulders.

The sand dunes proved difficult to navigate, however. Hop, skip, and jump failed utterly. The sand was loose and squishy and slid out from underneath his boots that were already slick from the salt pork. He envied Atta, who pattered along on top of the sand, and wished he had four feet. Nightshade floundered through the sand for what seemed forever, spending more time on his hands and knees than he did on his feet. He grew hot and worn out, and whenever he looked he found the ridge appeared to be moving farther away.

All things do come to an end, however, even sand dunes. This left the boulders. Nightshade figured boulders had to be better than dunes, and he started climbing the ridge with relief.

Relief that soon evaporated.

He didn’t know boulders came in such immense sizes or that they would be this sharp, or that climbing them would be this difficult, or that the rats living among the boulders would be this big and nasty. Fortunately, he had Atta with him, or the rats might have carried him off for they weren’t in the least afraid of a kender. They did not like the dog, however. Atta barked at the rats. They glared at her with red eyes, chittered at her, then slunk away.

After only a short sojourn among the boulders, Nightshade’s hands were cut and bleeding. His ankle hurt from where he’d slipped and wedged it in a crack. He had to stop once to throw up, but that at least took care of the salt pork problem.

Then, just when it seemed like these boulders must go on forever, he reached the top of the ridge.

Nightshade stepped out on the road that would take him to Flotsam and the monks, and he looked up the road and he looked down the road. His first thought was that the word “road” was paying this strip of rocky wagon ruts a compliment it did not deserve. His second though was more somber. The so-called road stretched on and on, as far as he could see in both directions.

There was no city at the end of either direction.

Flotsam was immense. He’d heard stories about Flotsam all his life. Flotsam was a city that never slept. It was a city of torchlight, tavern lights, bonfires on the beaches, and home fires shining in the windows of the houses. Nightshade had assumed that when he reached the road, he’d be able to see Flotsam’s lights.

The only lights he could see were the cold, pale stars and the maddening winking eyes of the two moons.

“So where is it?” Nightshade turned one way, and then the other. “Which way do I go?”

Truth sank home. Truth sank his heart. Truth sank logic.

“It doesn’t matter which way Flotsam is,” said Nightshade in sudden, awful realization. “Because no matter which way Flotsam is, it’s too far. Rhys knew it! He knew we’d never make it to Flotsam and back in time. He sent us away because he knew he was going to die!”

The kender sat down in the dirt and, wrapping his arms around the dog’s neck, he hugged her close. “What are we going to do, Atta?”

In answer, she pulled away from him and ran back to the boulders. Halting, she looked at him eagerly and wagged her tail.

“It won’t do any good to go back, Atta,” said Nightshade miserably. “Even if I could climb down those stupid rocks again without breaking my neck, which I don’t think I can, it wouldn’t matter.”

He wiped the sweat from his face.

“We can’t save Rhys, not by ourselves. I’m a kender and you’re a dog. We need help.”

He sat in the road, mired in despair, his head in his hands. Atta licked his cheek and nudged him with her nose under his armpit, trying to prod him into action.

Nightshade lifted his head. A thought had occurred to him, a thought that made him burning mad.

“Here we are, Atta, half-killing ourselves to help Rhys, and what is his god doing all this time? Nothing, that’s what! Gods can do anything! Majere could have put Flotsam where we could find it. Majere could have made that squishy sand hard and those sharp boulders soft. Majere could make Rhys’s chains fall off! Majere could send me six monks right now, walking along the road to save Rhys. Do you hear that, Majere?” Nightshade hollered up to heaven.

He waited a few moments, giving the god a chance, but six monks did not appear.

“Now you’ve done it,” said the kender ominously, and he stood up on his two feet, and he gazed up into the heavens, put his hands on his hips and gave the god a talking-to.

“I don’t know if you’re listening to me or not, Majere,” Nightshade said in stern tones. “Probably not, since I’m a kender and no one listens to us, and also I’m a mystic, which means I don’t worship you. Still, you know, that shouldn’t make any difference. You’re a god of good, according to what Rhys says, and that means you should listen to people—all people, including kender and mystics—whether we worship you or not.

“Now I can understand where you might not consider it quite fair of me to be asking you for help, since I’ve never done anything for you, but you’re a lot bigger than me and a lot more powerful, so I think you could afford to be magenta or magnesium, or whatever that word is which means being kind and generous to people even if they don’t deserve it.

“And maybe I don’t deserve your help, but Rhys does. Yes, he did leave off worshipping you to worship Zeboim, but you must know he did that only because you let him down. Oh, I’ve heard all that talk about how we’re not supposed to understand the minds of the gods, but you gods are supposed to understand the hearts of men, so you should understand that Rhys left because he was angry and hurt. Now you’ve taken him back and that’s really good of you, but after all, it’s no more than what you should have done in the first place, because you’re a god of good, so you’re not getting much credit from me for that.”

Nightshade paused to draw a breath and to try to sort out his thoughts, which had gotten rather muddled. This done, he continued his argument, growing more heated as he went. “Rhys proved his loyalty to you by turning down Zeboim when she would have rescued him and us, too, and he’s proving his loyalty by sitting in that cave waiting to die when Mina comes back to torture him. What are you doing in return? You’re leaving him chained up in that grotto!”

Nightshade raised his arms and his voice and shouted. “Does this make any kind of sense to you, Majere?”

He fell silent, giving the god time to respond.

Nightshade heard sea gulls squabbling over a dead fish, waves crashing on the shore, and the wind making the dead grass crackle. None of this sounded to him like the voice of a god.

Nightshade heaved a sigh. “I guess I could offer you something to make this worth your while. I could offer to become one of your faithful, but—to be honest—that would be a lie. I like being a nightstalker. I like helping dead souls find their way off this world if that’s what they want, and I like keeping them company if they’d rather stay. I like the feeling I get when I cast one of my mystical spells and the spirit of the earth creeps into me and wells up inside my heart and spills out into my fingertips, and my hands go all tingly and I—me, a kender—can make big, huge minotaur keel over.

“So I guess I can’t bargain with you, and you know what, Majere, I don’t think people should have to bargain with gods. Why? Because you are a god and because you’re great, wonderful and powerful, and because I’m just a kender, and Atta’s just a dog, and Rhys is just a man, and we need you. So send me those six monks and be snappy about it.”

Nightshade lowered his arms, heaved a tremulous sigh and waited expectantly.

The gulls’ quarrel ended when one of them flew off with the fish. The waves continued to crash, but they’d been doing that forever. The wind had died away, so the grass was silent. So was the god.

“Maybe not six monks,” Nightshade temporized. “How about two monks and a knight? Or one monk and a wizard?”

Atta whined and pawed at his leg. Nightshade reached down to pet her head, but she slid her head out from under his hand. She looked at him and her eyes narrowed. She was not urging him. She was telling him.

Enough of this nonsense. We’re going back.

Her intense gaze made him go all squirmy inside.

“Now I know what it feels like to be a sheep,” he muttered, trying to avoid her piercing gaze. “Let’s wait just one more minute, Atta. Give the god a chance. It’s those boulders, you see. I don’t have any skin left on my palms— What’s that?”

Nightshade caught sight of movement. He whipped around and stared down the road and saw, in the winking moonlight, two people walking his direction.

“Thank you, Majere!” Nightshade cried and he began running down the road, waving his arms and calling, “Help! Help!”

Atta dashed after him, barking madly. The kender was so excited and relieved he paid no attention to the tone of her bark. He kept running, and he kept yelling, “Boy, am I glad to see you!” and it was only when he was much closer to the two people and took a good look at them that he realized he wasn’t.

Glad to see them.

They were the Beloved.

10

Mina stared out the window at the Blood Sea that was calm in the moonlit darkness. The red light of Lunitari glimmered on the rolling waves, forming a moon glade, a red path across the red water that was stained purple from the night. Mina’s longing carried her out of her prison to the endless eternal sea. The waves lapped at her feet and she strode into the water . . .

