Amber and Ashes

1

Mina ran her fingers through the man’s fair hair. He had soft, fine hair, like that of a child. The bangs were cut short and fell over his forehead, and she brushed it out of the way to see his eyes. She could not recall his name. She never remembered their names. She remembered the eyes, however, remembered the seeking, the yearning, and wondering. Pain, sometimes, unhappiness, anger, frustration. Adoration, of course. They all adored her. The young man seized her hand and kissed her fingers.

During the War of Souls, her soldiers had adored her. They adored her as she led them to death. Adored her as she knelt over them and prayed for them, sent their souls into the vast river of the lost. She saw the fear in their eyes, fear of the unknown.

So much fear. The fear of life, of living. She had the power to take away the fear. Take away the unknown. At her kiss, the spirit left the body, tottered a short distance, arms extended to Chemosh, as a babe totters to its mother. Chemosh sent the spirit back to the body, bathed, cleansed, stripped of all uncomfortable feeling. No love, no guilt, no anguish, no jealousy…

“You will be beloved of Chemosh,” she said to the young man, his lips warm on her open palm. “You will have unending life. An end to pain. You will never know cold or hunger.”

“One god’s the same as another, I suppose,” said the young man, and his breath was hot on her neck. “They promise and never deliver, at least from what I hear.”

“Chemosh will give you all that I have promised,” Mina said, brushing back the fair hair. “Will you take him for your god?”

“If you come with him,” said the young man, and he laughed.

“She comes with him,” said a voice. “She brings him.”

Her lover sprang to his feet. They had spread a blanket in a secluded place on the riverbank, a bower of damp leaves and tree roots and crushed grass.

“Who are you?” the young man demanded of the handsome, elegantly dressed god who seemed to have sprung from the earth, for he had heard no sound of his approach.

“Chemosh,” he answered, and as the young man’s jaw dropped, the god reached out his hand and touched the young man on his chest, over his heart. “And you are mine.”

The young man gasped in pain and clutched his chest. His body shuddered. He sank to his knees. His eyes stared at the god, as the light slowly faded from them. He pitched forward on his face and lay still. Chemosh stepped over the body. He looked at Mina, his expression dark and frowning.

“I do not like this,” he said.

“How have I displeased you, my lord?” asked Mina. She rose with dignity to face him. “I do all that you require of me.”

What she had said was perfectly true and that only made Chemosh angrier; that and the fact that he did not understand why he should be angry with her at all.

“You are a High Priestess of the Lord of Death,” Chemosh stated. “It is not fitting that these yokels should paw at you with their coarse, ham-fisted hands. You seem to take great pleasure in their pawing and mauling, however. Perhaps I do wrong to stop you.”

“My gentle lord,” said Mina, moving close to him, looking up at him. Her amber eyes, liquid and golden, poured over him.

“You command me to bring these young ones to you. I obey your commands.”

She moved closer still, so that he could feel her warmth, smell the fragrance of her hair and the scent of her flesh that was still soft and pliable with desire.

“The hands that touch me are your hands,” she said to him. “The lips that kiss mine are your own. None other.”

Chemosh took her in his arms and kissed her hard, brutally, venting his anger on her, who was the cause of it, though he could not say precisely why. Mina returned his kiss, fierce and desperate, as on the field of battle, when all the turmoil of the fight fades away and leaves the two combatants, locked together in a precious moment that will live until one of them dies.

“My lord…” Mina breathed. “Would you have me grant him your blessing?”

She gestured to the body of the young man that lay upon the blanket beside the river bank.

“I will deal with it,” he said and, bending down, he placed his hand on the young man’s still breast.

The eyes of the corpse opened. He had green eyes and fair blonde hair. He looked to Chemosh and he knew the Lord of the Dead, and there was reverence in his gaze. He rose to his feet and bowed.

“You are one of my Beloved,” Chemosh said to the young man. “Travel east, into the morning of your new life. And, as you go, find others who will swear to worship me and bring them to my service.”

“Yes, lord.” The young man made another low bow to Chemosh, who brushed him off with a wave of his hand.

The young man’s eyes stole to Mina, who smiled on him, a smile that didn’t know his name. Chemosh’s brows lowered, and the young man turned and ran away.

“If you can wrench your mind from your conquest, perhaps we can get back to business,” Chemosh said. He knew he was being unjust. Mina was doing nothing more than he had instructed her to do. He couldn’t help himself, however.

“You are in an ill humor this day, my lord,” said Mina, entwining her hands over his arm. “What has happened to cast this dark shadow over you?”

“You would not understand,” he said shortly, pushing her hands aside. “You are a mortal.”

“A mortal who has touched the mind of a god.”

Chemosh looked at her sharply. If she was smiling, smug and triumphant, he would slay her where she stood.

He saw her serious, unknowing. She loved him, adored him. He sighed deeply, reassured.

“It is Sargonnas. The horned god puffs and struts about heaven as if he were the king of us all.” Chemosh fumed as he walked, pacing back and forth along the river bank. “He flaunts his victories in Silvanesti, brags that he has crushed the elves, laughs at how he has cozened the ogres into believing that his minotaur are their allies. He boasts that he and his cows will soon be the unchallenged rulers of the eastern third of Ansalon.”

“Mere braggadocio, my lord,” said Mina dismissively.

“No,” said Chemosh. “The bull-god may be a boorish churl, but he has a crude sort of honor and does not lie.” Chemosh halted in his pacing, turned to face Mina. “It is time for us to put our plan into action.”

“Surely, it is early yet, my lord,” Mina protested. “The numbers of our Beloved grow, but there are not near enough and they are mostly in the west of Ansalon, not the east.”

Chemosh shook his head. “We cannot wait. Sargonnas gains in strength daily and the other gods are either blind to his ambition or too preoccupied with their own concerns to see the danger. If he wins the east, do they truly believe he will be content with that? After centuries of being trapped on their isles, the minotaur have finally gained a foothold upon the main continent. He seeks to rule not only the east, but all the world and heaven into the bargain.”

Chemosh clenched his fist. “I am the only one who is in a position to challenge him. I must act now before he grows stronger still. Where is that fool, Krell?” He glanced about, as though the death knight might be hiding under a rock. “Committing mayhem somewhere, I suppose, my lord,” said Mina. “I have not kept track of him.”

“Nor have I. I will summon him to meet us in the Abyss. You must leave this plane for a time, Mina. Leave your work that is so dear to you.”

He cast a scathing glance at the rumpled blanket, the imprint of two intertwined bodies still fresh upon it.

“You are dear to me, my lord,” said Mina softly. “My work is just that—my work.”

Chemosh saw his reflection in her amber eyes. He saw no other. He took hold of her hands and pressed them to his lips. “Forgive me. I am not myself.”

“Perhaps that is the problem, my lord,” said Mina.

He paused, thinking this over. “Maybe you are right. I am not even sure what ‘myself’ is these days. It was easier when Takhisis and Paladine held sway in heaven. We knew our places then. We may not have liked it. We may have railed against them and chafed beneath the yoke, but there was order and stability in heaven and in the world. There is something to be said for peace and security, after all. I could sleep with both eyes closed instead of keeping one always open, always on the lookout for someone sneaking up behind me.”

“So you lose a few eons of sleep, Lord,” said Mina. “It will all be worth it, when you are the ruler and the others bow to you.”

“How did you gain such wisdom?” Chemosh took her in his arms, held her close, and pressed his lips against her neck. “I have made a decision. No longer will rough mortals fawn over you. No more clumsy mortal lips will bruise your flesh. You are loved of a god. Your body, your soul, are mine, Mina.”

“They have always been, my lord,” she said, shivering in his embrace.

Darkness closed over Chemosh, enfolded him and surrounded her, carried them both to a deeper, thicker, warmer darkness, lit with the single candle flame of ecstasy.

“And will always be.”

Chemosh returned to the Abyss to find it dark and dreary. He had no one but himself to blame. He could have lit the Abyss bright as heaven, filled it with chandeliers and candelabra, glowing lamps, and glimmering lanterns. He could have peopled it, furnished it, added song and dance. In eons past he had done so. Not now. He loathed his dwelling place too much to try to change it. He wanted, needed, to be among the living. And now was the time to start to put his plan to gain his heart’s desire into action.

He waited impatiently for Krell and was pleased to hear at last the clank and rattle of the death knight, clumping his way through the Abyss, making heavy going of it, as though he were slogging through the thick mud of a battle field. His eyes were two pinpoints of red. Small and set close together, they reminded Chemosh of the eyes of a demonic pig.

Longing for something better to look upon, Chemosh shifted his gaze to Mina. She was dressed in black, a silken gown that flowed over the curves of her body like the touch of his hands. Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing. He could see the faint quiver of the pulse of life beating in the hollow of her throat. He suddenly wished Krell a thousand miles away, but he could not indulge himself, not yet.

“So, Krell, here you are at last,” said Chemosh briskly. “Sorry to call you away from slaughtering gully dwarves or whatever it was you found to amuse yourself, but I have a task for you.”

“I was not slaughtering gully dwarves,” returned Krell sullenly. “There’s no pleasure in that, no fight in the little beasts. They simply squeal like rabbits and then fall down and piss themselves.”

“It was a jest, Krell. Were you always this stupid or did death have a bad effect on you?”

“I was never one for jests, my lord,” said Krell, adding stiffly.

“And you should know where I was. It was you who sent me. I was following your orders, bringing new recruits to you.”

“Indeed?” Chemosh put the tips of his fingers together, tapped them gently. “And is that going well?”

“Very well, my lord.” Krell rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself. “I think you will find my recruits far more satisfactory than others.”

He cast a glance at Mina. She had rescued him, freed him from the tormenting goddess and his rock-bound prison, but he hated her, for all that.

“At least my recruits are trustworthy,” Mina returned. “They aren’t likely to betray their master.”

Krell clenched his fists and took a step toward her.

Mina rose from her chair to face him. Her skin was pale, her eyes glinting gold. She was fearless, beautiful in her courage, radiant in her anger. Chemosh allowed himself a moment’s pleasure, then wrenched himself back to business.

“Mina, I think you should leave us.”

Mina cast a distrustful glance at Krell. “My lord, I do not like—”

“Mina,” Chemosh said. “I gave you an order. I told you to leave.”

Mina seemed inclined to argue. One glance at the god’s dark and glowering face, however, and she subsided. She gathered up her long skirts and departed.

“You need to keep her in line,” Krell advised. “She’s getting a bit above herself. As bad as a wife. You should just kill her. She’d be less trouble dead than alive.”

Chemosh rounded on the knight. The light in the eyes of the god was fell, a light darker than the darkness. What little there was left of the death knight shriveled up inside his armor.

“Do not forget that you are mine now, Krell,” said Chemosh softly, “and that, with a flick of my finger, I can reduce you to a pile of bird droppings.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Krell, subdued. “Sorry, my lord.”

Chemosh summoned a chair, summoned another chair, summoned a table, and placed it between the two of them.

“Sit down, Krell,” he said testily. “I understand that you are fond of the game of khas.”

“Maybe I am, my lord,” said Krell warily, suspecting a trap.

He glared hard at the chair, which had materialized out of the darkness of the Abyss. When he thought Chemosh wasn’t looking, Krell gave the chair a surreptitious poke with his finger.

“Sit, Krell,” Chemosh repeated coldly. “I like eyes—even pig’s eyes—on a level with mine.”

The death knight lowered his armor-encased nothingness ponderously into the chair.

Chemosh waved his hand, and a single point of light shone down upon a khas board.

“What do you think of these pieces, Krell?” Chemosh asked casually. “I had them specially made. They’re carved out of bone.”

Krell was about to say he didn’t give a damn if they were carved out of horse manure, but then he caught Chemosh’s eye. With a gloved forefinger and thumb, Krell picked up one of the pawns, carved to resemble a goblin, and made a show of admiring it.

“Nice workmanship, my lord. Is it elven?”

“No,” said Chemosh. “Goblin. These pieces are elven.” He gestured to the two elf clerics.

“I didn’t know goblins could carve as well as this,” Krell remarked, pinching the goblin by the neck as he peered at it intently.

Chemosh sighed deeply. Even the life of a god was too short to deal with someone as thick-headed as Ausric Krell.

“It isn’t carved at all, you dull-witted lunk head. When I said it was made of bone, I meant that it is— Oh, never mind. That’s a goblin you’re holding. A dead one, shrunken down.”

“Ha, ha!” Krell laughed heartily. “That’s a good one. And these are dead elves?” He gave one of the clerics a poke. “And is this a dead kender—”

“Enough, Krell!” Chemosh drew in a deep breath, then continued as patiently as he could. “I am about to launch my campaign.”

The god placed his elbows on the table, on either side of the khas board, and leaned over it, as though contemplating a move.

“The action I plan to take will, of necessity, attract the attention of the other gods. Only one poses a significant threat to me. Only one could be a serious hindrance. In fact, she has already started to seriously annoy me.”

He fixed his eye upon Krell, to make certain he was attending. “Yes, my lord.” Krell looked less stupid now. Campaign, battle—these were things he understood.

“The goddess who concerns me is Zeboim,” Chemosh said. Krell grunted.

“She has come across a follower—a disenfranchised monk of Majere—who has stumbled upon the secret of the Beloved of Chemosh. He has told Zeboim, and she is threatening to expose me unless I return you to Storm’s Keep.”

“You’re not going to do that, are you, my lord?” Krell asked nervously.

Reaching out his hand, Chemosh picked up one of the pieces from the side of darkness—the piece known as the knight. He fondled the piece, twisted it in his hand.

“As a matter of fact, I am. Wait!” He raised a hand, as Krell squealed in irate protest. “Hear me out. What do you think of this move, Krell?”

He slowly and deliberately placed the piece in front of the black queen.

“You can’t make such a move, my lord,” Krell rumbled. “It’s against the rules.”

“It is, Krell,” Chemosh conceded. “Against all the rules. Pick up that piece. Take a good look at it. What do you make of it?”

Krell lifted up the piece and peered at it through the eye slits of his helm. “It is a knight riding a dragon.”

“Describe it further,” Chemosh prompted.

“The knight is a Dark Knight of Takhisis,” Krell stated, after closer perusal. “He has the symbol of the lily and the skull on his armor.”

“Most observant, Krell,” remarked Chemosh.

Krell was pleased, not recognizing the sarcasm. “He is wearing a cape and a helm, and he rides a blue dragon.”

“Is there anything at all familiar about this knight, Krell?” Chemosh asked.

Krell held the piece practically to his nose. The red eyes flared. “Lord Ariakan!” Krell stared at the piece, incredulous. “Down to the last detail!”