Behind her, the door creaked open.

“Chemosh!” Mina said with heartfelt joy. “He has come to me!”

She was back in the room, back in the prison in an instant. Arms outstretched, she turned to welcome her lover, ready to fling herself at his feet and beg his forgiveness.

“My lord—” she cried.

The words died on her lips. Joy died in her heart.

“Krell,” she said, and she made no effort to hide her loathing. “What do you want?”

The death knight clanked ponderously into the room. The helmed head, adorned with the curling rams horns, leered at her. Piggy fire-eyes flared.

“To kill you.”

Krell kicked the door shut. He drew his sword from its scabbard and walked toward her.

Mina drew herself up, faced him with scorn. “My lord will not let you touch me!”

“Your lord doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you,” Krell sneered. “Go ahead. Call out to him. See if he answers.”

Mina remembered the look of hatred Chemosh had given her, remembered he had banished her from his sight, refused to even listen to her. She imagined herself calling to him for help, and she heard in her heart the echoing silence of his refusal.

She could not bear that.

Krell had threatened her before now, but his threats had been all bluster and bravado. He had not dared harm her while Chemosh protected her. This was Krell’s chance. She was alone and helpless. She had no weapons. Not even prayer, for Chemosh had turned his back on her.

Mina searched the room for something, anything, she could use in her defense. Not that it would make a difference. The sharpest sword ever crafted could not so much as dent the death knight’s armor.

She did not mean to die without a fight, however. Her soul would go proudly to the Hall of Souls Passing. Chemosh would not be ashamed of her.

Krell was looking about the room as well, though not for the same reason.

“Where is that strange light coming from?” he demanded. “Have you set something on fire?”

A candlestick stood on a table. The candlestick was made of twisted iron, with a clawed foot and three claw-like hands that held the candles. It was big and it was heavy. The trouble was, it was several paces from her.

“Yes,” said Mina. “I summoned a fire wight.”

She pointed to a part of the room opposite the candlestick.

“A fire wight!” Only Krell would have fallen for that one. His head pivoted.

Mina sprang at the table and lunged for the candlestick. She clasped her hands around the base and grabbed it up and, swinging as she turned, she struck with all her strength at Krell’s helm.

The last time she had fought Krell in Storm’s Keep, she had swept his head from his shoulders. That time, Chemosh had been with her.

No god sided with her this time. No god fought for her.

The iron candlestick crashed against Krell’s helm, but the blow did nothing to him. He might not have even felt it. The shock of the blow and the fell touch of the death knight jarred Mina’s arms from wrist to shoulder, momentarily paralyzing her. The candlestick slipped from her hands that had gone suddenly numb.

Krell turned back to her. He seized her arm, twisted it, and flung her against the wall. She gasped with the pain but did not cry out. He penned her in with his arms, so she could not escape. He shoved his helmed head close to her. She could see the emptiness within and smell the foul stench of corruption and death.

“I wish I were a living man,” he said, gloating over her. “I would have some fun with you before I killed you, just like the old days. I liked seeing the fear in their eyes. They knew what I was going to do to them, and they’d squeal and beg and plead for their miserable lives, and I’d tell them if they were good little girls and let me have my fun with them I’d let them live. I lied, of course. When I was done, I’d wrap my hands around their necks—soft, slender necks, like yours—and choke the life out of them.”

He began to fondle her neck with bruising force.

“I guess I’ll just have to settle for choking you.”

His fingers clasped around her neck and started to squeeze.

Rage—hot and molten and bitter tasting—boiled deep within Mina. Amber light blazed in her eyes. Amber light shot from her fingertips. She grasped Krell’s wrists, yanked his hands from her neck, and flung him off her.

“Living man!” she cried, and her fury shook the castle walls. “You want to be a living man! I grant your wish!”

She pointed at Krell, and amber light suffused him. He screamed and began to writhe inside his armor, and suddenly the armor burst asunder and vanished.

Ausric Krell stood before her, his naked flesh quivering, his naked body shivering. His small piggy eyes were blood-shot, white-rimmed, and staring at her in horrified astonishment.

“Kneel to me!” Mina commanded.

Krell collapsed in a groveling, flabby heap at her feet.

“From now on, you serve me!” Mina told him.

Krell blubbered something unintelligible.

Mina kicked him and he cried out in pain.

“Yes, yes! I serve you!” he whimpered.

Mina walked past the cringing Krell and strode to the door. She touched it, and it burst into amber flame. She walked through the rain of cinders and into the dark hallway. She looked at a stone wall and it melted; stone stairs appeared. She walked the stairs that spiraled round and round, leading upward to the ramparts.

“Tell my lord Chemosh, when he returns”—Mina’s voice rang in Krell’s ears—“that I have gone to obtain his heart’s desire.”

Krell remained in a sodden mass on the floor. He was terrified to open his eyes for fear he might see Mina. At length, however, the stone floor began to hurt his bony knees. The cold raised goosebumps on the flesh of his naked arms and shriveled his private parts. Krell pinched his arm and gave a yelp, then he groaned and cursed.

There was no doubting it. Middle-aged, gray-haired, balding, with sallow skin and sagging gut, he had his wish.

Krell was, once more, a living man.

11

While Ausric Krell was having a very bad time inside Castle Beloved, Nightshade was having a worse time outside it.

He should have recognized Chemosh’s undead disciples at once. If he’d been paying attention, he would have noted that the two men— those he had hoped had been set by the god to save Rhys—coming down the road weren’t men at all. There was no comforting glow about them, no life light burning inside them. They were nothing but lumps in the night. Atta knew. Her bark had been a warning, not a welcome. Now she stood quivering by his side, growling, her teeth barred.

The two Beloved halted. They stared at Nightshade with their empty eyes, and he began to feel uneasy. He didn’t know quite why, though he did sort of remember hearing something from Gerard about someone’s husband being hacked to bits. But he’d been thinking of what was for dinner at the time and hadn’t been paying attention.

The Beloved he’d met previously had all been pretty docile, so long as they weren’t trying to seduce a person, and thus far no human—Beloved or not—had ever tried to seduce Nightshade (not counting that floozy in an alley in Palanthas, and she’d been extremely drunk at the time).

Still, Nightshade didn’t like the way these two were looking at him.

Most of the Beloved didn’t bother to stare at him. Most simply ignored him, and he’d come to prefer it that way.

“Sorry, fellows,” said Nightshade, giving them a wave. “My mistake. I thought you were someone else. Someone alive,” he muttered beneath his breath.

He didn’t know what to do. Should he saunter jauntily past them with a merry “heigh-ho,” or should he turn and run? Instinct voted for turning and running. He was about to obey, when he saw one of the men draw a knife.

“What are you doing?” asked his companion. “It’s a kender.”

“Yes,” said Nightshade, backing up. “I’m a kender.”

“I don’t care,” the man said in a nasty voice. “I’m going to send him to Chemosh.”

“He’s a kender,” his companion reiterated in disgust. “Chemosh doesn’t want kender.”

“He’s right, you know,” Nightshade assured the knife-wielder. “Like they say in the inns, ‘We don’t serve kender. No kender in the Abyss.’ I’ve seen the signs. They’re posted all over.”

He looked around uneasily, but no help was in sight, nothing but empty road. He continued to edge backward.

“Chemosh doesn’t care,” the Beloved returned. “Dead’s dead to him, and killing makes the pain go away.”

He advanced on Nightshade, brandishing the knife. Nightshade could see dark stains on the blade.

“I murdered a woman last night,” the Beloved continued in a conversational tone. “Gutted the bitch. She wouldn’t swear to Chemosh, but my pain eased. Try it yourself. Help me kill this runt.”

Shrugging, the other Beloved picked up a piece of driftwood to use as a club, and both of them walked toward Nightshade.