“Indeed,” said Chemosh. “Lord Ariakan, beloved son of Zeboim. Your task is to guard that khas piece, Krell. Keep it safe and follow my orders to the letter. For this is how we will keep the Sea Queen penned up on her side of the board, completely and utterly helpless.”

The death knight’s red eyes fixed on the piece, and flickered, dubious. “I don’t understand you, my lord. Why should the goddess care about a khas piece? Even if it does look like her son—”

“Because it is her son, Krell,” said Chemosh. He leaned back in his chair, put his elbows on the arms, and placed the tips of his fingers together.

Krell’s hand twitched and he nearly dropped the piece. He set it down hastily and drew back away from it.

“You can touch him, Krell. He won’t bite you. Well, he would bite you, if he could get hold of you. But he can’t.”

“Ariakan is dead,” Krell said. “His mother took away his body—”

“Oh, yes, he’s quite dead,” Chemosh agreed complacently. “He died, by your treachery, and his soul came to me, as do all the souls of the dead. Most pass through my hands as fleeting as sparks rising to the heavens, on the way to the continuation of their journey. Others, such as yourself, Krell, are bound to this world in punishment.”

Krell growled, a rumble in the coffin of his armor.

“Still others, like my lord Ariakan, refuse to leave. Sometimes they cannot bear to part from a loved one. Sometimes they cannot bear to part from someone they hate. Those souls are mine.”

Krell’s red eyes flickered, then understanding dawned. He threw back his helmed head and gave a great guffaw that echoed throughout the Abyss.

“Ariakan’s thirst for vengeance against me keeps him trapped here. Now that is a fine jest, my lord. One I can appreciate.”

“I am glad you are so easily amused, Krell. Now, if you can stop gloating for a moment, here are your orders.”

“I am all attention, my lord.”

Krell listened to orders carefully, then asked a few questions that actually bordered on the intelligent.

Satisfied that this part of his plan would proceed, Chemosh dismissed the death knight.

“I trust you will not mind returning to Storm’s Keep, Krell?” “Not so long as I am free to depart when I want to, my lord,” said the death knight. “I can leave once my duty’s done?”

“Of course, Krell.”

The death knight picked up the khas piece, stared at it a moment, sniggered, then stuffed it into his glove. “Truth to tell, I’ve kind of missed the place.”

“Keep that khas piece safe,” Chemosh warned.

“I will not let it out of my sight,” Krell returned with a chuckle. “On that you can count, my lord.”

Krell stalked off, still laughing to himself.

“Mina,” said Chemosh, displeased, “were you spying on me?” “Not spying, my lord,” said Mina, coming to him from the darkness. “I was concerned. I do not trust that fiend. He betrayed his lord once. He will do so again.”

“I assure you that I am capable of dealing with him, Mina,” said Chemosh coldly.

“I know, my lord. I am sorry.” Mina moved close to him. She slid her arms around him, nestled near him. Her head rested on his breast.

He could feel her warmth, smell the perfume of her hair that brushed against his skin.

She will be less trouble to you dead than alive.

It was, after all, a consideration.

“Why are you concerned about Zeboim, my lord?” Mina asked, unaware of his thoughts. “I know that there is this monk who has been nosing about, but all you would have to do is to give me leave to deal with him—”

“The monk is a nuisance,” said Chemosh. “Nothing more. I threw him onto the pile just to let the goddess know that I know what she has been up to. And also to distract her from my true purpose.”

“And what is that, my lord?”

“We are going on a hunt for buried treasure, Mina,” said Chemosh. “The richest cache of treasure known to man or gods.”

Mina stared, perplexed. “What need do you have of treasure? Wealth is as dust to you.”

“The treasure I seek does not consist of such paltry things as steel coins, or gold crowns, silver necklaces, or emerald gewgaws,” Chemosh returned, scoffing. “The treasure I seek is made of material far more valuable. It is made of—myself.”

She gazed at him, looked long into his eyes. “I think I understand, my lord. The treasure is—”

He laid his finger on her lips. “Not a word, Mina. Not yet. We do not know who may be listening.”

“May I ask where this treasure lies, my lord?”

He took her in his arms, folded her in his embrace, and said softly, “The Blood Sea. That is where we will go, you and I, once certain prying eyes are closed and pricking ears shut.”

2

Lord Ausric Krell loathed Storm’s Keep. He had been elated to be free of the place, had sworn he would never more set foot upon it, unless it be to demolish it, yet when he found himself standing once more upon the wind and wave-swept stones of the courtyard, he felt true pleasure. He had left a prisoner, sneaking out in ignominy, and now he was lord and master.

He laughed out loud to hear the puny plashing waves breaking on the rocks. Leaning over the edge of the cliff, he made a rude gesture at the sea, shouted out an obscenity. He laughed again and strode with brisk steps back across the courtyard, heading for the Tower of Lilies and the library. Zeboim would soon realize he had returned and he had to have everything in readiness.

Zeboim was in the Blood Sea, assisting her father, Sargonnas, when she heard Krell’s curse. The minotaur were launching a grand expeditionary force to firmly clinch their hold on Silvanesti. A fleet of ships—battle ships, supply ships, troop transports and ships filled with immigrants—were leaving the minotaur isles, setting sail for Ansalon.

This was Sargonnas’s moment of supreme triumph and he wanted nothing to mar it. He asked his daughter for calm seas and favorable winds and Zeboim, having nothing better to do, agreed to grant his request. In return, the minotaur gave her lavish gifts and fought games in her honor in their Circus.

Blood spilt in her name. Bracelets of gold and earrings of silver decking her altars. How could a goddess refuse?

Sails billowed. The winds capped the blue sea with white froth that bubbled and broke beneath the leaping bows of the minotaur vessels. The minotaur sailors sang songs and danced on the rolling decks. Zeboim danced with them upon the sparkling water.

And then came Krell’s voice rolling across the world.

He cursed her name. He cursed her wind and water. He cursed her, and then he laughed.

Turning her far-seeing eyes his direction, Zeboim saw Krell standing on a cliff atop Storm’s Keep.

The goddess did not stop to think. She did not ask herself how he came to be there or why he felt so bold as to be able to challenge her. Swift as raging flood waters sweeping down out of the mountains, Zeboim swept through the heavens and broke upon Storm’s Keep in a torrent of fury that lashed the seas and caused them to rise up and crash over the cliffs.

Zeboim sensed Krell’s foul presence in the Tower of Lilies. She smote the heavy door that led to the Tower, splintered it, and with a wave of her hand, sent the wreckage flying to the four corners of the compass. She blew through the chill stone corridors, so that they were awash in sea water, to find Krell sitting at his ease in a chair in the library.

The goddess was always too impatient to be observant of details, which were meaningless to her anyway. Zeboim saw nothing except the death knight. She was suddenly, dangerously calm, as the seas before the hurricane, when, the sailors say, the wind “eats” the waves.

“So, Krell,” said Zeboim, soft and menacing, “Chemosh has tired of you at last and thrown you back upon the refuse heap.”

“Really, now, Madame,” said Krell, leaning back comfortably in his chair and crossing his legs. “You should not speak of this fine fortress that you yourself built for your beloved son—the late and most lamented Lord Ariakan—as a refuse heap.”

Zeboim crossed the room in a bound. Lightning flared in the skies, and thunder cracked. The air sizzled with her anger. She loomed over him, roaring and sparking.

“How dare you sully his name by speaking it! The last time you did that, I cut out your tongue with my knife and watched you choke on your own blood. I will give you back your tongue, just so I have the pleasure of cutting it out—”

She raised her hand.

“Careful, Madame,” said Krell imperturbably. “Do not do anything to jostle the khas board. I am in the middle of a game.”

“To the Abyss with your game!” Zeboim reached down to seize hold of the board and upend it, scatter the pieces, stamp on them, pulverize them. “And to the Abyss with you, Ausric Krell! This time I will utterly and finally destroy you!”

“I would not do that, Madame,” Krell said coolly. “I would not touch that khas board if I were you. If you do, you will regret it.”

The tone of his voice—sneering and smug—and a cunning yellow glow in the heart of the red-flame eyes gave the goddess pause. She did not understand what was happening, and a little belatedly, she asked herself the questions that she should have asked before she came to Storm’s Keep.

Why had Krell returned voluntarily to his prison? She had assumed that Chemosh had abandoned the death knight, banishing him back to this fortress. Now that she was paying attention, she sensed the presence of the Lord of Death. Chemosh held his hand protectively over Krell, as Krell was holding his hand protectively over the khas board. Krell was acting with Chemosh’s blessing—a blessing that made Krell daring enough to curse her, defy her.

Why? What was Chemosh’s game? Zeboim did not think it was khas. Struggling to regain at least a semblance of composure, she dug her nails into her palms and bit off the words that would have reduced Ausric Krell to a sizzling heap of molten metal.

“What are you talking about, Krell?” Zeboim demanded. “Why should I give a damn about this khas board or any other khas board, for that matter?”

She spoke disdainfully but, when she thought Krell wasn’t looking, she sneaked a swift, uneasy glance at the board. It seemed ordinary enough as far as khas boards went. Zeboim had never liked khas. She did not like any games, for that matter. Games meant competition, and competition meant that someone won and someone lost. The idea that she might lose at anything was so supremely laughable that it was not worthy of consideration.

“This is a very valuable khas board, Madame. Your son, my lord Ariakan, had it specially made for him. Why don’t you sit down and finish the game with me,” Krell invited. He gestured at the board. “You take the dark pieces. It is your move.”

Zeboim tossed her head and sea foam flicked about the room. “I have no intention—”

“It is your move, Madame,” repeated Ausric Krell, and the red eyes flickered with amusement.

The presence of Chemosh was very strong. Zeboim was tempted to call out to him, then decided that she would not give him the satisfaction. She did not like the fact that Krell kept speaking of her son. Fear stirred in her, irrational fear.

Chemosh had always been a shadowy god, least known to her of any of the gods, keeping to himself, making no friends, forging no alliances. After the return of the gods to the world, Chemosh had grown even more secretive, retiring to deeper, darker shadows. The heat of his ambition could be felt throughout heaven, however, spewing forth steam, causing small tremors, like the molten lava boiling in the dark depths of a mountain.

“I know nothing about this game,” Zeboim said dismissively. “I do not know what pieces to play and I truly do not care.”

“Might I suggest a move, Madame?”

Krell was being officiously polite, but she heard laughter gurgle in his hollow armor. Her hands itched to seize hold of that armor and rend it open. She clasped her hands together to restrain herself.

Krell leaned over the board. His thick, gloved finger pointed. “Do you see the knight on the blue dragon? The one standing next to the figure of the queen? I’m going to take that piece with my rook unless you make a move to stop me.”

The placement of the pieces on the hexes on the board meant nothing to her. The pieces were scattered all about, with some standing on hexes on one side of the board and some standing on hexes on the other; some facing their rulers and others turned away. The knight to which Krell pointed appeared to be in the thick of some type of action, for he and the queen he served were surrounded by other pieces. As was most natural to her, Zeboim concentrated on the queen.

She studied the piece intently and suddenly her eyes widened. She was the queen, standing upon a conch shell, her sea green dress foaming around her ankles, her face carved in delicate detail.

Zeboim’s heart melted. Her son had obviously had this carved in tribute to her. She clasped the piece fondly, loathe to set it down.

“Now that you have picked up the piece, Madame, you must move it,” said Krell. “You might place it on this hex over here. That way, I will not be able to threaten your son.”

Zeboim was still at a loss to know what was going on. “I will play along with your silly game for only so long, Krell,” she warned.

As she started to place the piece where he had indicated, his words suddenly smote her.

That way, I will not be able to threaten your son.

Zeboim dropped the queen. It rolled around on the khas board, knocking over a pawn or two, and finally came to rest at the feet of the black king. The goddess snatched up the knight on the blue dragon. She saw immediately the likeness to Ariakan.

The storm winds dropped. The storm clouds lowered. The ocean waters swirled, lapped ominously upon the rocks of Storm’s Keep. She turned the khas piece of her son in her hand.

“A fine likeness,” she said diffidently.

“Indeed it is,” said Krell in mock serious tones. “I think the sculptor captured Lord Ariakan perfectly. The face is so expressive, especially about the eyes. You can look into them and see his very soul…”

The clouds of Zeboim’s confusion parted, shredded by a chill wind of terror. She had loved Ariakan, adored him, doted on him. His death left a void that all creation could not fill. She looked at the eyes of the khas piece and the eyes of the piece looked back at her, raging, furious, helpless…

Zeboim gave a hollow cry. “Chemosh!” She stared wildly about the room. “Chemosh!” she repeated, her voice rising to a howl of fury and fear and dismay. “Free my son! Free him! Now! This moment! Or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” said Krell.

Reaching out his hand, he plucked the figure of Lord Ariakan from Zeboim’s shaking fingers. “Threaten all you want, Madame. Bluster and blaze. You can do nothing.”

He placed the piece back onto the khas board. The figure of the goddess lay at the feet of the black king, and now she could see that the king was done in the likeness of the Lord of Death. Zeboim stared at it, her throat closing, so that she could barely speak.

“What does Chemosh want of me?” she asked in low, tight tones.

“He wants the seas calm. The winds dead. The waves flat. He wants a certain monk to stop making a pest of himself. Beyond that, no matter what happens anywhere in the world—or beneath it—you will take no action. You will, in short, do nothing, because there is nothing you can do, not without endangering your dear son.”

“What is Chemosh plotting?” Zeboim demanded in smothered tones.

Krell shrugged his shoulders. Picking up the figure of the queen, he moved her off the board and set her to one side, away from the battle. Then he picked up the figure of the knight. He held the knight in his hand, the head pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you agree, Madame?”

Zeboim cast the figure a tormented glance. “Chemosh must promise to free my son.

“Oh, yes,” Krell replied. “He promises. On the day of his triumph, King Chemosh will set free the soul of Lord Ariakan. You have his word.”

“King Chemosh!” Zeboim gave a bitter laugh. “That will never happen!”

“For the sake of your son, Madame, you should pray that it does,” said Krell. “Do you agree?” His gloved fist engulfed the khas piece, hiding it from her sight.

“I agree!” Zeboim cried, unable to think of anything except the tormented eyes of her son. “I agree.”

“Good,” said Krell. He placed the knight back on the board, stood it in front of the black king. “And now I want to get back to my game. You have leave to go, Madame.”