The Beloved weren’t killing to gain converts to Chemosh anymore, Nightshade realized in dismay. They were just killing!

He was in the act of pointing his finger at the Beloved, ready to drop them like he’d dropped that minotaur, when he remembered suddenly his magic wouldn’t work against them. His heart, which had been in his shoes, now scrambled up his innards to seize him by the throat and shake him. Nightshade had lost precious fleeing time with his almost spell- casting. He made up for it by whipping around and running for all he was worth—and then some.

“Atta, come!” he gasped, and the dog dashed after him. A Nightshade was good at sprinting; he’d had lots of practice outrunning sheriffs, angry housewives, furious farmers, and irate merchants. His sudden burst of speed caught the Beloved off-guard, and he outdistanced them for a bit, but he was already tired from slogging through sand and cutting his hands on boulders. His sprint didn’t have any staying power. His strength began to flag. The ruts in the road and the occasional large clumps of dry weeds, grass, and his pork-slick boots didn’t help.

The Beloved, meanwhile, had picked up speed. Being dead, they could run all month if they wanted to, while Nightshade figured he was good for just a few more moments. He didn’t dare take time to look back, but he didn’t need to—he could hear harsh breathing and thudding footfalls, and he knew they were catching up.

Atta was barking furiously, half-running after Nightshade and half-turning around to threaten the Beloved.

Nightshade’s breath began coming in painful, ragged gasps. His feet lurched and stumbled over the uneven ground. He was about done for.

One of the Beloved seized the kender’s flapping shirttail. Nightshade gave a wrench, trying to free himself, but ended up tumbling head-long into a large patch of weeds. He was ready to fight for his life, when suddenly he was in the middle of what could only be described as an explosion of grasshoppers.

Clouds of the flying, jumping insects whirred into the air. They had been living in the weed patch, and they were furious at being thus rudely disturbed. Grasshoppers were in Nightshade’s eyes, up his nose and crawling down his neck and into his pants. He rolled away from the weed patch, swatting, slapping and squirming. Atta was racing about in circles, snapping and biting at the insects. Nightshade frantically brushed several out of his eyes and then saw, to his astonishment, the hoppers had the Beloved under assault.

The two men were literally crawling with insects. Grasshoppers clung to every part of them. The grasshoppers were inside their mouths and swarming around their eyes and clogging up their nostrils. The buzzing, frantic insects crawled through their hair and festooned their arms and covered their legs, and still more grasshoppers were converging on the Beloved, flying up with angry, whirring sounds from the weeds all along the side the road.

The Beloved flailed their arms and did their own hopping as they fought to drive off the insects but, the more they fought, the more the grasshoppers seemed to take offense and attack them in a frenzy.

The grasshoppers that had been annoying Nightshade seemed to realize they were missing out on all the sport, for they buzzed off to join their fellows. Within moments, the Beloved were lost to sight, trapped inside a whirling cloudburst of insects.

“Golly!” said Nightshade in awe, and then he added, speaking to Atta, “Now’s our chance! Run for it!”

He had one more little burst of energy left in him, and he put his head down, pumped his feet, and went haring off down the road.

He was running, running, running, not watching where he was going, and Atta was panting along beside him when he ran headlong into something—blam!

The kender bounced off and went head over heels to land on his back on the road. Shaking his head groggily, he looked up.

“Golly,” said Nightshade again.

“I am sorry, friend,” said the monk, and he reached down a solicitous hand to assist Nightshade to his feet. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

The monk looked at Nightshade, then the monk looked down the road to where the Beloved were fleeing in the opposite direction, trying to rid themselves of the grasshoppers, which were still attacking them. The monk smiled slightly, and he regarded the kender in concern.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did they harm you?”

“N-no, Brother,” Nightshade stammered. “It’s a lucky thing those hoppers came along. . . .”

The kender had a sudden thought.

The monk was gaunt, slender, and all muscle, as Nightshade had reason to know, for crashing into the monk had been like crashing into the side of a mountain. The monk had iron-gray hair that he wore in a simple braid down the back of his neck. He was dressed in plain robes of a burnished orange color, trimmed with a rose motif around the hem and the sleeves. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw and dark eyes that were smiling now, but which could probably be very fierce if the monk chose.

Nightshade allowed the monk to lift him to his feet. He let the monk brush the dust off his clothes and pluck an errant and stubborn hopper from his hair. He saw that Atta was hanging back, cringing, not approaching the monk, and then and only then did the kender free his voice, which had gotten stuck in his throat.

“Did Majere send you, Brother? What am I saying? Of course, he sent you, just like he sent those hoppers!” Nightshade grabbed hold of the monk’s hand and tugged. “C’mon! I’ll take you to Rhys!”

The monk stood immovable. Nightshade couldn’t shift him and ended up nearly yanking himself off his feet.

“I am searching for Mina,” said the monk. “Do you know where I can find her?”

“Mina! Who cares about her?” Nightshade cried.

He fixed the monk with a stern look. “You’ve got this mixed up, Brother. You’re not looking for Mina. I never asked Majere about Mina. You’re looking for Rhys. Rhys Mason, follower of Majere. Mina works for Chemosh—another god entirely.”

“Nevertheless,” said the monk, “I am searching for Mina and I must find her quickly, before it is too late.”

“Too late for what? Oh, too late for Rhys! That’s why we should hurry! C’mon, Brother! Let’s go!”

The monk did not move. He cast a frowning glance skyward.

“Yeah, peculiar color, isn’t it?” Nightshade craned his head. “I was noticing that myself. Kind of a weird amber glow. I think it must be the Aura Boolyris or whatever they call it.”

The kender grew stern and quite serious. “Now see here, Brother Monk, I’m grateful for the grasshoppers and all, but we don’t have time to stand around blathering about the strange color in the night sky! Rhys is in danger. We have to go! Now!”

The monk did not seem to hear. He gazed off into the distance, as though he was trying to find something, and then he shook his head. “Blind!” he murmured. “I am blind! All of us . . . blind. She is here, but I can’t see her. I can’t find her.”

Nightshade heard the agony in the monk’s voice, and his heart was wrung. He saw something else, too, something about the monk that, like the Beloved, he should have noticed before now. He looked at Atta, cringing and cowering—something the gallant dog never did.

No life light shone from the body of the monk, but unlike the Beloved, the body had an ethereal, insubstantial quality about it, almost as if the monk had been painted on night’s canvas. The pieces of the puzzle started to fall together for Nightshade, falling so hard they smacked him a good one to the side of the head.

“Oh, my god!” Nightshade gasped, then, realizing what he’d said, he clapped his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, sir!” he mumbled through his fingers. “I didn’t mean to take your name in vain. It just slipped out!”

He sank down on his knees and hung his head.

“It’s all right about Rhys, Your Godship,” the kender said miserably. “I know now why you have to go to Mina. Well, maybe I don’t know, but I can guess.” He lifted his head to see the monk regarding him strangely. “It’s all so sad, isn’t it? About her, I mean.”

“Yes,” said the monk quietly. “So very sad.”

Majere knelt down beside Nightshade and rested his hand on his head. He put his other hand on Atta, who lowered her head at the god’s gentle touch.

“You have my blessing, both of you, and Rhys Mason has my blessing. He has faith and he has courage, and he has the love of true friends. Go back to him. He needs your help. My duty lies elsewhere this night, but know that I am with you.”

Majere stood up and looked toward the castle, its walls bathed in the eerie, lurid glow. He began to walk toward it.

Nightshade leaped to his feet. He felt refreshed, as though he’d slept for a week and eaten fourteen enormous dinners into the bargain. His body hummed with renewed strength and energy. He cast a glance down the ridgeline in the direction of the cave, and his joy slipped.

“Brother God!” Nightshade cried. “I’m sorry to bother you again, after everything you’ve done for us. Thank you for the hoppers, by the way, and for your blessing. I feel lots better. There’s just one more thing.”