Zeboim’s fury pulsed in her temples, throbbed in her breast, came near to choking her. All over the world, the skies went dark. Seas and rivers began to rise. Ships rocked precariously on turbulent waters. People cried out that Zeboim’s wrath was soon to be unleashed, bringing hurricanes, typhoons, tornadoes, floods, death and ruin. They stared up into the swirling, boiling clouds and waited in terror for the violence of the goddess to break over them.

Zeboim searched the heavens for help. She cried to her father, Sargonnas, but he had ears only for his minotaur. She sought her twin brother, Nuitari, god of the dark moon, but he was nowhere to be found.

They could do nothing, anyway, she realized. She could do nothing.

The goddess gave a deep, shuddering moan. Small droplets of rain fell from the skies. The clouds disintegrated into ragged wisps. The wind died to nothing, not so much as a whisper. The ocean waters went flat.

On Storm’s Keep, the waves licked meekly at the rocks. The thunder clouds rolled away and the sun shone brightly, so brightly that Krell, who wasn’t used to it, found the light annoying and he was forced to leave his khas game to close the shutters.

3

The ships of the minotaur expeditionary force crawled like bugs over a sea that was flat as a mill pond. The rowers of the enormous triremes labored ceaselessly, day and night, until many collapsed of exhaustion. Food and water had to be rationed. Crew and passengers began to sicken and to die. All over the world, ships languished on lifeless oceans. Sailors everywhere prayed to Zeboim for relief. None came. In desperation, some turned to other gods to intercede with Zeboim on their behalf.

Sargonnas, especially, would have been glad to do so. His armies were due to make landfall in Silvanesti in mid-summer, to take advantage of the fine weather to fortify defenses, conquer new lands, build new homes for the immigrants. As slowly as his ships were moving, they might arrive in time to celebrate Yule.

Those that arrived at all…

In a rage, the horned god stomped through the heavens in search of his daughter. He had no idea what perverse whim had seized Zeboim, but her latest tantrum-throwing snit had to end. His plans for the conquest of both the mortal world and the plane of heaven were being thrown into jeopardy.

Sargonnas searched the seas and the rivers, the streams and creeks. He searched among the clouds that no longer boiled and churned but gathered in a gray mass that lay thick and weeping upon the quiet seas. He shredded the mists and tore apart the fog and thundered her name.

Zeboim did not answer. She had vanished and none of the other gods, even the far-seeing Zivilyn, knew where she had gone.

Rhys was also searching for Zeboim. Though much humbler than the gods, he searched for her with equal zeal and so far with equal luck.

Rhys and Nightshade remained in Solace for several days, pursuing their investigations of the robust, life-loving dead. Rhys kept close watch upon his brother, while Nightshade roamed the town, searching for other living corpses. Their numbers were growing. The kender noticed more every day. All of them laughing, talking, drinking, carousing. All of them dark, empty, lifeless shells of flesh.

“Yesterday morning I saw one of them flirting with a young man,” Nightshade told Rhys. “This morning I saw him again.” Rhys cast the kender a questioning glance.

“There was nothing I could do, Rhys,” Nightshade protested, helpless. “I tried to warn him about hanging about that sort of woman. He told me to mind my own business and if he caught me snooping about again he’d beat me to a pulp and stuff me into one of my own pouches.”

“We have to do something to stop these Beloved of Chemosh,’ ” Rhys said. “I’ve managed to prevent my brother from killing several times—more by scaring away the victim than by doing anything to him. He refuses to talk to me, when he remembers me at all, which is rare. He apparently has no memory of me trying to kill him or, if he does, he isn’t holding a grudge, for when I confront him, he merely laughs and walks off. And I can’t be around him day and night. He has no need for sleep. I do.”

He looked in bitter frustrated at Lleu, who was sauntering jauntily down the main street of Solace, his hat tipped back, as if to feel the morning sunshine on his face, except that it was drizzling rain. It had been drizzling rain for days now, and Solace was a sea of mud and sodden, grumpy inhabitants.

Lleu hummed as he went along. Once he’d sung a dance tune. Then he hummed snatches and fragments of it. Now his humming was no longer recognizable, off-key and jarring, as if he’d forgotten the song, which, Rhys thought, he probably had. Just as he forgot from one moment to the next if he’d eaten or drunk. Just as he forgot Rhys. Just as he forgot his victims the moment he’d slain them.

“Rhys,” said Nightshade suddenly, tugging on Rhys’s wet sleeve. “Look! Where’s he going?”

Rhys had been absorbed in his thoughts that were as gloomy as the day, not paying attention. He had assumed that Lleu would be returning to the Trough, which was where he spent his time when he wasn’t making deadly love to some doomed young woman. Rhys peered through the desultory rain to see that Lleu had veered off in a different direction. He was walking toward the main highway.

“I think he’s leaving town,” said Nightshade.

“I think you’re right,” said Rhys, stopping so fast that he took Atta by surprise. She pattered on a few steps before she realized that she’d lost her master. She turned around, fixed him with a hurt look, as though to say he could have given her some notice, before she shook off the rainwater and came trotting back.

“Come to think of it,” said Nightshade. “I didn’t see any of the Beloved when I went through the market this morning and there were none in the Inn, either. There’s usually always one or two hanging about there.”

“They’re moving on,” said Rhys. “I went to visit the parents of poor Lucy. I was hoping to talk to her, but they said that she had disappeared and so had her husband. Look at how Lleu has moved from town to town. Perhaps, after the Beloved of Chemosh fulfill their mission in one place, they are ordered to move on to the next and the next after that. That way, no one becomes suspicious, as they might if they stayed around too long. And they are all traveling east.”

“How do you know that?” Nightshade asked.

“I don’t, for certain,” Rhys admitted, “except that all this time Lleu has been traveling in that direction. It’s as if something is drawing him …”

“Someone,” Nightshade corrected darkly.

“Chemosh, yes,” said Rhys. “For what reason, I wonder? What purpose?”

Nightshade shrugged. He saw no point in continually asking questions that couldn’t be answered and he came back to the practical.

“Are we going after him?”

“Yes,” said Rhys, resuming walking. “We are.”

Nightshade heaved a dismal sigh. “This is not really getting us anywhere you know. Going from one place to the next, watching your brother eat twenty meals a day and drink enough dwarf spirits to choke a kobold—”

“There’s nothing else to be done,” Rhys returned, frustrated. “The goddess is no help. I’ve asked her to assist me in finding this Mina and in trying to discover what Chemosh is plotting. Zeboim won’t answer my prayers. I went to her shrine and found that it was closed, the door locked. I think she’s deliberately avoiding me.”

“So we just follow your brother and hope he leads us somewhere? Somewhere besides the next tavern, that is.”

“That’s right,” said Rhys.

Nightshade shook his head and trudged on. They had traveled only about a quarter of a mile, however, when they heard shouting and the sound of hoof beats.

Rhys stepped to the side of the road. One of the city guard reigned in his horse next to them.

Nightshade flung his hands in the air. “I didn’t take it,” he said promptly, “or ill did, I’ll give it back.”

The guardsman ignored the kender. “Are you Rhys Mason?”

“I am,” Rhys replied.

“You’re wanted back in Solace. The sheriff sent me to fetch you.”

Rhys looked after the figure of his brother, disappearing into the fog and rain. Whatever Gerard wanted with him, it must be urgent for him to send one of his men.

Rhys turned his steps back toward Solace. Nightshade fell in alongside him.

“The sheriff didn’t say anything about wanting kender,” said the guardsman, glowering.

“He is with me,” said Rhys calmly, placing his hand on Nightshade’s shoulder.

The guardsman hesitated a moment, watched to make certain that they were on their way, then galloped back to report. “What do you suppose the sheriff wants,” Nightshade asked, “since it’s not me?”

Rhys shook his head. “I have no idea. Perhaps it has something to do with one of the murder victims.”

“But no one knows they’re murdered except us.”

“Perhaps he has found out somehow.”

“That would be good, wouldn’t it? At least then we wouldn’t be alone anymore.”

“Yes,” said Rhys, thinking suddenly how very much alone he felt, a single mortal, standing in opposition to a god. “That would be very good.”

They found Gerard waiting impatiently for them at the bottom of the steps leading up to the Inn of the Last Home. He shook hands with Rhys and even gave Nightshade a friendly nod.

“Thanks for coming, Brother,” said Gerard. “I’d like a private word with you, if you don’t mind.”

He took Rhys to one side, said in low tones, “Do you think that kender-herding dog of yours could keep an eye on your little friend for an hour or so? I want you to come to the prison with me. It’s about a prisoner I’ve got there.”

“I would like Nightshade to accompany me,” said Rhys, thinking that if this was one of the Beloved of Chemosh, he would need the kender’s help. “He has special talents—”

“I do, you know,” said Nightshade modestly.

Both men turned and found the kender standing right behind them. Gerard glared at him.

“Oh, by private, I guess you meant private,” Nightshade said. “Anyway, I was just going to add that I don’t mind staying with Atta, Rhys. I’ve already seen the Solace prison, and while it’s very nice,” he added hurriedly for Gerard’s benefit, “it’s not some place I want to visit again.”

“Laura will give him a meal,” Gerard offered. “And the dog, too.”

The meal cinched the deal, as far as Nightshade was concerned. “You don’t need me. You pretty much know what to look for,” he said in an undertone to Rhys. “The eyes. It’s all in the eyes.”

Rhys sent Atta with Nightshade, telling the kender to keep an eye on the dog and commanding the dog, with a quiet word and a gesture, to keep an eye on the kender.

Gerard walked off, and Rhys fell into step alongside him. The two traveled in silence through the streets of Solace. It was now about mid-morning, and despite the rain, the streets were crowded. People called out respectful and friendly greetings to Gerard, who answered with a cheerful wave or nod. Idlers took themselves off at his approach, or if he came upon them too quickly, ducked their heads in guilty nods. Strangers eyed him either boldly or furtively. Gerard took note of everyone, Rhys noticed. He could almost see the man storing up their images in his head for future reference.

“You’re not much of a one for talking, are you, Brother,” Gerard said.

Rhys, seeing no reason to reply, did not.

Gerard smiled. “Anyone else would be pelting me with questions by now.”

“I did not think you would answer them,” Rhys said mildly, “so I saw no reason to ask them.”

“You’re right there. Though it’s more that I can’t answer them than I wouldn’t.”

Gerard wiped rain water from his face.

“That’s our prison, over there. Solace outgrew the old prison, more’s the pity, and so we built this one. It was just finished a month ago. I hear Lleu Mason left town this morning,” Gerard added in the same conversational tone. “You were leaving to go after him?”

“I was, yes,” said Rhys.

“Lleu appeared to behave himself while he was here,” Gerard said, casting a swift, intense glance at Rhys. “Your brother seems kind of peculiar, but no one made any complaints about him.”

“What would you say, Sheriff, if I told you that my brother was a murderer?” Rhys asked. His staff thumped the ground, sending up little spurts of mud and water every time it struck. “That he killed a young woman in Solace night before last.”

Gerard put out his hand, caught Rhys by the shoulder, and spun him around. The sheriff’s face was red, his blue eyes flaring.

“What? What woman? What in hell do you mean by telling me this now, Brother? What do you mean letting him get away? By the gods, I’ll hang you in his place—”

“The woman’s name is Lucy,” said Rhys. “Lucy Wheelwright.”

Gerard stared at him. “Lucy Wheelwright? Why, Brother, you’re daft. I saw her alive and well as you are this morning. She and her husband. I asked them what they were doing up so early, and she said they were off to one of the neighboring villages in the east to visit a cousin.”

Gerard’s gaze narrowed, hardened. “Is this some sort of joke, Brother? Because if so, it isn’t funny.”

“I apologize if I upset you, Sheriff,” Rhys said quietly. “I merely posed it as a hypothetical question.”

Gerard eyed Rhys. “Don’t do it again. You nearly got yourself throttled. Here we are. Not much to look at it, but it gets the job done.”

Rhys barely glanced at the building that was located on the outskirts of the city. It looked more like a military barracks than it did a prison, and in this, Rhys recognized the hand of Gerard, the former Solamnic knight.

Gerard led the way inside the structure that was made of wood covered with plaster. Numerous small iron-barred windows, no larger than man’s fist, dotted the walls. There was only one door, only one way in or out, and it was guarded twenty-four hours a day. Gerard nodded to the guards as he led Rhys into the prison.

“One of the prisoners has asked to see you,” said Gerard.

“Asked to see me?” Rhys repeated, startled. “I don’t understand.”

“Me neither,” muttered Gerard. He was still in a bad humor, still annoyed by Rhys’s earlier pronouncement. “Especially as this person is also a stranger here in Solace. Asked for you by name. I sent over to the Inn, but you’d already left.”

Taking a key from the jailer, Gerard led Rhys down a long corridor lined with doors on either side. The prison had the usual prison stench, though it was cleaner than most Rhys had seen. One large open cell was filled entirely with kender, who waved merrily as the sheriff passed by and called out in cheerful tones to ask when they would be set free. Gerard growled something unintelligible and continued down the corridor past more large open cells that he termed holding pens.

“Places where drunks can sleep it off, couples can get over their spats, con artists can cool their heels.”

Rounding a corner, he entered a corridor lined with wooden doors.

“These are our private cells,” he said. “For the more dangerous prisoners.”

He thrust a key into the iron padlock on a cell door, turned the lock, and as the door opened, he added, “And the lunatics.”

A ray of sunshine slanted through the small window, leaving most of the cell in shadow. At first Rhys saw nothing in the cell except a bed, a slop bucket, and a stool. He was about to tell Gerard that the cell was empty, then he heard a rustling sound. Huddled in a corner of the cell, crouched in the darkest part of the cell, was a dark and shapeless bundle of clothes that he assumed held a person. He could not tell for certain, for he could not see a face.

“I am Rhys,” he said, stepping inside the cell. He did not feel fear, only pity for the person’s obvious misery. “The sheriff says that you asked to see me.”

“Tell him to leave us,” said the person in a muffled voice, the face still hidden. “And close the door.”

“Nothing doing,” said Gerard firmly. “Like I said—crazy.” He rolled his eyes and wiggled his fingers around his temples. “I am capable of taking care of myself, Sheriff,” said Rhys with a faint smile. “Please…”

“Well, all right,” Gerard said reluctantly. “But five minutes. That’s it. I’ll be down the corridor. If you need me, yell.”

Gerard shut the cell door behind him. The room grew darker. The air was stuffy and smelled of rain. Rhys propped his staff against the wall, then ventured closer to the prisoner. He knelt down beside the shapeless bundle.

“What can I do to help?” he asked gently.

A beautiful and shapely hand slid out of the bundle of black robes. The hand grasped hold of Rhys’s arm. Sharp nails dug into his flesh. Sea green eyes glittered, and a voice hissed from the shadows of the cowl.

“Slay Ausric Krell,” said Zeboim, hissing the name in venomous hatred, “and save my son.”

4

Zeboim’s eyes shone with a wild and lurid light. Her face was earthly pale, her cheeks marred by bloody scratches, as though she had clawed herself. Her lips were cracked and rimed with a white powder, like sea salt or perhaps the salt of her tears.

“Majesty?” Rhys said, bewildered. “What are you doing in this place? In prison? Are you … are you ill?”

He knew that was a stupid question, but the situation was so bizarre and unreal that he was having trouble ordering his thoughts and he said the first thing that came into his head.

“Gods, why do I bother with you mortals!” cried Zeboim. She gave him a shove that flung him off-balance, sent him toppling sideways. Then, casting her cowl over her head, she hid her face in her hands and began to sob.

Rhys gazed grimly at the goddess. He did not know which he was more inclined to do—comfort her or shake her until her immortal teeth rattled.

“What are you doing here, Majesty, in a prison cell?” he asked.

No answer. The goddess sobbed stormily.

He tried again. “Why did you send for me?”

“Because I need your help, damn it!” she cried in tear-muffled tones.

“And I need yours, Majesty,” Rhys said. “I have discovered some profoundly disturbing things about these followers of Chemosh. I have prayed to you countless times in the past few days and you have not answered me. All of these disciples are dead. They appear to be alive, but they are not. They go out among the living and trick innocent young people into proclaiming their loyalty to Chemosh, and then they murder—”

“Chemosh!” Zeboim raised her swollen and tear-streaked face to glare at him. “Chemosh is behind this, you know. That steel-plated idiot Krell could not have come up with this on his own. Not that it matters. Not that any of it matters. My son. He is all that matters.”

“Majesty, please try to control yourself—”

Zeboim sprang up suddenly, seized hold of Rhys’s arms, clutched at him with both hands. “You must save him, monk! They’ll destroy him, otherwise. I can do nothing …” Her voice rose to a shriek. “You must save him!”

“Are you all right, Brother?” Gerard called, his voice echoing down the long corridor.

“All is well, Sheriff,” Rhys returned hastily. “Give me just a few more moments.”

He took hold of Zeboim’s hands, pressed them tightly. He spoke to her in soothing tones, his voice low and firm. “You need to explain to me what is the matter, Majesty. I cannot help you if I don’t know what you are talking about. We don’t have much time.”

Zeboim drew in a sobbing breath. “You are right, monk. I will be calm. I promise. I have to be. I must be.”

She began to pace about the prison cell, beating her hands together as she spoke.

“My son, Lord Ariakan. Yes, I know he’s dead,” she added, forestalling the question on Rhys’s lips. “My son died long ago in the Chaos War.” Her hands clenched to fists. “He died due to the treachery, the perfidy of a man he trusted. A man he had raised up from the muck—”

“Majesty, please . . Rhys prompted quietly.

Zeboim passed a hand over her brow, distracted.

“When my son died, I thought … I assumed that his spirit would continue on to the next stage of the soul’s journey. Instead”—she struggled for breath—“instead Chemosh kept his spirit, imprisoned it. He’s held my son captive all these long years.”

Zeboim’s voice dropped, low and throbbing with fear. “Now he has given the spirit of my son to the death knight who betrayed him. A death knight named Ausric Krell”—she choked on the name, as though it were a foul taste in her mouth—“is threatening to destroy my son’s spirit, to cast him into oblivion. Of course, Krell is acting under orders from Chemosh.”

“I assume, then, Majesty, that Chemosh is holding your son’s spirit hostage so that you will do something for him in return. What does he want you to do?”

“First, I am to stop you,” said Zeboim. “Chemosh finds you annoying.”

“I don’t know why,” Rhys said bitterly. “I’m not a threat to him or likely to be one, the way things are going.”

“Further, I am not to interfere with any of Chemosh’s plots and schemes. I have no idea what those maybe,” the goddess added, “but I’m not to do anything to thwart him.”

“So Chemosh is plotting something …” Rhys murmured. “Oh, yes,” said Zeboim with a vicious snap. “He is plotting something grand, of that you may certain. And whatever it is, he fears me. He fears that I will stop him, which I would!”

“And he fears me, it seems,” Rhys added.

“You?” Zeboim laughed, then said grudgingly, “Well, yes, I suppose he does. I am to rid myself of you and the kender, but that is not what is important. My son is important. I can do nothing to help him. If a drop of rain so much as falls on his helm, Krell will destroy my son’s soul. But you, monk …”

Zeboim sidled closer. Taking hold of Rhys’s hands, she stroked, carressed him. “You could go to Storm’s Keep. Krell wouldn’t suspect you.”

“Majesty,” protested Rhys, taken aback, “I can hardly get in the middle of a battle between two gods—”

“You are already in the middle,” Zeboim retorted angrily, shoving him away. “Chemosh commands that I get rid of you. Do you think he means that I am to send you back to your monastery with a pat on the ass and orders to be a good little boy?”

Rhys stood in the prison cell, his gaze fixed on the goddess.

Zeboim settled her robes around her, smoothed her disheveled hair. “You will go to Storm’s Keep. I will transport you through the ethers, don’t worry about that. You will need to make up some excuse for your presence there so that Krell won’t be suspicious. He has less brains than a mollusk, so that won’t be hard. Perhaps you will say you are sent by me to negotiate. Yes, Krell will like that. He’s easily bored and he enjoys tormenting his victims. It is too bad you are not more charming, entertaining. He likes to be entertained.”

“And how do you propose I rescue your son, Majesty, if I am to be tortured and killed?” Rhys asked. “You say this Krell is a death knight. That means that his power is only slightly less than that of a god—”

Zeboim waved that consideration away. “You serve me. I will grant you all the power you need.”

“You haven’t thus far,” Rhys stated coolly.

She cast him an angry glance. “I will. Don’t worry. As to how you save my son”—she shrugged—“that is up to you. You are clever, for a human. You will think of a way.”

Rhys sank down on the bed, tried to organize his scattered thoughts. That was proving difficult, since he could not believe that he was having this conversation.

“Where is Krell holding your son? I assume there are dungeons . .”

“He is not being held in a dungeon,” said Zeboim, her hands twisting together. “His spirit is imprisoned inside”—she drew in a seething breath, barely able to speak for her rage—“inside a khas piece!”

“A khas piece,” Rhys repeated, stunned. “Are you certain?” “Of course I am certain! I saw it! Krell flaunted it before me, bragged that he played with it nightly.”

“Which piece is it?”

“One of the two black knights.”

“Is there any way you can tell them apart?”

“Yes,” she said in scathing tones, “one is my son. It looks just like him.”

“Having never had the honor of meeting your son,” Rhys said carefully, “I do not know what he looks like. If you could give me something more to go on—”

“He is riding a blue dragon. But then, the other was also riding a blue dragon. I don’t know!” Zeboim tore at her hair with her hands. “I can’t think! Leave me alone. Just take yourself off and rescue him— Wait a moment. The pieces are real. Real corpses. Shrunken. Except for the one that was me, of course. And the king. That was Chemosh.”

Rhys rubbed his forehead. This was devolving into a strange and terrible dream.

“It is Chemosh’s idea of a jest,” Zeboim said by way of explanation. “He means to humiliate me. See here, monk, is this really important? We’re wasting time—”

“You are asking me to go on a hopeless venture, Majesty. Any information you can give me, however insignificant it seems to you, might help.”

Zeboim heaved an exasperated sigh. “Very well. Let me try to think back. The White Queen and King are elves. The Black Queen is … is me. The Black King is Chemosh.” She ground the name with her teeth.

“The two White clerics are monks of Majere.” Zeboim arched a brow at him. “Fancy that! The two Black Robe clerics are dwarves. The two White knights are elves riding silver dragons.

The pawns on the side of darkness are goblins. The pawns on the side of light are kender. As I said, Chemosh created this to humiliate me. My gallant son, doing battle against the likes of monks and kender …”

There came a thunderous knock on the door. Gerard’s voice boomed, “Time’s up, Brother.”

“Just one moment,” Rhys called. Rising to his feet, he turned to Zeboim. “Let us understand each other, Majesty. Either I go to Storm’s Keep and rescue your son or you will slay me—”

“I will do it, monk,” said Zeboim, calm as the eye of the storm. “Never think I won’t.”

Wrapping herself in her dark and tattered robes, she sat down on the bed and stared at the wall across from her.

Rhys bent near her, said to her softly, “You know, Majesty, my death would be quicker, easier if I told you just to kill me now.”

Zeboim looked up at him with her sea-green eyes. “It might be, or it might not. Whether it would or it wouldn’t, you’re not taking into account your friend the kender, nor all those doomed young people, like your brother, murdered in the name of Chemosh. Nor all those thousands of sailors on board ships stranded in the middle of flat and listless seas. Sailors who will surely die—”

Gerard banged on the door again. A key rattled in the lock.

Rhys straightened. “I understand, Majesty,” he said with the calm of one who can either be calm or break down and weep.

“I thought you might,” Zeboim said in languid tones. “Let me know your decision.”

“Where will you be, Majesty?”

Lying on the bed, the goddess gathered her robes around her, drew her cowl over her head, and turned her face to the wall. “Here. Where no one can find me.”

“Time’s up,” said Gerard, entering the cell. “How’d everything go?” he asked in a low voice.

“Well enough,” said Rhys.

Gerard cast a look at the bundle of clothes on the bed, then ushered Rhys out the door. He locked it behind him and the two walked down the corridor. When they were out of ear-shot of the prisoner, Gerard halted.

“What do I about the crazy woman?” he asked in a low tone. “Should I let her go?”

Rhys did not answer. In truth, he hadn’t heard the question. He was thinking about what he had to do and trying to figure out some way to do it and survive.

Gerard ran his hand through his hair. “As if I didn’t have enough trouble, now some evil curse has been cast on Crystalmir Lake—”

“What’s that?” Rhys asked, startled. “What about the lake?”

“Can’t you smell it?” Gerard wrinkled his nose. “It stinks to high heaven. Fish dying by the hundreds. Washed up on the shores over night. Rotting in the sun. Our people depend on the water from that lake and now everyone’s afraid to go near it. They say it’s cursed. What with that and a crazy woman on my hands—”

“Sheriff,” Rhys interrupted. “I have a favor to ask you. I am planning to go away for a little while and I need someone to take care of Atta. Would you look after her?”

“Will she herd kender for me?” Gerard asked, his eyes brightening.

Rhys smiled. “I will teach you the commands. And I will find a way to pay for her board and keep.”

“If she herds kender as good for me as she does for you, she’ll more than pay for herself,” Gerard held out his hand. “You got yourself a deal, Brother. Where is it you’re going?”

Rhys did not answer. “And you will continue to care for her if I don’t come back?”

Gerard eyed him intently. “Why wouldn’t you be coming back?”

“The gods alone know our fate, Sheriff,” said Rhys.

“You can trust me, Brother. Whatever trouble you’re in—”

“I know that, Sheriff,” said Rhys gratefully. “That’s why I have asked you to care for Atta.”

“Very well, Brother. I won’t pry into your business. And don’t worry about the dog. I’ll take good care of her.”

As the two continued on down the corridor, Gerard had another thought, an alarming one, to judge by his tone.

“What about that kender? You’re not going to ask me to keep him, too, are you, Brother?”

“No,” Rhys replied. “Nightshade will be coming with me.”

5

“A death knight,” said Nightshade.

“According to the goddess, yes,” Rhys answered.

“We’re supposed to go to Storm’s Keep and confront a death knight and rescue the goddess’s son’s spirit, which is trapped in a khas piece. From a death knight.”

Rhys nodded his head in silent confirmation.

“Have you been drinking?” Nightshade asked seriously.

“No,” said Rhys, smiling.

“Did you get hit on the head? Run over by a wagon? Stepped on by a mule? Fall down a flight of stairs—”

“I’m in my right mind,” Rhys assured him. “At least, I think I am. I know this sounds unbelievable—”

”Whoo-boy!” Nightshade exclaimed with a whistle. “But here is the proof.”

He and the kender stood on the road several hundred yards from the shores of Crystalmir Lake. The name came from the lake’s deep blue crystalline water. The name was a misnomer now. The water was a sickening shade of yellow green and smelled of decaying eggs. Untold numbers of fish lay on the shore, dead or dying. Even from this distance, with the wind blowing away from them, the smell was appalling.

Nightshade held his nose. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. You know that I’ll never be able to eat fish again,” he added in aggrieved tones.

The two of them walked back toward Solace, passing the crowds of people who had turned out to see the fish-kill. Everyone had a theory, from outlaws poisoning the lake to wizards casting a curse on it. Fear tainted the air as badly as the smell of dead fish.

“I’ve been thinking, Rhys,” Nightshade said, as they headed back into town. “I’m not very trustworthy and I’m not at all good in a fight. If you don’t want to take me with you, my feelings won’t be hurt. I’ll be glad to stay with the sheriff to help care for Atta.”

He put his hand on Atta’s head, petting her. She permitted this, although her gaze was intent on Rhys.

He smiled at Nightshade’s generous offer. “I know this is dangerous. I would not ask you risk your life, my friend, but I truly do need you. I won’t be able to tell for certain which khas piece contains the knight’s soul—”

“The goddess told you it was the black knight,” Nightshade interrupted.

“My mother had a saying,” said Rhys wryly. ” ‘Consider the source.

Nightshade sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“In this case, our source is not very reliable. She might be lying to us. Krell might have lied to her. Krell might switch the spirit from one piece to another. For my plan to work, I must know which piece holds the knight’s soul. You are the only one who can tell me. Besides,” Rhys added with a smile, “I thought kender were adventurous, filled with curiosity, utterly without fear.”

“I’m a kender,” Nightshade said. “I’m not stupid. This is stupid.”

Rhys was inclined to agree. “We don’t have much choice, my friend. Zeboim has made it quite clear that if we don’t attempt this, she will kill us.”

“So instead the death knight kills us. I don’t see that we’ve gained a lot, except maybe a trip to Storm’s Keep, and we probably won’t live long enough to enjoy that. You know, Rhys, most people wouldn’t trust a kender with such an important mission. And I must say that I can’t blame them. Kender cannot be counted upon. I’d leave me behind if I were you.”

“I have always found you to be eminently trustworthy, Nightshade,” Rhys replied.