He waved his hand. “These boulders are difficult to climb over and they’re awfully hard, sir,” he said meekly, “and sharp.”

The monk smiled, and as he smiled, the boulders disappeared and the hillside was awash in lush green grass.

“Wahoo!” Nightshade cried. Waving his arms and shouting, he dashed down the hill. “Rhys, Rhys, hold on! We’re coming to save you! Majere blessed us, Rhys! He blessed me, a kender!”

Atta, glad to be finally heading the right direction, skimmed over the ground, passing the whooping kender with ease and soon leaving him far behind.

12

Rhys sat in the darkness of the grotto, and as death approached, he thought about life. His life. He thought about fear and about cowardice, about arrogance and pride, and, holding fast to the splinter of wood that had cut his flesh, he knelt to Majere and humbly asked his forgiveness.

Majere asks each of his monks to leave his cloistered life and journey into the world at least once in a lifetime. The undertaking of this journey is voluntary—it is not mandatory. No monk is forced to make it, just as no monk is ever forced to do anything. All vows the monks take are taken out of love and are kept because they are worth the keeping. The god wisely teaches that promises made under duress or from fear of punishment are empty of meaning.

Rhys had chosen not to leave the monastery. He would never have admitted this at the time, but he realized now the reason why. He had thought, in his pride and arrogance, that he had attained spiritual perfection. The world had nothing more to teach him. Majere had nothing more to teach him.

“I knew it all,” said Rhys softly to the darkness. “I was happy and content. The path I walked was smooth and easy and went round and round in a circle. I had walked it so long I no longer saw it. I could have walked it blind. I had only to keep going and it would always be there for me.

“I told myself the path circled Majere. In truth, it circled nothing. The center was empty. Unknowing, I walked the edge of a precipice, and when disaster struck and the path shattered beneath my feet, I had nowhere to go. I fell into darkness.

“Even then, Majere tried to save me. He reached out to me, but I rebuffed him. I was afraid. My sunlit, comfortable life had been snatched away from me. I blamed the god, when I should have blamed myself. Perhaps I could not have prevented Lieu from killing my parents if I had been there, but I should have been more understanding of my parents’ pain. I should have reached out to them when they came to me for help. Instead, I repulsed them. I resented them for intruding their pain and their fear into my life. I had no feelings for them. Only for myself.”

Rhys raised his eyes to the heavens he could not see. “It was only when I lost my faith that I found it. How can such a miracle happen? Because you, my god, never lost faith in me. I walk the darkness unafraid, because I have within me your light—”

A chill, pale radiance illuminated the cave, like the light called corpse-candle—the lambent flame that can sometimes be seen burning above a grave and is believed by the superstitious to be an omen presaging death.

The man materialized in the grotto. He was pale and coldly handsome. He had long dark hair and was sumptuously dressed in black velvet and fine, white linen with lace at his cuffs. He regarded Rhys with eyes that had no end and no beginning.

“I am Chemosh, Lord of Death, and who,” the god added, glowering, “are you?”

Rhys rose to his feet, his chains rattling around him, and bowed reverently. He might loathe Chemosh for the evil he brought into the world, yet he was a god and before this god all mankind must one day come to stand.

“I am called Rhys Mason, my lord.”

“I don’t give a damn what you are called!” Chemosh said perversely. “You are Mina’s lover! That’s who you are!”

Rhys regarded the god in amazement so profound he could not think of a reply to this astonishing accusation.

Chemosh himself seemed to be having second thoughts. The Lord of Death looked about the bleak grotto, taking in the chains and the greasy remnants of salt pork, the fetid water and the foul stench, for there had been nowhere Rhys could go to relieve himself except in the cave.

“This is not exactly what I would call a love nest,” Chemosh remarked. “Nor”—he eyed Rhys with distaste—“do you strike me as a lover.”

“I am a monk of Majere, my lord,” said Rhys.

“I can see that,” said Chemosh, his lip curling as he cast a glance at Rhys’s tattered robes that had taken on an orange cast in the eerie light. “The question then becomes—if you are not Mina’s lover, what are you to her? She brought you here—a spindly, flea-bitten monk.” Chemosh drew closer. “Why?”

“You must ask her, my lord,” Rhys said.

He spoke steadily, though that took an effort. Holding fast to the splinter of wood from his staff, Rhys silently asked Majere to give him courage. His spirit might accept the inevitability of death, but his mortal flesh shivered and his stomach clenched.

“Why should you be loyal to her?” Chemosh demanded, irate. “Why is everybody loyal to her} I swear by the High God who created us and Chaos who would destroy us that I do not understand!”

His fury blasted the cavern like a hot wind. Sweating, Rhys dug the splinter’s sharp point into his palm, using pain to keep himself from collapsing.

“She chains you to a wall and torments you—I see the mark of her anger on your cheek. She has either left you here to starve to death or ...”

Chemosh paused, regarded Rhys intently. “She plans to come back. To torture you. Why? You have something she wants. That is the reason.

What is it, Rhys Mason? It must be of great worth. . . .”

Rhys could have given the explanation, but it went against all his convictions. A man’s soul is his own, Majere taught. Its mysteries are for each to reveal or not, as he chooses. Mina had, for whatever reason, chosen to keep her secret. She had not told Chemosh. Though her soul might be black with her crimes, that soul was her own. Her secret was hers, not his, to reveal.

Rhys kept silent. Blood trickled down his palm and between his clenched fingers.

“Your flesh can defy me,” Chemosh said, his breath chill as air flowing from the tomb. “But your spirit cannot. The dead cannot lie to me. When your soul stands before me in the Hall of Souls Passing, you will tell me all you know.”

Then you will be in for a sad disappointment, my lord, Rhys thought ruefully. For, in truth, I know nothing.

Chemosh drew near, his hand outstretched. “I will kill you swiftly. You will not suffer, as you would have done at Mina’s hands.”

Rhys gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. His heart beat fast; his mouth was dry. He could no longer speak. He drew in a breath, undoubtedly his last, and braced himself. Closing his eyes, to blot out the terror of the awful god, he commended his spirit to Majere.

He felt the god’s blessing flow through him, and with his blessing came an exalted serenity and a bark.

A dog’s bark. Right outside the cave. And with Atta’s bark came Nightshade’s shrill voice.

“Rhys! We’re back! Hey, I met your god! He gave me his blessing—”

Rhys’s eyes opened. Serenity drained out of him.

Chemosh half-turned, looked toward the grotto’s entrance. “What is this? A kender and a dog?”

“My traveling companions,” Rhys said. “Let them go, my lord. They are innocents, caught up in this by accident.”

Chemosh looked intrigued. “The kender claims he met your god....”

“He’s a kender, my lord,” Rhys said desperately.

At that unfortunate moment Nightshade shouted, “Hey, Rhys, I’ve come to deal with that Mina-person!” His voice and his footfalls echoed through the grotto. “Atta, not so fast!”

“Deal with Mina?” Chemosh repeated. “He does not sound so innocent. It seems now I will have two souls to question.. . .”

“Nightshade!” Rhys shouted. “Don’t come in here! Run! Take Atta and—”

“Silence, monk,” ordered Chemosh, and he clamped his hand over Rhys s mouth.

The chill of death permeated Rhys’s limbs. The terrible cold was like shards of ice in his blood stream. Cold, searing pain wracked his body. He groaned and struggled.

The Lord of Death kept fast hold on him, his cruel touch freezing the blood. Rhys sank to his knees.

Atta dashed into the chamber. She saw her master on his knees, obviously in distress and a man bending over him. Atta didn’t like this man. There was something fell about him, something that frightened her. The man had no scent, for one thing. Every living thing, every dead thing has an odor, some pleasant, others not so much, but not this man, and that frightened her. The man was, in this, like that loud and obnoxious woman from the sea, and like the monk who had just laid gentle hands on her. None of them had a smell to them, and the dog found that uncanny and terrifying.