“You have?” Nightshade was taken aback. He sighed. “Then I guess I should try to live up to that.”

“I think you should.”

” live’ being the optimal word.” Nightshade stressed this point.

“Look at it this way. At least we’ve accomplished something,” Rhys pointed out. “We’ve attracted the god’s attention.”

“Something people with any sense would avoid,” Nightshade said crossly. “My dad had a saying. ‘Never attract a god’s attention: “

“Your father said that? Really?” Rhys cocked an eye at the kender.

“Well, he would have if he’d thought about it.” Nightshade stopped in the middle of the road to argue the point. “How do we even get to Storm’s Keep, Rhys? I don’t know anything about boats. Do you? Good! Then that’s how we get out of this. We can’t go to Storm’s Keep if we can’t get there. The goddess must see the logic in that—”

“The goddess will send us on the winds of the storm, I suppose. I have only to let her know we’re ready.”

Nightshade rolled. his eyes. Atta, seeing her master downcast and unhappy, gave his hand a gentle lick. He stroked her head, rubbed her beneath the jowls, smoothed her ears. She crowded close to him, looking up at him sadly, wishing she could make everything right.

“She’ll miss us,” said Nightshade in a choked voice.

“Yes,” said Rhys quietly, “she will.”

He rested his hand on the kender’s shoulder. “All your life you have worked to save lost spirits, Nightshade. Think of this as something you were born to do—your greatest challenge.”

Nightshade pondered this. “That’s true. I guess I will be saving a soul. But if that’s true for me, Rhys, what about you? What were you born to do?”

“Like all men,” Rhys said simply, “I was born to die.”

Later that morning, outside the Inn of the Last Home, Rhys knelt down in front of Atta and placed his hand on the dog’s head, almost as if he were bestowing a benediction. “You are to be a good girl, Atta, and mind Gerard. He is your new master now. You work for him.”

Atta gazed up at Rhys. She could hear the sorrow in his voice, but she didn’t understand it. She would never understand, never know why he had abandoned her. He stood up. It took him a moment to speak.

“You should take her away now, Sheriff,” he said.

“Come, Atta,” said Gerard, issuing the command Rhys had taught him. “Come with me.”

Atta looked at Rhys. “Go with Gerard, Atta,” said Rhys, and he motioned with his hand, sending the dog away.

Atta looked at him one more time, then, her head and tail drooping, she obeyed. She allowed Gerard to lead her off. He returned, shaking his head.

“I took her back to the Inn. I hope she’ll be all right. Laura offered her some food, but she wouldn’t take it.”

“She’s a sensible animal,” said Rhys. “Give her work to keep her occupied and she’ll soon come around.”

“She’ll get plenty of work what with all the kender we have flocking here to see the fish kill. So you two are off. When do you leave?” Gerard asked.

“Nightshade and I have to pay a visit to the prisoner first,” said Rhys, “and then we’ll be going.”

“The prisoner?” Gerard was astonished. “The crazy woman? You’re going to see her again?”

“I assume she is still there,” Rhys said.

“Oh, yes. I don’t seem to be able to get rid of her. What do you want to see her for, Brother?” Gerard asked with unabashed curiosity.

“She seems to think that I can be of some help to her,” said Rhys.

“And the kender? Is he helping her, too?”

“I’m a cheering influence,” said Nightshade.

“You don’t need to accompany us, Sheriff,” Rhys added. “We just need your permission to enter her cell.”

“I think I’d better come along,” said Gerard. “Just to make sure nothing happens to you. Any of you.”

Rhys and Nightshade exchanged glances.

“We need to speak to her in private,” said Rhys. “The matter is confidential. Spiritual in nature.”

“I didn’t think you were a monk of Majere anymore,” Gerard said, giving Rhys a shrewd look.

“That does not mean that I can no longer assist those who are troubled,” Rhys replied. “Please, Sheriff. Just a few moments with her alone.”

“Very well,” said Gerard. “I don’t see how you can get into too much trouble locked up in a prison cell.”

“A lot he knows,” Nightshade said gloomily.

Inside the prison, Nightshade had to stop to say a word to the kender. Rhys was concerned to hear Nightshade bidding them what appeared to be a final farewell. When he reached into his pouches, prepared to distribute all his worldly wealth—the kender’s version of a last will and testament—Rhys seized hold of Nightshade by the collar and hauled him off.

Gerard gestured at the cell door. “She’s hasn’t moved from the bed,” he reported. “She won’t eat. Sends back the food untasted. You have visitors, Mistress,” he called out, unlocking the door.

“It’s about time,” said Zeboim, sitting up on the bed.

She drew back her cowl. Sea green eyes glittered.

Rhys gave Nightshade a shove, propelled the kender into the cell, and followed after him.

Gerard shut the cell door and inserted the key into the lock. He did not turn it but left the key where it was. He paused a moment, listening. The three kept their voices low, and anyhow, he’d promised he’d give them privacy.

Shaking his head, Gerard walked off to spend a few moments visiting with the jailer.

“How long you going to give them, Sheriff?” asked the jailer. “The usual. Five minutes.”

A small hourglass stood on the desk. The jailer upended it, much to the fascination of the kender, who stuck heads, arms, hands, and feet between the bars in order to try to get a clearer view of the proceedings, all the while pelting Gerard with questions, the number one being how many grains of sand were in the glass and offering, since he didn’t know, to make a quick count.

Gerard listened to the jailor’s complaints about the kender, which he made on a daily basis, and watched the sand trickle through the hourglass and listened expectantly for sounds of trouble from down the corridor.

All was quiet, however. When the last grain dropped through the narrow neck, Gerard shouted, “Time’s up” and tromped off down the corridor.

He turned the key in the door and shoved it opened. He stopped, stared.

The crazy woman lay on the bed, her cowl over her head, her face to the wall. No one else was with her.

No monk. No kender.

The cell door had been locked. He’d had to unlock it to let himself in. There was only one way out of the corridor and that was past him and no one had passed him.

“Hey, you!” he said to the crazy woman, shaking her by the shoulder. “Where are they?”

The woman made a slight gesture with her hand, as if brushing away an insect. Gerard flew backward out of the cell and into the corridor, where he smashed up against the wall.

“Do not touch me, mortal!” the woman said. “Never touch me.”

The cell door slammed shut with a bang.

Gerard picked himself up. He’d hit his head on the wall and there would be a giant bruise on his shoulder in the morning. Grimacing at the pain, he stood staring at the cell door. Rubbing his shoulder, he turned and tromped down the corridor.

“Let the kender loose,” he called.

The kender began to whoop and holler. Their shrill cries could have cracked solid stone. Gerard winced at the racket.

“Just do it,” he ordered the jailer. “And be quick about it. Don’t worry, Smythe. I have a wonderful dog who’ll help me keep them in line. The dog needs something to do. She’s missing her master.”

The jailer opened the cell door and the kender streamed out joyfully into the bright light of freedom. Gerard cast a glance at the prison cell at the end of the corridor.

“I think she may be missing her master a long, long time,” he added somberly.

6

The Maelstrom of the Blood Sea of Istar. Once sailors spoke of it in hushed tones, when they spoke of it at all. Once the Maelstrom was a spiral of destruction, a swirling maw of red death that caught ships in its teeth and swallowed them whole. Once out of that maw, you could hear the thunder of the voices of the gods.

“Look on this, mortals, and know our might.”

When the Kingpriest of Istar dared, in his arrogance, to deem himself a god, and the people of Istar bowed to him, the true gods of Krynn cast down a fiery mountain upon Istar, destroying the city and carrying it far beneath the sea. The waters of the ocean turned a reddish brown color. The wise claimed that this color came from the sandy soil on the ocean floor. Most people believed that the red stain was from the blood of those who had died in the Cataclysm. Whatever the cause, the color gave the sea its name. It henceforth became known as the Blood Sea.

The gods created a maelstrom over the site of the disaster. The immense, blood-tinged whirlpool was meant to keep away those who might disturb the final resting place of the dead and to serve as a constant reminder to mortals of the power and majesty of the gods. Feared and respected by sailors, the Maelstrom was a horrific, awesome sight, its swirling red waters disappearing into a hell-hole of darkness. Once caught in its coils, there was no escape. Its victims were dragged to their doom beneath the raging seas.

Then Takhisis stole away the world. Without the wrath of the gods to stir it, the Maelstrom spun slower and slower and then it stopped altogether. The waters of the Blood Sea were placid as those of any country mill-pond.

“Now look at what the Blood Sea has become.” Chemosh’s voice was tinged with anger and disgust. “A cesspool.”

Shading her eyes against the morning sun, Mina stared out to where Chemosh pointed, to what had been one of the wonders of Krynn, a sight both terrifying and magnificent.

The Maelstrom had kept the memory and the warning of Istar alive. Now the once-infamous waters of the Blood Sea crept listlessly onto gritty sand beaches littered with filth and refuse. Remnants of broken packing crates and slime-covered planking, rotting nets, fish heads and shattered bottles, crushed shells, and splintered masts floated on top of the oily water, the trash rocking sluggishly back and forth with the slogging of the sea. Only the old-timers remembered the Maelstrom and what lay beneath it—the ruins of a city, a people, a time.

“The Age of Mortals,” Chemosh sneered. He nudged a dead jelly fish with the toe of his boot. “This is their legacy. The awe and fear and respect for the gods is gone, and what is left in its stead? Mortal refuse and litter.”

“One could say that the gods have only themselves to blame,” Mina remarked.

“Perhaps you forget that you are speaking to one of those gods,” Chemosh returned, his dark eyes glittering.

“I am sorry, my lord,” said Mina. “Forgive me, but I sometimes do forget…” She halted, not quite certain where that sentence might lead.

“Forget that I am a god?” he asked angrily.

“My lord, forgive me—”

“Do not apologize, Mina,” said Chemosh. The sea breeze tousled his long, dark hair, blowing it back from his face. He gazed out to sea, seeing what had once been, seeing what now was. He sighed deeply. “The fault is mine. I come to you as a mortal. I love you as a mortal. I want you to think of me as mortal. This aspect of me is only one of many. The others you would not particularly like,” he added dryly.

He reached out his hand to her and she took it. He drew her close, and they stood together upon the shore, the wind mingling their hair, black and red, shadow and flame.

“You spoke the truth,” he said. “We gods are to blame. Although we did not steal away the world, we gave Takhisis the opportunity to do so. Each of us was so absorbed in our little part of creation, we locked ourselves up in our own little shops, sitting on our little stools with our little feet twined around the rungs, peering down at our work like a short-sighted tailor, plying our needles at some small piece of the universe. And when we woke one day to find that our Queen had run away with the world, what did we do? Did we grab up our flaming swords and sweep through the heavens, scattering the stars to search for her? No. We ran out of our little shops all amazed and frightened and wrung our hands and cried, ‘Alack¬a-day! The world is gone. Whatever shall we do!’ “

His voice hardened. “I have often thought that if my own army had been arrayed outside her palace gates, my own forces ready to storm her walls, Queen Takhisis might have thought twice. As it was, I was lazy. I was content to make do with what I had. All that has changed. I will not make the same mistake again.”

“I have made you sorrowful, my lord,” said Mina, hearing the regret and harsh bitterness in his voice. “I am sorry. This was meant to be a joyous day. A day of new beginnings.”

Chemosh took hold of Mina’s hand and brought it to his lips and kissed her fingers. Her heart beat fast and her breath came short. He could rouse her to desire with a touch, a look.

“You spoke the truth, Mina. No one else, not even one of the other gods, would dare say such a thing to me. Most lack the capacity to see it. You are so young, Mina. You are not yet one and twenty. Where do you find such wisdom? Not from your late Queen, I think,” Chemosh added sardonically.

Mina gave this consideration, gazing out upon a sea that was flat but not particularly calm. The water stirred restlessly, back and forth, reminding her of someone endlessly, nervously pacing.

“I saw it in the eyes of the dying,” she said. “Not those who now give their souls to you, my lord. Those who once gave their souls to me.”

The Battle of Beckard’s Cut. The Solamnic knights broke out of Sanction, broke the siege of that city by the Dark Knights of Takhisis, then known, ignominiously, as the Knights of Neraka. The knights and soldiers of Neraka turned and fled as the Solamnics poured out of the fortress. The Neraka command crumbling, Mina took charge. She ordered her troops to slay those who were fleeing, ordered them to kill their comrades, kill friends, brothers. Inspired by the light of golden glowing amber, they obeyed her. The bodies piled up high, choking the pass. Here, the Solamnic charge ground to a halt, brought to a stop by a dam made of broken bone and bloody flesh. The day was Mina’s. She’d turned a rout into victory. She walked the field of battle, held the hands of those who were dying by her command, and she prayed over them, giving their souls to Takhisis.

“Except that the souls didn’t come to Takhisis,” said Mina softly to the sea that had rocked her as a child. “The souls came to me. Like flowers, I plucked them and gathered them to my heart, holding them close, even as I spoke her name.”

She turned to Chemosh. “That is my truth, my lord. I didn’t know it for a long time. I shouted, ‘For the glory of Takhisis’ and I prayed to her every day and every night. But when the troops chanted my name, when they shouted, ‘Mina, Mina,’ I did not correct them. I smiled.”

She was silent, watching the waves wander aimlessly to the shore, watched them deposit filth at her feet.

“Once more mankind will fear the gods,” said Chemosh, “or at least one of them. Down there”—he pointed beneath the filth, the debris, the garbage—“down there lies the beginning of my rise as King of the Pantheon. I am going to tell you a story, Mina. Below the sea lies a graveyard, the largest in the world, and this is the tale of those who are buried beneath the waves…:’

My story begins in the Age of Dreams, when a powerful wizard known as Kharro the Red determined that the Orders of Magic needed safe havens where wizards could meet together, study together, work together. They needed places where they could safely store spell books and artifacts. He proposed that the wizards build Towers of High Sorcery, strongholds of magic.

Kharro sent mages throughout Ansalon to locate sites on which to build these new Towers. The White Robes, under the leadership of a wizardess named Asanta, chose as their location a poor fishing village known as Istar.

The Black Robes and the Red chose large and prosperous cities in which to build the Towers. Kharro summoned Asanta to Wayreth and demanded to know the reason for her choice. Asanta was a seer. She saw the future of Istar and predicted that one day its glory would eclipse all other cities on Ansalon. The White Robes were given permission to start work upon the Tower, and forty years later, Asanta led the incantation that raised the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar.

Asanta had been given a glimpse of Istar’s rise. She did not foresee its fall. Not even we gods could foresee that.