Atta was scared. Her simple heart trembled. Instinct urged her to turn tail and run, but this strange man was hurting her master, and that could not be allowed. Her heart swelled in fury, and she leaped to the attack. She did not go for the throat, for the man had his back to her, bending over Rhys. She sought instead to cripple her enemy. Wisdom handed down to her by her ancient ancestor, the wolf, told her how to bring down a larger foe—go for the leg. Break the bone or sever a tendon.

Atta sank her teeth into Chemosh’s ankle.

The aspect of a god is formed of the god’s essence spun into an image that appears mortal to the minds of men. The aspect is visible to the mortal eye, sensible to the mortal touch. The god’s aspect can speak to mortals, hear them and react to them. Since the aspect is made of immortal essence, the aspect feels no pain or pleasurable sensations of the flesh. The god will often pretend to do so, in order to appear more lifelike to mortals. In the case of Chemosh and his love for Mina, the god can even sometimes persuade himself into believing the lie.

Chemosh could not possibly have felt Atta’s sharp teeth freezing onto his leg, but he did. In truth, the teeth Chemosh felt were not those of the dog. They were the teeth of Majere’s wrath. Thus it was that Huma’s dragonlance, blessed by all the gods of good, struck Takhisis’s aspect a blow that she felt and forced her to withdraw, spitting and snarling defiance, from the world. The gods have the power to inflict pain upon each other, though they are loath to do so, for each god knows the dire consequences that might result from such action. The gods resort to such drastic measures only when it is clear to them the balance is about to be overthrown, for Chaos lies just beyond, waiting eagerly for war to break out in the heavens. When that happens, the gods will destroy each other and give Chaos his long-sought victory—the end of all things.

A god will rarely attack another god directly but will act only through mortals. The attack is limited in scope and not likely to cause the aspect severe harm—just enough to let the other god know that he or she has transgressed, gone too far, crossed the line.

Majere’s anger bit into Chemosh’s ankle with Atta’s teeth, and the Lord of Death roared in fury. He turned from Rhys, kicked out his leg and flung Atta off him. Lifting his foot over her body, Chemosh was going to show Majere what he thought of him by stomping this mutt to death.

Rhys still held the splinter of the staff in his bloody hand. It was his only weapon and he jabbed it with all his strength into the god’s back. Majere’s rage drove the splinter deep into the Lord of Death. Chemosh gasped. His kick went wild. Atta leaped to her feet and positioned her body in front of Rhys. Teeth bared, she defiantly faced the god.

At that moment, Nightshade came running into the grotto, his fists clenched.

“Rhys, I’m here—” The kender stopped, stared. “Who are you? Wait! I think I know you! You seem very familiar to me ... Oh, gods!” Nightshade began to shake all over. “I do know you! You’re Death!”

“I am your death, at least,” Chemosh said coldly, and he reached out his hand to throttle the kender.

The ground gave a sudden, violent lurch that knocked Chemosh off his feet. The cavern walls shuddered and cracked. Bits of rock and dirt rained down on them and then, with a small shiver, the earth settled and was quiet.

God and mortals stared at each other. Chemosh was on his hands and knees. Atta crouched on her belly, whimpering.

The Lord of Death picked himself up off the floor. Ignoring the mortals, he stared up into the darkness.

“Which of you shakes the world?” he cried, fists clenched. “You, Sargonnas? Zeboim? You, Majere?”

If there was an answer, the mortals could not hear it. Rhys was barely conscious, consumed by pain, hardly aware of what was going on. Nightshade had his eyes closed, and he was hoping the next time the ground shook it would open up and suck him down inside. Better that than have Death’s cold gaze fall upon him again.

“We will meet in the Abyss, monk,” Chemosh promised and disappeared.

“Whoo, boy,” Nightshade said, shuddering. “I’m glad he’s gone. He could have left us some light, though. It’s dark as a goblin’s innards in here. Rhys ...”

The earth shook again.

Nightshade threw himself flat on the ground, one arm clutching Atta and the other arm covering his head.

The cracks in the grotto’s walls widened. Rocks and pebbles, clods of dirt, and a few dislodged beetles rained down on top of him. Then there tU was a horrendous crashing and grinding sound, and Nightshade shut his eyes tight and waited for the end.

Once more, everything was still. The ground ceased its wild gyrations. Nightshade didn’t trust it, however, and he kept his eyes shut. Atta started to wriggle and squirm beneath his clutching grasp. He let her go, and she scooted out from underneath him. Then he felt one of the beetles crawling in his hair, and that made him open his eyes. He grabbed hold of the beetle and threw it off.

Atta began to bark sharply. Nightshade wiped the grit out of his eyelids and looked around to find that whether his eyes were open or shut didn’t make much difference. It was dark either way.

Atta kept barking.

Nightshade was afraid to stand up for fear he might bash into something, so he crawled on his hands, feeling his way, following the sounds of Atta’s frantic yelps.

“Atta?” He reached out his hand and felt her furry body. She was pawing at something and continuing to bark.

Nightshade groped about with his hands and felt lots of sharp rocks and then something warm and soft.

“Rhys!” Nightshade breathed thankfully.

He felt about and found his friend’s nose and eyes—the eyes were closed. Rhys’s forehead was warm. He was breathing, but he must be unconscious. Nightshade’s hand touched Rhys’s head, and felt something warm and sticky running down the back of Rhys’s neck.

Atta ceased pawing at Rhys and began to lick his cheek.

“I don’t think dog slobber’s going to do him much good, Atta,” said Nightshade, pushing her away. “We have to get him out of here.”

He could still smell salt-tinged air, and he hoped this meant the grotto’s entrance had not collapsed. Nightshade gripped Rhys by the shoulders, gave him an experimental tug, and was heartened to feel his friend’s body slide across the floor. He had been worried that Rhys might have been half-buried in rubble.

Nightshade pulled again, and Rhys came along with him, and the kender was just starting to think they might make it out of here alive when he heard a sound that nearly buried him in despair.

The clank of chains.

Nightshade groaned. He’d forgotten all about the fact that Rhys was chained to the wall.

“Maybe the rock slide dislodged the iron rings,” Nightshade said hopefully.

Finding the manacle around Rhys’s wrist, Nightshade groped his way along the length of chain back to where it was attached to the iron ring, which was still attached—quite firmly—to the wall.

Nightshade said a bad word and then he remembered. He was blessed by a god!

“Maybe he’s given me the strength often dragons!” Nightshade said excitedly, and gripped the chain and winced at the pain of his cut hands. Feeling that one with dragon-strength shouldn’t be put off by jabbing pain, he dug in his heels and shooed Atta out of the way, then pulled on the chain with all his might.

The chain slid through Nightshade’s hands, and the kender sat down on his bottom.

He repeated the bad word. Standing up, he tried again and this time he kept hold of the chain.

The iron ring didn’t budge.

Nightshade gave up. Following the chain, he made his way back to where Rhys lay on the ground, and kneeling beside his friend, he smoothed back the blood-gummed hair from the still face. Atta lay down beside him and began, again, to assiduously lick Rhys’s cheek.

“We’re not leaving, Rhys,” Nightshade told him. “Are we, Atta? You see—she says no, we’re not. Not this time.” He tried to strike a cheerful note. “Maybe the next time the ground shakes, the wall will split right open and knock those iron rings loose!”

Of course, Nightshade said to himself, if the wall does split open the ceiling will crash down on top of us and bury us alive, but I won’t mention that.

“I’m here, Rhys.” Nightshade took hold of his friend’s limp hand and held it tight. “And so’s Atta.”

13

Beneath the red-tinged water of the Blood Sea, inside the Tower of High Sorcery, Basalt and Caele were hard at work scrubbing and polishing, making ready for an influx of wizards —the twenty or so chosen Black Robes who were going to be leaving their homes on land to join Nuitari.