For many decades, the wizards of the Tower of Istar ruled benevolently over the people of that small village and were instrumental in its rapid growth. Soon Istar was no longer a village but a thriving, prosperous city. Not long after that, it became an empire.

As Istar grew, so did the power of its clerics, particularly those of Mishakal and Paladine. Eventually one of these clerics rose to prominence in the government of Istar. He proclaimed himself ruler, calling himself by the title of Kingpriest. From this point on, the influence of the wizards began to wane and that of the clerics to grow.

An uneasy alliance continued to exist between the church and the Robes, though distrust was building on both sides. A white-robed wizard named Mawort, the Master of the Tower of Istar, managed to keep peace between the two factions.

The Conclave of Wizards viewed Mawort as the Kingpriest’s pawn, and when he died, they appointed a Red Robe to take over as Master of the Tower, hoping by this to reestablish the independence of the wizards and have greater influence on Istarian politics.

The Kingpriest was furious, the citizens of Istar outraged. Distrust of the wizards deepened to hatred. Treachery and mischance caused open warfare to break out between the Kingpriest, his followers, and the wizards. Thus began the Lost Battles, so named for no one came out the winner.

The Kingpriest declared holy war on the wizards of Ansalon. The wizards retreated into their strongholds, threatening to destroy the Towers and their environs if they were attacked. The Kingpriest did not heed the warning and attacked the Tower at Daltigoth. Knowing that they must go down to defeat, the wizards fulfilled their promise and destroyed the Tower. A great many innocent lives were lost in the destruction. The wizards were saddened by this, but they believed that they had actually saved lives, for many more thousands would have died had the wizards’ powerful spell books and artifacts fallen into the hands of those who would misuse them.

Shocked by this calamity and fearing that the wizards might next destroy the Tower of Istar, the Kingpriest offered to negotiate a peaceful settlement. The wizards would agree to abandon the Towers of Istar and Palanthas. In return, they would be granted safe haven in the Tower of Wayreth. The Conclave argued long and bitterly, but eventually they realized that they had no choice. The Kingpriest was immensely powerful and seemed to have the blessing of the gods on his side. They agreed to his terms.

A month after the Lost Battles, the Highmage emerged from the Tower of Istar, the last wizard to leave. She sealed its gates and ceded it to the Kingpriest.

The Kingpriest was not certain what to do with the Tower and for months it remained locked and empty. Then, following the advice of his counselor, Quarath of Silvanesti, he turned the Tower into a trophy room, displaying artifacts seized from those accused of heresy and the worship evil gods.

Over the next two decades, hundreds of idols, icons, artifacts, and holy relics were brought to the Tower which was renamed Solio Febalas—the Hall of Sacrilege. Many of my own artifacts were taken there, for, of course, my followers were among the first to be persecuted. Being in communication with the spirits of the dead, I heard from them about the Kingpriest’s ambitious plans to ascend to godhood himself. He would do this by upsetting the balance, destroying the power of the gods of darkness and neutrality. Then he would usurp the power of the gods of light.

I tried to warn the other gods that they were next. The day would come when their own holy relicts would be inside the Hall of Sacrilege. They shrugged and laughed it off.

They did not laugh long, however. Soon the mild and inoffensive clerics of Chislev were being hauled from their forests and imprisoned or killed. The icons of Majere showed up in the Kingpriest’s trophy case. Gilean joined me in warning that the balance of the world was being tilted and some of the gods of light added their voices to ours. The Kingpriest targeted them for persecution next, and by the end, even the healer Mishakal’s symbol was found hanging in shame in the Hall of Sacrilege.

The Kingpriest announced to the world that he was wiser than the gods. He was more powerful than the gods. He proclaimed himself to be a god and demanded that he should be worshipped as a god. It was then that we true gods cast the fiery mountain on Istar.

The earth trembled at our wrath. Quakes leveled the city and split the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar in half. Fire gutted it, destroying the Hall of Sacrilege. The Tower fell into ruins which were carried down to the bottom of the Blood Sea along with the rest of that doomed city.

“There lies the Tower to this day,” Chemosh concluded, “and inside those ruins lie many of the world’s most powerful holy relics and artifacts.”

“Wishful thinking, I am afraid, my lord,” said Mina. “They could not have survived such terrible destruction.”

“I don’t know about the other gods”—Chemosh smiled cunningly—“but I made sure that my own artifacts were safe. And I have no doubt that the others did the same.”

“You sound very certain, my lord.”

“I am certain. I have proof. Soon after Istar’s destruction, I went searching for the Tower, only to find that the Gods of Magic had hidden it from sight. Zeboim is Nuitari’s twin sister and cousin to the other gods of Magic. They went to her and convinced her to use the powerful turbulence of the maelstrom to bury the Tower far beneath the ocean floor, so that no eyes—mortal or immortal—should ever discover it.

” ‘Now,’ I asked myself, ‘why should the gods of Magic go to all this trouble to hide a ton of charred and blasted rubble? Unless there is something inside the rubble that They do not want any of us to find … “

“Your holy artifacts,” said Mina.

“Precisely.”

“And now that the Maelstrom has subsided, you can go in search of them.”

“Not only can I go in search of them, I can search without fear of interruption. If I had so much as dipped a toe into the surf, Zeboim would have known it. She would have raced from the far corners of the heavens to stop me. As it is, she is nowhere to be found this fine day. I may do what I like in her ocean—piss in it, if I want—and she does not dare protest.”

Chemosh clasped Mina’s hand, entwined her fingers with his. “Together, Mina, you and I will seek out the fabled and long-lost ruins of the Hall of Sacrilege. Think of it, my lover Hundreds of holy artifacts down there, some dating back to the Age of Dreams, imbued with godly power that is unimagined in this ‘Age of Mortals.’ And unattainable. There are artifacts belonging to Takhisis down there. Though she is gone, her power lives within them still.

“Artifacts of Morgion, Hiddukel, Sargonnas. Artifacts belonging to Paladine and Mishakal. I plan to distribute these powerful relics among the Beloved, who are traveling across Ansalon, on their way here to receive them. When that is accomplished, my followers will be the most formidable and powerful in all the world. I will then be in a position to challenge the other gods for rulership of the heavens and the world.”

“I would go with you to ends of that world, my lord, and I would gladly see the wonders that live in the ocean depths, but as I forget you are a god, you forget that I am not,” Mina said, smiling. “I can swim, but not very well. As for holding my breath—”

Chemosh laughed. “You do not need to swim, Mina. Or hold your breath. You will walk with me upon the ocean floor as you walk upon the floor of our bedchamber. You will breathe the water as you breathe the air. The weight of the water will sit as lightly on your shoulders as a fur mantle.”

“Then you will transform me into a god, my lord,” said Mina, teasing.

Chemosh’s laughter ceased. The expression in his eyes was deep and fathomless, darker than the sea-depths.

“I cannot do that, Mina,” he said. “At least, not yet.”

Mina felt a sudden jolt of fear, a bone-jellying terror such as she had experienced standing on the treacherous broken stairs of Storm’s Keep, staring down far below at the jagged, razor-edged rocks and the foaming, hungry water. Her throat closed; her heart shivered. She wanted, suddenly, to turn and flee, to run away. She had never felt terror like this, not when the fierce dragon Malys was diving down on her from the blood-raining skies, not when Queen Takhisis, mortal mad, was striding toward her, intent on tearing out her life.

Mina took a step backward, but Chemosh had hold of her. “What is it, Mina? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to be a god, my lord!” she cried, struggling, trying to free herself from his grasp.

“You wanted power, Mina, power over life and death—”

“But not like that! You forget, my lord,” she said in hollow tones, “that I have touched the mind of a god. I have seen into that mind, seen the immensity, the emptiness, the loneliness! I cannot bear it—”

The words froze on her lips. She looked at Chemosh in terror. She, who had betrayed his innermost secrets.

“I was lonely, Mina,” he said softly. “I was empty. And then, I found you.”

His arms enfolded her. He pressed her to him, body to body, mortal flesh to god’s flesh made mortal. He put his mouth on her mouth, his lips eager and warm. He drew her down into the sand, his kisses spreading like treacle over her fear, hiding her terror beneath his sweetness that was thick in her mouth. She was consumed in his love until only the memory of her fear remained and his caresses soon burned that away.

The tide rose, as they lay among the sand dunes. The waves lapped over their feet, then their ankles. The sea water stole up and around them, smooth and soft as silken sheets. The waves covered Mina’s shoulders. Her red hair stuck to her wet flesh. She tasted salt in her mouth and she coughed.

Chemosh took hold of her. “The next kiss I give you, Mina, will take away your mortal’s breath. You will feel suffocated for an instant, but an instant only. I will breathe into your lungs the breath of the gods. For as long as you are beneath the water, my breath will sustain you. The water will be to you as the air is now.”

“I understand, my lord,” Mina replied. Her hair swirled in the water, flame dipped in blood.

“I am not sure you do, Mina,” said Chemosh, regarding her intently. “The water is as air to you. That means, the air will be as water. Once I do this, if you come to the surface, you will drown.”

In answer, she touched her lips to his, closed her eyes, and held him fast. He seized her, crushed her to him, and putting his mouth over hers, he drew the air from her body, sucked the life from her lungs.

The water rose over her head. Mina could not breathe. She gasped for the air, but water flowed in her mouth. She choked, strangled. Chemosh held her fast. She tried not to struggle, but she couldn’t help it. Her body’s instinct to survive overrode her heart. She fought to wrench herself free of the god’s grip, but he was too strong. His fingers dug into her flesh and muscle and bone, his legs pinned her down beneath the water.

“He is killing me,” she thought. “He lied to me …”

Her heart throbbed, her chest burned. Hideous star-bursts obscured her vision. She writhed in his grip and gasped and water flowed into her lungs and into her body as the sea rose higher and higher, gently rocking her. She was too tired to fight, so she closed her eyes and gave herself to the blood-tinged darkness.

7

Mina woke to a world that had never known sunlight, a world of heavy, eternal night.

Sea water pressed on her, surrounded her, enveloped and encompassed her. It pushed her and pulled her, constantly in motion. There was no up, no down. Nothing beneath her feet or above her head to orient her. She was adrift, alone.

Mina could breathe the water as well as she had once breathed air; at least she tried telling herself she could. She felt smothered, half-suffocated. Panic fluttered inside her. She was suddenly afraid she might be trapped here in the squeezing, fluid darkness forever. Her impulse was to swim to the surface, but she forced herself to abandon that idea. She had no idea where the surface was, and flailing about in the water, she might sink deeper, not rise.

She could not call out to Chemosh. She could not cry out or scream. The water swallowed up her voice. She forced the panic down, tried to remain calm, relax.

“I have walked the dark places of Krynn,” Mina told herself. “I have walked the dark places of the mind of a god. I am not alone …”

A hand touched hers. She clasped the hand thankfully, held it fast.

“Not afraid, were you?” Chemosh said, half-teasing, half-serious. “You can talk, Mina. Remember, the water is for you as air. Speak. I’ll hear your words.”

“I was going to say that if I was afraid, it is only because fear is the curse of mortals, my lord,” said Mina.

“That is true,” said Chemosh, his tone grown grim. “Fear gives mortals good instincts.”

“Is something wrong, my lord?”

“There is a stirring, an energy that was not here when I came here before only a year ago. It may have nothing to do with our treasure-hunt, yet I do not like it. It has the smell of a god about it.”

“Zeboim?” Mina asked.

Chemosh shook his head. “I thought as much, and I returned to the surface. No storm clouds gather, no lashing winds howl. The sea is so flat that birds are starting to build nests on the water. No, whatever is amiss is down here; Zeboim is not to blame,”

“What other gods might be at work in the sea, Lord?”

”Habbakuk holds sway over the sea creatures. I do not worry about him, however. He is indolent and lazy, as one might expect of a god who spends his time among fish.”

He paused, listening. Mina listened, too, but despite what Chemosh said, her ears were stopped up with water. She could hear nothing except the sound of her own pulsing blood and the voice of the god.

“I don’t hear anything,” he said at last, and he sounded perplexed, “yet the feeling persists. Perhaps it is only my imagination. Come, let us find that which we seek. The ruins are not far.”

He walked through the water as though he walked on dry land. Mina tried to imitate him, but found walking difficult. She ended up half-swimming, half-walking, propelling herself forward with broad strokes of her arms, kicking with her legs. The fathomless darkness began to grow lighter; she and Chemosh were rising nearer to the surface, to the sunlight.

He halted again, his expression dour. He looked at her, looked at the filmy, silky gown she wore. “I should never have allowed you to come down here unarmed with no armor to protect you. I will send you back—”

“Do not send me away, my lord. I am armored in my faith in you. My love for you is my weapon.”

Chemosh drew her near. Her hair floated free in the water, shifting about her head and shoulders in sensuous waves. Her amber eyes seemed luminescent, the blood-red water lending them an orange hue, so that they had a fiery glow.

“It is no wonder I chose you as my High Priestess, Mina,” said Chemosh. “Yet I will give you something more substantial than faith to protect your mortal body, and a weapon more capable of doing damage.

He dove down into the darkness, plunging down to the bottom of the ocean. In a few moments he returned, carrying a human skeleton.

“Not very pretty, but it’s functional. You will not feel squeamish wearing a man’s ribcage, will you, Mina?”

“The armor Takhisis gave me was wet with the blood of a man who dared to mock her,” Mina replied. “Will you be my squire, my lord?”

“Just this once,” he said with a smile, and he began to fasten the bony armor to her body. “Does this fit? If it does not, I can find something that will. We have an unlimited supply of skeletons.”

“The fit is perfect, my lord.”

Her cuirass was a man’s breastbone and ribs. Collarbones protected her shoulders, shin bones her legs, and arm bones her arms. Chemosh welded them together with his power, strengthened them with his might. When he had dressed her, he eyed her accouterments and was satisfied.

“And now, your helm,” he said.

“Not a skull, my lord,” Mina protested. “I do not want to look like Krell.”

“God forbid!” Chemosh said dryly. “No, Mina. Here is your helm.”

He took her head in his two hands, kissed her on the forehead, on her cheeks, her chin and, finally, on her mouth.

“There, you are protected.” He hesitated, keeping hold of her. His grip on her tightened. “Mina,” he said softly, “I—” “What, my lord?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said abruptly. He drew back from her, away from her touch, her amber eyes.

“Have I displeased you, my lord?” Mina asked, troubled. “No,” he said, and he repeated, “No.”

He looked at her, at her body, warm and yielding and soft, clasped in the ghastly armor of a dead man’s bones, and it was the Lord of Death who shuddered.