The Tower of the Blood Sea was now open and ready for business.

Following the meeting between the cousins, Nuitari realized there was no longer any need to keep his Tower secret. He gave the news to Dalamar, Head of the Black Robes, and told the elven archmage to issue an invitation to any Black Robes who wanted to come study in the new Tower.

The invitation included Dalamar, who had respectfully declined, saying it was necessary for the Black Robes to maintain their representation in Wayreth. Privately Dalamar thought that he would just as soon be shut up in a tomb as buried beneath the sea, away from the wind and the trees, blue skies and bright sunlight. He said as much to Jenna.

As Head of the Conclave, she was not at all happy about the decision made by the gods. She was opposed to separating the Robes again. The same had been done in the days before the Kingpriest, each Robe claiming its own Tower, with tragic results. Jenna made her opposition known to Lunitari, but the goddess of the Red Moon was so inordinately pleased with having the magnificent Tower of Wayreth all to herself that she would not listen. As for Solinari, his chosen, Coryn the White, was already putting together an expedition of White Robes to go forth to recover the accursed Tower that had formerly been in Palanthas and was now inside the heart of the dark land of the undead, Nightlund.

As for Dalamar, his reservations had nothing to do with the Tower itself, just its location. He considered that a Tower for the Black Robes was long overdue. Only Jenna had serious reservations, and she could not really take time to pursue them as she might have done. The Conclave was in the throes of a bitter argument over how to handle the situation with the Beloved—now that the horrible means of destroying them had become known. The Black Robes were all for recruiting armies of children and sending them forth to do battle. Rumor had it some had done just that.

As the news and the fear spread, any person who had the misfortune to be different from his neighbors or had fallen out with the townspeople, or who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time might be accused of being a Beloved and either arrested or attacked by mobs. Since wizards tended to be mysterious folk who kept to themselves and were generally feared, they became easy targets. Jenna was now hard at work trying to find a magical spell to put a stop to the Beloved, thus far to no avail. A Tower beneath the sea was the least of her worries, so she dropped the argument.

Nuitari had won and he had Chemosh to thank, which the God of the Dark Moon thought extremely ironic.

Inside the Tower, Basalt was making up beds, while Caele mostly stood around watching Basalt. A large pile of mattresses had been hauled up from the storage room. The apprentice mages had to carry each mattress into each room, wrestle it onto the wooden bed frame, then cover it with linens and a blanket.

The two were working in the chambers where the high-ranking Black Robes would reside—each in his or her own private quarters. The mattresses for these beds were made of goose down, the sheets were fine linen, the blankets softest wool. Rooms for lower ranking wizards were smaller and had mattresses of straw. Apprentice wizards shared rooms and in some cases shared mattresses. Thus far, only high-ranking wizards had been invited by the god. They were due to arrive tomorrow morning.

“You’re going to have to help me shift this,” Basalt said. He indicated a mattress on the top of the pile that was out of the reach of the dwarf’s short arms. “I can’t reach it.”

Caele heaved the long-suffering sigh of the overworked and took hold of the ends of the mattress. He gave a half-hearted attempt, then he moaned and clutched his back.

“All this bending and lifting. I’ve torn a muscle.”

Basalt glowered at him. “How did you tear a muscle? The heaviest thing you’ve lifted thus far is a glass of the Master’s best wine, and don’t think I won’t tell him!”

“I was tasting it to see if it had gone bad,” said Caele sullenly. “You wouldn’t want to serve the archmagi bad wine, now, would you?”

“Just help me lift the damn mattress,” growled Basalt.

Caele raised his hands, and before Basalt could stop him, the elf waved his hands and muttered a few words. The mattress floated up off the pile and hung suspended in the air.

“What are you doing? You’re not supposed to be using magic for housekeeping chores!” Basalt cried, scandalized. “What if the Master should see you? End that spell!”

“Very well,” said Caele, and he withdrew the magic, with the result that the mattress crashed down on top of the dwarf, flattening him.

Caele sniggered. Basalt gave a muffled howl. The dwarf emerged from beneath the mattress with murder in his eye.

“You told me to end the spell.” Caele’s lip curled. “I was merely obeying orders. You are the Caretaker, after all—”

Caele stopped talking. His eyes widened. “What is that?”

Basalt’s eyes were white-rimmed. He shivered at the terrible sound. “I don’t know! I’ve never heard anything like it.”

The low rumbling noise, like enormous boulders all being tumbled about, grinding together, came from far, far below their feet. The noise grew louder and louder, coming nearer and nearer. The stack of mattresses began to jiggle. The floor started to shake. Desks and bed frames began to skitter and dance across the floor. The walls quivered.

The shaking entered Basalt’s feet and went from there into his bones. His teeth clicked together, and he bit his tongue. Caele staggered into the pile of mattresses and stood braced against them.

The shaking ceased.

Basalt gave a gasping croak and pointed.

The floor, which had been perfectly level, was now pitched at a steep angle. A bed frame came sliding slowly down the hall with a desk right behind it. Caele pushed himself off the mattresses.

“Zeboim!” he snarled. “The sea bitch is back!”

Basalt staggered across the canting floor, walking uphill, and entered one of the rooms. All the furniture was piled up in a heap against the far wall. Basalt ignored the destruction and headed for the crystal window, which provided a spectacular view of the Tower’s underwater kingdom. Caele followed close at the dwarf’s heels.

Both of them stared out into the water that was thick with red silt churned up from the floor. The silt swirled about the Tower like tides of blood.

“I can’t see a thing in this murk,” Caele complained.

“Nor can I,” said Basalt, frustrated.

The Tower started to shake again. This time the floor canted in the other direction.

Caele and Basalt were run down by a cascade of furniture sliding across the floor. Both ended up slammed against the wall, Basalt trapped by a desk and Caele pinned by a bed frame.

The shaking ceased. Basalt had the strangest feeling that whatever was causing this upheaval was resting, catching its breath.

He shoved aside the bed frame, and ignoring Caele’s pleas for help, ran back to the window and looked out.

His nose pressed against the crystal, Basalt could see, amidst the swirling muck and bits of seaweed and frantically darting fish, a coral reef that snaked up from the ocean floor. Basalt had often enjoyed looking at this reef, for it reminded him of the formations of the underground world in which he’d lived for so long and which, on occasion, he still missed.

From this vantage point, he should be gazing directly across at the reef.

Now, instead, he stared down at the reef. It was several hundred feet beneath him. He looked up and saw moonlight and stars. . . .

“Master,” Basalt breathed, and then he howled, “Master! Nuitari! Save us!

The Tower began to shake again.

14

Mina stood alone on the battlements of the castle of the Lord of Death. An eerie amber glow lit the sky, the water and the land. She was darkness within its center and none could see her, though they were searching. Gods, mortals, all were searching for the reason the earth trembled.

Mina gazed out upon the water. Her love, her longing, her desire flowed from her and became the water. She willed it to be, and the Blood Sea began to boil and bubble. She willed it to be, and the motion of the water grew erratic. Waves crossed and criss-crossed and were flung back on each other.

Mina thrust her hands into the blood-red water and seized hold of the prize, the object of her lord’s desire, the gift that would make him fall in love with her. She shook it loose, then wrenched it from its moorings. Her exertions exhausted her, and she had to stop to rest and recover, then she began again.

The water of the Blood Sea started to slowly swirl around a central point. The Maelstrom—created by the gods to serve forever as warning to mankind in the Fourth Age—returned, moving sluggishly at first, then swirling faster and faster around the vortex that was Mina. Waves crashed against the cliffs, spewing foam and seawater. She felt the salt spray cool on her face. She licked her lips and tasted the salt, bitter, like tears, and the water, sweet, like blood.