He snatched the bones off her, tearing them from her and casting them back into the sea.

“It really did not bother me, my lord,” Mina protested. “It bothered me,” he said and turned away abruptly.

They drifted through the sunlit depths, searching for the ruins of the Tower.

Whatever power Chemosh sensed down here was growing, not diminishing, or so Mina judged by his increasingly dark expression. He did not speak to her. He did not look at her.

She tried to remain focused, to watch for danger. She found it difficult, however. She was in a different world, a world of strange and exotic beauty, and she was constantly distracted. Fish swam past her, darted around her, some eyeing her curiously, some completely ignoring her. Shelves of pink-tinged coral rose up from the ocean floor, home to a veritable forest of strange-looking plants and beings that appeared to be plants but weren’t, as she discovered when she touched what she thought was a flower and it lashed out at her, stung her. The colors of everything—fish and plants—were brighter, more vivid and vibrant than any colors she had seen on land.

She forgot the danger and gave herself over to the enchantment.

Schools of silver fish flipped and spun in quicksilver unity. Tiny fish darted at her, nibbled at her hands. Others hid from sight, disappearing into coral doorways and diving through coral windows.

Suddenly, Chemosh hissed a warning. Catching hold of her, he dragged her into the shadows of green and undulating branches.

“What is it?” she asked softly.

“Look! Look there!” he said, disbelieving, and furious.

A building with walls of smooth, glistening crystal thrust up from the ocean floor. The crystalline structure caught the drowned shafts of sunlight and made them captive, so that the building gleamed with shimmering panes of watery light. A dome of black marble topped the building. Atop the dome, a circlet made of burnished red-gold twined with silver flashed in the sunlight. The center of the circlet was jet black, as if a hole had been opened up in the sea to reveal the emptiness of the universe.

“What is that place, my lord?” Mina asked, awed.

“The desecrated, burned-out, meteor-struck, fire-gutted, rubble-strewn Tower of High Sorcery of Istar,” said Chemosh, adding, with a curse, “Somehow, some way, it has been rebuilt.”

8

One moment Rhys and Nightshade were in Zeboim’s cell, patiently arguing with the goddess, trying to make her see reason. The next moment, between the space of one breath and the next, one word and the next, one rant and the next, Rhys was standing on crumbling flagstone in the middle of an island fortress, with the lingering echo of a raging sea roaring in his head. Having grown weary of his argument, Zeboim had brought it to an end.

Rhys had never been to the Storm’s Keep. He had heard tales of it, but he had paid scant attention to the stories. He was not one who yearned for adventure. He did not join the younger monks, who thrilled to hear ghost stories told round the fire on a winter’s night. More often than not, he left that cozy fire to go walking alone across the frozen hills, rejoicing in the cold, glittering beauty of the frost-rimed stars.

The bodies of those young monks lay beneath the earth. Their ghosts, it was to be hoped, were roaming free among those very stars. He had set out to solve the mystery of their deaths. Knowing how, he had yet to discover why. His search had brought him here. Looking back on the road that he had traveled, he could not see it for all the bends and twists and turns it had taken.

If he had obeyed Majere and remained at the monastery to seek perfection of body and mind, what would he be doing now? He knew the answer well. The hour was sunset. Almost time to bring the sheep down from the hills. He would be sitting at his ease in the tall grass, his staff cradled in his arms, Atta lying by his side. She would be watching the sheep and watching him, waiting for the command that would send her skimming over the grass, racing up the hillside.

The scene was peaceful, but he was not. His spirit was troubled, plagued by doubt and inner turmoil. No longer was he free to walk out among the stars at night. He would go every evening to visit the mass grave and he would feel, as he gazed down at the new grass starting to cover it, that he had failed his brethren, failed his family, failed mankind. Rhys looked at what might have been and the image faded away. If he should die in this dread place—as seemed most likely—his spirit would go forth on the next stage of the journey content in the knowledge that he had done right, though it had turned out all wrong.

A gaudy sunset washed the sky with reds and golds and purples, splashing the gray walls of Storm’s Keep with lurid color. Rhys’s first incongruous thought was that the fortress was ill-named. No storms raged on Storm’s Keep. The sky was empty, save for a single, solitary wisp of white cloud that ran away swiftly, afraid of being caught. No breeze stirred on land or water. The sea sloshed sullenly against the cliffs. Wavelets slobbered at the bottoms of the jagged rocks, fawning, caressing them.

Rhys studied his surroundings, looking them over long and intently—the formidable towers jutting up into the garish sky, the parade ground on which he stood, the various outbuildings scattered amid the rocks. And beyond and all around him, the sea, avidly watching his every move.

His every move. His and his alone. The kender was nowhere in sight. Rhys sighed and shook his head. He’d tried to explain to Zeboim that the presence of the kender was essential to his plan. He had thought he’d convinced her—of that, at least, if nothing else. Perhaps the kender had tumbled out of the ethers onto a different part of the isle. Perhaps…

“Nightshade?” Rhys called softly.

A outraged squeal answered. The squeal came from the leather scrip that hung on Rhys’s belt, and after a moment’s startled amazement, he breathed easier. Zeboim had acted on his plan with her usual impetuosity, just not bothering to tell him she’d done so.

“Rhys!” Nightshade wailed, his voice muffled by the scrip in which he was ensconced, “what happened? Where am I? It’s pitch dark in here and it stinks of goat cheese!”

“Keep quiet, my friend,” Rhys ordered and he placed his hand reassuringly over the scrip.

The scrip obediently fell silent, though he could feel it quivering against his thigh. He gave the kender a soothing pat.

“You’re inside my scrip. The scrip and I are on Storm’s Keep.”

The scrip gave a lurch.

“Nightshade,” said Rhys, “you must keep perfectly still. Our lives depend on it.”

“Sorry, Rhys,” squeaked the kender. “I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. This was all so sudden!” He shrieked the last word.

“I know,” Rhys said, striving to keep his tone calm. “I didn’t expect to make this journey, either. But we’re here now, and we have to carry on with our plan as we discussed it. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Rhys. I lost control there for a moment. It’s kind of a shock, you know, finding yourself ,three inches tall and stuck in a sack that smells of goat cheese and then discovering you’ve dropped in on a death knight.” Nightshade sounded bitter.

“I understand,” said Rhys, glad that the kender could not see his smile.

“I’m over all that now, though,” Nightshade added after a pause to catch his breath. “You can count on me.”

“Good.” Rhys glanced about again. “I have no idea where we are or where we are supposed to go. Zeboim sent us off before I could ask her.”

The towers of a massive fortress rose from the cliffs. The buildings all appeared to have been carved from the island as a sculptor carves his work from the marble block, leaving the base rough-hewn, the top smooth and shaped and crafted. Rhys had the eerie sensation that he was standing on the very topmost point of a jagged splinter of earth, with the rest of the world falling away all around him. On his hillside, he had always felt himself to be at one with a benevolent universe. Here he felt himself alone, isolated and abandoned, in a universe that didn’t give a damn.

The flagstones of the parade ground radiated the heat of the afternoon sun into the air. Sweat trickled down Rhys’s neck and his chest. The kender, he thought, must be suffocating. Rhys opened the scrip slightly to let in more air.

“Keep quiet,” he reiterated. “And keep still.”

Two enormous towers that must be the fortress’s main buildings stood at one end of the island. Rhys would have to traverse the length of the parade ground to reach them. Gazing up at the myriad windows in the tall towers, Rhys realized the death knight, Ausric Krell, might be standing, watching him.

He thought back to the conversation that had taken place in the prison cell just moments before he’d so unexpectedly set off on this journey.

It was then that Zeboim had ended the argument.

Now he stood on Storm’s Keep, forced to face a death knight with only his staff for a weapon and a miniature kender for a companion, with no god to give him aid. Gazing out at the sullen waves and the empty, darkening sky, Rhys gripped his staff, which had been a sorrowful last gift from Majere, and said a prayer. He did not know to whom he was praying, if anyone—perhaps to the sea, perhaps to the endless sky. He asked for no spells, no holy magic, no godly powers. Useless to ask. No one would answer.

“Give me strength,” he prayed, and with that, he started to walk toward the fortress to find the death knight.

He had taken only a few steps when a shadow fell over him from behind. The shadow was cold as despair, dark as fear. He could hear, behind him, the creak of leather and the rattle of armor and the sound of breathing, which was not the sound of the living breathing, but the hissing, rasping sound of the undead trying to remember what it was to breathe. The stench of decay, of death, filled his nose and mouth. Between the stench and the horror, he was so sickened that for a moment he feared he might pass out.

Rhys gripped his staff hard. His spiritual self went forth to do battle. Fear was the death knight’s most potent weapon. He had to defeat fear or fall where he stood. His spirit fought with the fear, soul seeking to overcome the weakness inherent to flesh. The struggle was brief, sharp. Rhys had trained for this all his days in the monastery. He could not call upon Majere to aid him, but he could call upon the lessons of Majere. Spirit won. His soul triumphed. The sick feeling passed. The hot prickling sensation in his limbs eased, though his hand clutching the staff had gone numb.

Master of himself, he maintained that mastery and turned with unhurried calm to look fear in the face.

At the sight of the death knight, Rhys’s resolve came close to crumbling. Krell stood near Rhys, looming over him. Looking into the eye slits of the helm, Rhys saw the accursed light of undeath, light that was as fierce and fiery as the sun, yet could not illuminate the darkness of the being trapped inside the bloodstained armor. Rhys steeled himself to look past the flaring light at that being.

It was not daunting. It was mean and shriveled.

Krell’s small red eyes peered at Rhys. “Before I kill you, Mantis Monk, I will give you a chance to tell me what you’re doing on my island. Your explanation should be amusing.”

“You are mistaken, sir. I am not a monk of Majere. I came to speak for Zeboim, to negotiate for the soul of her son.”

“You’re dressed like a monk,” Krell leered, sneering.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Rhys returned. “You, sir, are dressed like a knight.”

Krell glared. He had the feeling he’d been insulted, but he wasn’t sure. “Never mind. I’ll have the last laugh, monk. Days of laughter, so long as you don’t up and die on me too soon, like so many of the bastards.”

Krell rocked back on his heels, rocked forward, his hands hooked through his belt.

“Zeboim wants to negotiate, does she? Very well. Here are my terms, monk: you will entertain me as do all my `guests’ by playing khas with me. If, by chance, you beat me, I will reward you by cutting your throat.” He added, just in case Rhys did not understand, “Killing you swiftly, you see.”

Rhys nodded, kept a tight grip on the staff. So far, so good. All was going as planned.

“If you do not beat me—and I warn you that I am an expert player—I will give you another chance. I am not such a bad fellow, after all. I’ll give you chance after chance to beat me. We will play one game after another after another.”

Krell made a motion with his gloved hand. “The game board is set up in the library. A rather long walk, but at least you can enjoy this unusually pleasant weather we’re experiencing. You might want to take a good last look at the sunset.”

Krell chuckled, a hideous sound, his amusement echoing hollowly in the empty armor. He stomped off, gleefully rubbing his hands in anticipation of the game. Half-way across the courtyard, he came to a halt, turned to face Rhys.

“Did I mention that for every khas piece you lose, monk, I will break one of your bones?” Krell laughed outright. “I start with the small bones—fingers and toes. Then I will break your ribs, one by one. After that maybe a collar bone, a wrist or an elbow. Then I start on the legs—a shin bone, thigh bone, pelvis. I leave your spine until the end. By that time, you’ll be begging me to slay you. I told you I find this game entertaining! I’m going off to set up the board now. Don’t keep me waiting. I do so long to hear what Zeboim has to offer me in exchange for her son.”

The death knight strode off. Rhys stood unmoving, gazing after him.

“Oh, Rhys!” Nightshade cried, appalled.

“Not so loud. How good a khas player are you?” Rhys asked quietly.

“Not that good,” Nightshade answered, his voice quavering. “We’ll be forced to give up pieces, Rhys. It’s the only way to play the game. I’m sorry. I’ll try to find Ariakan quickly.”

“Just do the best you can, my friend,” said Rhys, and gripping his staff, he started walking toward the tower.

9

Krell rose from his seat as Rhys entered the library. Bowing with a mocking show of polite welcome, the death knight ushered Rhys to a chair placed near a small table on which the khas board was all arranged. The room was chill and oppressive and smelled of rotting flesh. Krell irritably kicked aside several bones that littered the floor.

“Excuse the mess. Former khas players,” he said to Rhys.

Leg bones, arm bones, collar bones, fingers and toes, skulls—all cracked or shattered, some in several places. Krell casually trod a few underfoot, crushing them to dust.

He settled his ponderous armored body in his chair and indicated with another wave that Rhys was to sit down. The round khas board stood in between the two players; the shrunken bodies that were the khas pieces stood on the black and white and red hexes, two opposing armies facing each other across a checkered battlefield.

Seating himself, Rhys appeared to have lost his nerve. His customary calm deserted him. He was shivering, his hands shaking so that the staff slipped from his sweaty palms and fell to the floor. He sought to remove the scrip from his belt and dropped it as well. Rhys bent to pick up the scrip.

“Leave it,” Krell growled. “Get on with the game.”

Rhys mopped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. As he sank, trembling, into his seat, his knee jerked, striking the khas board and upending it. The board fell off its stand. The pieces slid to the floor and scattered in all directions.

“You clumsy oaf!” Krell snarled. The death knight leaned down to pick up the khas pieces, going after one in particular that he snatched up hurriedly.

Rhys could not get a good look at it, for Krell closed his gloved hand over it.

“You pick up the rest, monk,” Krell grunted. “And if any of those pieces are damaged, I’m going to break two of your bones for every piece you lose. Be quick about it.”

Rhys crawled on the floor, on his hands and knees, scrabbling to pick up the pieces, some of which had rolled to far parts of the room.

“There are twenty-seven bones in the human hand,” stated Krell, returning the pieces he’d picked up to the khas board. “I start with the forefinger of the right hand and work my way along. You missed a pawn, one of the kender. It’s over by the fire pit.”

Rhys picked up the last piece—a kender pawn—and placed it on the board.

“What are you doing, monk?” Krell demanded.

Rhys’s hand on the kender froze. He could feel Nightshade quivering beneath his fingers.

“Pawns don’t go there.” Krell said in disgust. “That hex is where you put the rook. The pawn goes here.”

“I am sorry,” Rhys said, and he moved Nightshade to the indicated hex. “I know very little about the game.”

Krell shook his head. “And here I was hoping you would live to entertain me for a week at least. Still,” the death knight added cheerfully, “there are twenty-six bones in the human foot. You’ll last at least a day or two. You have first move.”