Mina raised up her hand, and out of the center of the vortex came an island of black volcanic rock. Seawater poured off the island as it burst from the midst of the maelstrom, the water cascading down shining black crags. Mina placed her prize upon the island, and like a precious jewel on a black salver. The Tower of High Sorcery that had once been beneath the waves now rose above them.

The Tower, with its faceted, crystal walls, caught and held the amber light of Mina’s eyes, as the amber of her eyes caught and held the Tower.

The maelstrom ceased to swirl. The sea calmed. Water ran down the black rocks of the newly born island and poured in sheets down the smooth crystal walls of the Tower.

Mina smiled. Then she collapsed.

The amber glow vanished. Only the light of the two moons, silver and red, gleamed in the walls of the Tower, and these godly eyes no longer winked.

They were wide with shock.

15

Nightshade woke to cold water in his face and a thumping pain in his head. This led him to erroneously conclude that he was a young kender again, back in his bed, being roused by his parents, who had discovered that only a combination of water and a good smack to the cheek would wake the son who spent his nights roaming graveyards.

“It’s still dark, Mother!” Nightshade mumbled irritably and rolled over.

His mother barked.

Nightshade found this strange behavior in a mother, even a kender mother, but his head hurt too much for him to think about it. He just wanted to go back to sleep, so he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the cold water seeping into his britches.

His mother nipped him quite painfully on the ear.

“Now, really, Ma!” Nightshade exclaimed, indignant, and he sat up and opened his eyes.

“Mother?” He couldn’t see a thing, but he could tell by the feel that he wasn’t in bed. He was sitting on a lot of extremely sharp rocks that were poking him in tender places: the rocks were wet and getting wetter.

A bark answered him, a rough tongue licked his face, a paw with sharp nails scratched at him, and Nightshade remembered.

“Rhys!” He gasped and reached out to touch Rhys’s hand. Rhys was only lukewarm, and he was also wet.

Nightshade had no idea why a previously bone-dry grotto should now be filling up with seawater, but that was apparently what was happening. He could hear the water gurgling among the rubble that littered the cavern floor. It wasn’t very deep yet; thus far it was only a trickle. The water might stick to trickling, but again, it might not. It might decide to start flooding. If the grotto flooded, there was nowhere for them to go. The water would keep getting deeper and deeper....

“Rhys,” said Nightshade firmly, and this time he meant it. “We have to get out of here.”

He slammed his hand down on the rocks to emphasize his determination and said, “Ouch!” following that up with a “Damn!”

He had slammed his hand down on a splinter of wood that had buried itself in the soft, fleshy part of his palm. He plucked it out and was about to toss it away, when it occurred to him that finding a splinter of wood here in a grotto was an odd thing. Being a kender, Nightshade was naturally curious—even in such a dire situation—and he ran his hand over the splinter, and noticed it was long and smooth and had a sharp point at both ends.

“Ah, I know. It’s part of Rhys’s staff,” said Nightshade sadly, clasping his hand over it. “I’ll save it for him. A memento. He’ll like that.”

Nightshade heaved a sigh and rested his aching head in his arms, wondering how they were ever going to get out of this horrible place. He felt sick and drowsy and once more he was a little kender, only this time his father was trying to show him how to pick a lock.

“You do it by feel and by sound,” his father was explaining to him. “You put the lock pick in here, and you wiggle it around until you feel it catch—”

Nightshade jerked his head up so fast that blazing pain burst on the backs of his eyeballs. He didn’t notice. Much. He looked down at the splinter in his hand, except he couldn’t see it, what with the grotto being so very dark, but he didn’t need to be able to see. It was all done by feel and sound.

The only problem was that Nightshade had never successfully picked a lock in his life. In many ways, he had been, as father often lamented, a failure as a kender.

“Not this time,” Nightshade vowed, determined. “This time I’ll succeed. I have to,” he added silently. “I just have to!”

He groped about with his hands until he found one of the manacles clamped around Rhys’s bony wrists. The water level was continuing to rise, but Nightshade put that out of his mind.

Atta whimpered softly and licked Rhys’s face and flopped down on her belly alongside him. The fact that she splashed was somewhat disconcerting. Nightshade didn’t let himself think about that. He had other things to think about, the first being to convince his hand to stop shaking. This took a few moments, then, holding his breath and thrusting out his tongue, which is essential to successful lock picking, he inserted the splinter of wood into the lock on the manacle.

“Please don’t break!” he told the splinter, then he remembered the staff had been blessed by the god, so perhaps the splinter was also blessed.

And so, Nightshade remembered suddenly, am I!

“I don’t suppose,” Nightshade muttered, speaking to the god, “that you ever helped anyone pick a lock before, or that you ever wanted to help anyone pick a lock before, but please, Majere, please help me do this!”

Sweat dripped down Nightshade’s nose. He wiggled the splinter around in the lock, trying to find the whatever it was that he was supposed to find that would click and make the lock open. All he knew was that he would feel it, he would trip it, and if he was successful, he would hear it go “snick.”

He concentrated, shutting out everything, and suddenly a sweet feeling stole over him—a feeling of joy, a feeling that everything in this world belonged to him, and that if there were no locks, no closed doors, no secrets, this world would be a much better place. He felt the joy of the open road, of never sleeping in the same place twice, of finding a jail that was warm and dry and a jailer as nice as Gerard. He felt the joy of stumbling across interesting things that glittered, smelled good, or were soft or shiny. He felt the joy of full pouches.

The splinter touched what it was supposed to touch, and something went “snick,” and that was the most wonderful sound in the universe.

The manacle fell open in Nightshade’s hand.

“Father!” he cried excitedly. “Father, did you see that?”

He didn’t have time to wait for an answer, which might be long in coming, for his father had long ago gone off to pick locks in some other existence. Crawling over the debris and through the water, keeping fast hold of the splinter, Nightshade found the manacle that was clamped around Rhys’s other wrist and he thrust the splinter into the lock and it went “snick” too.

Nightshade took a moment to lift up Rhys’s head out of the water. He propped Rhys up on a rock and then fished about until he found Rhys’s feet. Nightshade had to dig them out from beneath a pile of rubble, but Atta helped him, and after more expert lock picking, he heard two more immensely satisfying “snicks”, and Rhys was free.

An extremely good thing, for by now the water level in the grotto had risen so high that, even with his head propped up, Rhys was in danger of drowning.

Nightshade squatted down beside his friend. “Rhys, if you could wake up now, it would be really helpful, because my head hurts, my legs are all wobbly, and there are a lot of rocks in the way, not to mention the water. I don’t think I can carry you out of here, so if you could get up and walk . . .”

Nightshade waited hopefully, but Rhys did not move.

The kender gave another deep sigh then, slipping the precious splinter into a pocket, he reached down and took hold of Rhys’s shoulders, intending to drag him across the grotto floor.

He made it about six inches, then his arms gave out and so did his legs. He sat down with a plop in the water and wiped away sweat.

Atta growled.

“I can’t do it, Atta,” Nightshade mumbled. “I’m sorry. I tried. I really did try—”

Atta wasn’t growling at him. Nightshade heard the sounds of feet—a great many feet—sloshing through water. Then there was bright light that hurt his eyes, and six monks of Majere, clad in orange robes and carrying flaming torches, hurried past the kender.

Two of the monks held the torches. Four monks bent down, picked up Rhys gently by his arms and legs, and carried Rhys swiftly out of the grotto. Atta dashed after them.

Nightshade sat alone in the darkness, staring about in dazed wonder.

Torchlight returned. A monk stood over him, looked down on him. “Are you hurt, friend?”

“No,” said Nightshade. “Yes. Maybe a little.”

The monk placed a cool hand on Nightshade’s forehead. The pain disappeared. Strength flowed into his limbs.

“Thank you, Brother,” said Nightshade, allowing the monk to help him to his feet. He still felt a little wobbly. “I guess Majere sent you, huh?”

The monk did not reply, but he continued to smile, so Nightshade, knowing Rhys didn’t talk much either and assuming maybe this was normal with monks, took the monk’s silence for a yes.

As Nightshade and the monk walked toward the entrance, the kender was in deep thought, and just before they left the grotto, Nightshade grabbed hold of the monk’s sleeve and gave it a tug.

“I spoke to Majere in what you might call a sharp tone,” Nightshade said remorsefully. “I was pretty blunt, and I might have hurt his feelings. Would you tell him I’m sorry?”

“Majere knows that you spoke out of love for your friend,” said the monk. “He is not angry. He honors you for your loyalty.”

“Does he?” Nightshade flushed with pleasure. Then he felt overcome with guilt. “He helped me pick the lock. He blessed me. I suppose I ought to worship him, but I can’t. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“What we believe is not important,” said the monk gently. “That we believe is.”

The monk bowed to Nightshade, who was considerably flustered by this show of respect. He made an awkward bow in turn, bending at the waist, which caused several valuable objects he hadn’t remembered he had to tumble out of his shirt pocket. He dropped down to fish about for them in the water, and it was only after he had either retrieved them or admitted they were gone for good, that he realized the monk and the torch had departed.

By this time, though, Nightshade didn’t need the light. He was enveloped in the strange amber glow he’d noticed earlier.

He walked out of the grotto, thinking he’d never in his life been so glad to leave anywhere and vowing he would never set foot in another cave so long as he lived. He looked around, hoping to talk to the monk again, for he didn’t quite understand that stuff about believing.

There were no monks.

But there was Rhys, sitting on a hillock, trying to calm Atta, who was licking his face and his hands and climbing on top of him, nearly bowling him over with her frantic attentions.

Nightshade gave a glad cry and ran up the hill.

Rhys embraced him and held him fast.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said, and his voice was choked.

Nightshade felt a snuffle coming on himself, and he might have let it get the better of him, but at that moment Atta jumped on him and knocked him down, and the snuffle was washed away in dog slobber.

When Nightshade could at last shove the excited dog off him, he saw Rhys stand, staring out to sea, an expression of wonder on his face.

Solinari’s silver light shone coldly on an island in the middle of the sea. Lunitari’s red light illuminated a tower, black against the stars, pointing, like a dark accusation, toward the heavens.

“Was that there before?” asked Nightshade, scratching his head and pulling off another beetle.

“No,” said Rhys.

“Whoa, boy!” exclaimed Nightshade, awed. “I wonder who put it there?”

And, though he didn’t know it, he was echoing the gods.

16

The first thing Chemosh saw on entering his palace was Ausric Krell, alive and well and naked as the day he’d come (ass-first) into this world. The formidable death knight sat huddled in a corner of the grand hall, bemoaning his fate and shivering.

On hearing the entrance of the Lord of Death, Krell jumped to his feet and cried in fury, “Look what she did to me, Lord!” His voice rose to a screech. “Look!”

Chemosh looked and wished he hadn’t. The sight of the flabby, paunchy, fish-belly pale, hairy middle-aged man’s naked body was enough to turn even a god’s stomach. He glared at Krell in disgust mingled with anger.

“So Zeboim caught up with you,” Chemosh said coldly. “Where is she?”

“Zeboim! It was not Zeboim!” Krell clawed the air with his hands in his rage, as though he were clawing someone’s flesh. “Mina did this! Mina!”

“Don’t lie to me, slug,” said Chemosh, but even as he refuted Krell’s claim, the Lord of Death felt a terrible doubt darken his mind. “Where is Mina? Still locked up?”

Krell began to laugh. His face twisted with loathing and fear. “Locked up.” he repeated, mirth gurgling in his throat as though this were the funniest thing in the world.

“The wretch has gone mad,” Chemosh muttered, and he left the raving Krell to search for Mina.

The night was lit with an amber glow that blazed through the windows and shone through cracks in the wall and chinks in the masonry. Chemosh found it difficult to see for the blaring light, and as he shielded his immortal eyes against it, his doubt grew.

He was heading for Mina’s chambers when the castle shook and walls trembled. A thundering, grinding roar such as he had heard only once before caused him to stand still with astonishment. The last time he’d heard that roar, the world was being born. Mountains were being lifted up, chasms carved through them, and the seas were white with the foam and the glory of creation.

Chemosh tried to see what was happening, but the light was too bright. He ran up the stairs to the battlements and stopped dead in his tracks.

On a new-formed island of black rock stood the Tower of the Blood Sea. The Tower shone with an amber glow, and there was Mina, standing before him with her arms outstretched, and it seemed to his dazzled vision that she held the tower in her hands. Then she sank down onto the stone and lay there unmoving.

Chemosh could only stare.

Zeboim rose from the sea, walked through the ethers and came to stand over Mina.

The three cousins left their celestial homes and came down to look on Mina.

The man-bull, Sargonnas, stepped over the castle wall and planted himself in the courtyard and glared at Chemosh. Kiri-Jolith, armed and accoutered for battle, also appeared; the White Lady, Mishakal, beautiful and strong, by his side. Habakkuk came, and Branchala with his harp, and the wind touched the strings and made a mournful sound.

Morgion stood in the shadows, regarding them all with loathing yet here regardless, among them. Chislev, Shinare, Sirrion stood together, bound by wonder. Reorx stroked his beard. He opened his mouth to say something, then feeling the weight of the silence, the god of the dwarves snapped his mouth shut again and looked uncomfortable. Hiddukel was grim and nervous, certain this would be bad for business. Zivilyn and Gilean arrived last, the two of them deep in talk that hushed when they saw the other gods.

“One of us is missing,” said Gilean, and his tone was dire. “Where is Majere?”

“I am here.” Majere walked among them slowly, his gaze going to none of them. He looked only at Mina and there was, on his face, inexpressible sorrow.

“Zivilyn tells me you know something about this.”

Majere continued to gaze down at Mina. “I do, God of the Book.”

“How long have you known?”

“Many, many eons, God of the Book.”

“Why keep this a secret?” Gilean asked.

“It was not mine to reveal,” Majere replied. “I gave my solemn oath.”

“To whom?” Gilean demanded.

“To one who is no longer among us.”

The gods were silent.

“I assume you mean Paladine,” Gilean stated. “But there is another who is no longer with us. Does this have something to do with her?”

“Takhisis?” Majere spoke sharply. His voice hardened. “She was responsible for this.”

Chemosh spoke. “Her last words, before the High God came to take her, were these: ‘You are making a mistake! What I have done cannot be undone. The curse is among you. Destroy me and you destroy yourselves.’”

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” Sargonnas roared.

“She was always making threats.” Chemosh shrugged. “Why was this any different?”

The other gods had no answer. They stood silent, waiting.

“The fault is mine,” Majere said at last. “I acted for the best, or so I believed.”

Mina lay cold and still. Chemosh wanted to go to her, but he could not, not with all of them watching him. He said to Majere, “Is she dead?”

“She is not dead, because she cannot die.” Majere looked at each of them, each and every one. “You have been blind, but now you see the truth.”

“We see, but we do not understand.”

“You do,” said Majere. He folded his hands and gazed out into the firmaments. “You don’t want to.”

He did not see the stars. He saw the stars’ first light.

“It began at the beginning of time.” he said, “And it began in joy.” He sighed deeply. “Now, because I did not speak, it could end in bitter sorrow.”

“Explain yourself, Majere!” growled Sargonnas. “We have no time for your blathering!”

Majere shifted his gaze from the time’s beginning to the present. He looked at his fellows.

“You need no explanation. You can see for yourselves. She is a god. A god who does not know she is a god. She is a god who was deceived by Takhisis into thinking she is human.”

“A god of Darkness!” said Sargonnas, exultant.

Majere paused. When he spoke, his voice was soft with sorrow. “She was tricked by Takhisis into serving Darkness. She is—or was—a god of Light.”