Rhys resumed his seat. Placing his foot firmly on the kender pawn he’d switched out for Nightshade, he shoved the pawn beneath his chair.

Rhys took hold of Nightshade, who stood stiff and straight as the rest of the pawns, and advanced the kender one square. Then Rhys hesitated. He could not recall if he was supposed to move one square or two on his opening gambit. Nightshade apparently sensed his dilemma, for he gave a little wriggle. Rhys advanced him another square then sank back in his chair. The trembling and shaking had been an act, but the sweat on his brow was real. He mopped it again with the sleeve of his robe.

Krell advanced a goblin pawn two squares on the opposite side of the board.

“Your move, monk.”

Rhys looked at the board and tried hard to remember his lessons in khas, given to him by Nightshade the night before. They had a game plan in mind, the object being to move Nightshade close enough to the dark knight pieces so that he could find out which was Ariakan. Nightshade explained all the contingencies—what to move if Krell moved this, what to move if Krell moved that. Unfortunately, Rhys had proved a poor pupil.

“You have to think like a warrior, Rhys,” Nightshade had said to him at one point in exasperation, “not like a shepherd!” “I am a shepherd,” Rhys had returned, smiling.

“Well, stop thinking like one. You can’t protect all your pieces. You have to sacrifice some of them to win.”

“I don’t have to win,” Rhys had pointed out. “I just have to stay in the game long enough for you to accomplish your mission.”

What neither of them had counted on were broken bones.

Rhys put his hand on a pawn and glanced at Nightshade. The kender stiffened in his place, very slightly shook his head. Rhys lifted his hand off the piece.

“Hah, monk!” Krell rumbled, leaning forward with a rattle of armor. “You touched the piece. You have to move it.” Nightshade’s shoulders slumped. Rhys moved the pawn. He’d barely taken his hand off it before Krell swooped down. Seizing one of his pieces, he slid it across the board and knocked over Rhys’s pawn. Krell triumphantly moved the pawn to his side of the table.

“My turn again,” said Krell.

Rising up out of his chair, his small red eyes flaring with anticipation, the death knight seized hold of Rhys’s hand.

Rhys gasped and shuddered beneath the death knight’s touch, which seared his flesh with the white-hot hatred the accursed dead bear the living.

The monks of Majere are trained to withstand pain without complaint, using many disciplines, including one called Frost Fire. Through the use of consistent practice and mediation, the monk is able to completely banish minor pains, so that they are no longer felt, and can reduce debilitating pain to a level where the monk can continue to function. The “fire” is rimed with ice, the monk envisioning hoar-frost settling over the pain, so that it subsides beneath the freezing cold that numbs the affected part of the body.

Rhys had counted upon using this discipline to be able overcome the pain of the shattered bones, at least for a while. Meditation and discipline were no match for the death knight’s touch. Rhys had once tipped over a lantern, spilling flaming oil on his bare legs. His flesh blistered and bubbled, the pain so severe he’d almost passed out. Krell’s touch was like flaming oil being poured through Rhys’s veins. He could not help himself. He cried out in agony, his body jerking spasmodically in Krell’s hold.

Grabbing hold of Rhys’s index finger on his right hand, Krell gave it an expert twist. The bone snapped at the knuckle. Rhys moaned. A wave of sickening heat and dizziness swept over him.

Krell released him and sauntered back to his chair.

Rhys sank back, fighting faintness, sucking in the deep breaths used to clear his mind and enter the Frost Fire state. He was having difficulty. The broken finger was discolored and starting to swell. The flesh where Krell had touched it was a ghastly shade of white, like that of a corpse. Rhys was weak and unsteady. The khas pieces wavered in his vision, the room swam.

“If you give way now, all is lost,” he told himself, wavering on the verge of unconsciousness. “This behavior is unforgivable. The Master would be bitterly disappointed. Were all these past years a lie?”

Rhys closed his eyes and he was back on the hills, sitting in the grass, watching the clouds drift across the sky, mirroring the white woolly sheep roaming the hillside. Slowly he began to regain mastery, his spirit triumphing over his wounded body.

Nursing his broken finger, he returned his attention to the khas board. Nightshade’s lessons came back to him and he lifted his hand—his injured hand—and made his move.

“I’m impressed, monk,” said Krell, regarding Rhys with grudging admiration. “Most humans usually pass out on me and I have to wait for them to come around.”

Rhys barely heard him. His next move would advance Nightshade, but it meant sacrificing another piece.

Krell made his move and gave a nod to Rhys.

Rhys pretended to study the board, all the while composing his spirit, bracing himself for what must come next. He placed his hand on the khas piece, glanced at Nightshade.

The kender had gone quite pale, so that he was now barely distinguishable from the rest of the shrunken kender corpses. Nightshade knew what was coming as well as Rhys, but it had to be done. He gave a small nod.

Rhys picked up the piece, moved it, set it down, and after only a slight hesitation, removed his hand from it. He heard Krell chortle with pleasure, heard him knock over one of his pieces, heard the death knight rise ponderously to his feet.

The chill shadow of the death knight fell over him.

For one horrible minute, Nightshade knew he was going to faint. He’d heard quite clearly the rending, snapping sound of that first bone breaking, and Rhys’s agonized moan, and the soft-hearted kender had gone unpleasantly hot all over. Only the terrible thought of himself—a khas piece—suddenly slumping over in a dead faint on his black hex (a move not found in any rule book) kept Nightshade on his feet. Wobbly but determined, he pressed on with his end of the mission.

Nightshade was an unusual kender in that he was not fond of adventure. His parents considered this a lamentable trait and sought to reason with him, to no avail. His father maintained sadly that this lack of true kender spirit probably came from the fact that Nightshade chummed around with dead people all the time. Some dead have such a negative view of life.

Thus far, this adventure had gone a long way to confirming Nightshade’s bad opinion.

From the beginning, he had not been keen on Rhys’s plan to reduce him to the size of khas piece. In a world of tall people, Nightshade considered that he was short enough already. He further did not like the idea of being dependent on Zeboim to shrink him in the first place and in the second place to bring him back from being shrunken. Rhys had assured Nightshade that he would have Zeboim swear on whatever it was goddesses swore upon that she would perform as required. Unfortunately, the goddess had whipped the spell on the kender before they’d had a chance to conclude this important term in the negotiations. Nightshade had been standing beside Rhys in the goddess’s prison cell, and the next thing he knew he was inside a smelly leather pouch, sweating and recalling with a pang that he’d skipped breakfast.

He’d wanted out of that pouch until the death knight showed up, and then he’d wanted only to crawl inside the pouch’s seams. He supposed he was as brave as any kender living, but even his famous Uncle Tas had, according to legend, been afraid of a death knight.

After that, there had been no time for fear. After Rhys dropped the scrip, Nightshade had only seconds to crawl out of the pouch and roll away before the death knight could spot him. Then there was the business of trying to hold stiff and unmoving as Rhys picked him up—gently as he could—and stood him on the khas board. In the worry and anxiety over all that, he hadn’t had time to be intimidated by the death knight.

When that flurry of activity was over, however, Nightshade had quite a good view of Krell, for he was forced to stand facing the death knight, who was every bit as loathsome as the kender had pictured.

Nightshade wondered if anyone would notice if he shut his eyes. A covert glance showed him that all the other kender on the board had his or her eyes wide open.

“Of course, they’re corpses—lucky bastards,” Nightshade muttered in his throat.

Krell did not appear too observant, but he might notice. Nightshade was forced to stare straight at the death knight. Nightshade might not have been able to withstand the awful sight but that he suddenly caught a glimpse of Krell’s spirit. Krell was big and ugly and terrifying. His spirit, by contrast, was small and ugly and craven. In the spirit department, Nightshade could have taken on Krell, thrown him to the ground, and sat on his head. This knowledge made Nightshade feel immensely better and he was starting to think that they just might get out of this alive—something he hadn’t really expected—when Krell broke Rhys’s first finger, and Nightshade had nearly collapsed.

“The sooner you finish your part of the job,” Nightshade told himself to keep himself from passing out, “the sooner you and Rhys can get out of here.”

Nightshade gulped, blinked away his tears, and proceeded to do what he’d been sent here to do—find out which of the khas pieces contained the spirit of Lord Ariakan.

When he’d heard that all the khas pieces were shrunken corpses, Nightshade had been concerned that he’d be over-whelmed with the spirits of the dead. Fortunately, the spirits of the dead had long since departed, leaving their tormented bodies behind. Nightshade felt the presence of only one spirit, but that spirit was angry enough for twenty.

Ordinarily Nightshade could have used such strong emotions as he felt resonate from the spirit to determine which khas piece was which. Unfortunately, the rage cascading over the khas board was so very strong that it made distinguishing between the pieces impossible. Anger and the fierce desire for vengeance was everywhere and could have come from any one of the pieces.

Zeboim had insisted that her son was trapped in one of the two dark knights, each riding a blue dragon—for that was what Krell had told her. Nightshade thought this likely, though he could not discount the possibility that Krell had lied. He looked over the heads of the goblin pieces standing opposite him and peered around the corpse of a black-robed wizard to get a good look at both knight pieces to see if he could note anything about them that might help him decide.

He rather hoped one might quiver in indignation, or give a vicious snort, or poke another piece with his spear…

Nothing. The knight pieces stood as rigid and unmoving as—well—corpses.

There was only one way to find out. He would make himself known to the spirit and ask it to please reveal itself.

Nightshade generally talked to spirits in a normal tone of voice; they tended to like that, it made them feel at home. Speaking aloud was not an option here. While Krell didn’t look any too bright, even he was bound to be suspicious of a talking khas piece. Nightshade could, if he had to, speak to spirits on their own plane in a voice akin to theirs, something he sometimes had to do with very shy spirits.

Unfortunately, being undead himself, Krell existed on both planes—the mortal and the spiritual—and he might overhear the kender. Nightshade decided he had to take the risk. He couldn’t let Rhys endure any more torture.

Nightshade looked intently at Krell and his spirit. The death knight appeared to be entirely engrossed in both the game and in torturing Rhys. Krell seemed pretty well entrenched in the mortal plane, as was his small, ugly little spirit.

“Excuse me,” Nightshade called out in a polite whisper, trying to watch both knight pieces and Krell, “I’m looking for Lord Ariakan. Could you make yourself known, please?”

He waited expectantly, but no one answered his summons. The rushing tide of fury did not abate, however. Ariakan was here, the kender was sure of it.

Nightshade was being ignored.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Nightshade saw Rhys’s wounded hand hovering over the khas board. Nightshade looked up fearfully to see what Rhys was going to do. They had worked out several strategies with the goal of advancing Nightshade across the board toward the knight pieces. He tensed to see the fingers come down and gave a small, relieved sigh when Rhys made the correct move. Nightshade sighed again, more deeply and sorrowfully. Rhys would sacrifice a piece in this move. Krell would break another bone. Nightshade decided to get firm.

“Lord Ariakan—” he began more loudly, taking a no-nonsense tone.

“Shut up,” said a voice, cold and sepulchral.

“Oh, there you are!” Nightshade focused on the dark knight piece standing on his side of the board. “I’m glad I found you. We’ve come to rescue you. My friend and I.” He could not turn around, but he swiveled his eyes and gave a very small jerk of his head toward Rhys.

The fury lessened a modicum. Nightshade now had the spirit’s full attention.

“A kender and a monk of Majere here to rescue me from Chemosh?” Ariakan gave a bitter laugh. “Not likely.”

“I am a kender. I admit that. But Rhys is no longer a monk of Majere. Well, he is, but he isn’t, if you take my meaning, my lord, which you probably don’t, because I don’t understand it very well myself. And it wasn’t our idea to come. Your mother sent us.”

“My mother!” Ariakan snorted. “Now it all makes sense.” “I think she’s trying to help,” Nightshade offered.

Ariakan snorted again.

Behind him, Nightshade heard the snap of another bone. Rhys moaned and then fell silent, so silent that for a moment Nightshade feared his friend had lost consciousness. Then he heard harsh breathing and saw Rhys’s hand move over the board.

Jagged-edged bone protruded from the flesh. Blood splattered down on the khas board. The kender gulped, his heart wrung for his friend’s suffering.

“Now that you know we’re here to save you, my lord,” said Nightshade, desperately hurrying things along, “here’s our plan—”

“You’re wasting your time. I’m not leaving,” returned Ariakan fiercely, “not until I’ve torn out the liver of this traitor with my bare hands and fed it to him in small bites.”

“He doesn’t have a liver,” Nightshade said crossly. “Not anymore. And I’d just like to say that it is this sort of bad attitude that’s kept you in prison all these years. Now. Here is the plan. Rhys will capture you”—Nightshade stated this confidently, though he had misgivings on this score—“and move you to his side of the board. I’ll distract Krell. Rhys will pocket you and we’ll escape and carry you back safely to your goddess mother. All you have to do is—”

“I do not want to be rescued,” said Ariakan. “If you try, I will raise holy hell. Even Krell can’t fail to notice. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. And your lives.”

“He definitely takes after his mother,” Nightshade muttered. “Poor Rhys,” he added, wincing as he heard his friend draw in a halting breath. “He can’t take much more. Oh, no! There he goes. About to move the wrong piece!”

Nightshade gave a violent jerk of his head and rolled his eyes and, fortunately, Rhys took the hint. His hand—he was using his left hand now—shifted from the queen to a rook. Nightshade heaved a deep sigh and cast a glance at Krell.

“That should give him something to think about,” said the kender in satisfaction.

The death knight was impressed by the move. Krell leaned over the board, started to move a piece, thought better of it. Drumming his gloved fingers on the chair’s carved wooden arm, he sat back and stared at the board.

Nightshade stole a glance at Rhys. The monk was very pale, his face covered with a sheen of sweat. He sat with his right hand cradled in his left. His robes were spattered with his own blood. He made no sound, did not groan, though the pain must have been excruciating. Every so often, Nightshade heard that soft, sharp intake of breath.

Kender are by nature easy-going folk, willing to let bygones be bygones, live and let live, turn the other cheek, never judge a book by its cover or cry over spilt milk. But sometimes they get mad. And anyone on Krynn can tell you that there is nothing in the world quite as dangerous as a kender with his dander up.

“Here we are,” Nightshade said to himself, “risking our lives to rescue this knight, only to find out the steel-plated jackass refuses to be rescued. Well,” he stated grimly, “we’ll see about that!”

No kender “borrowing” required. No artful sleight-of-hand, no sly maneuvering. Just a crude snatch-and-grab. Nightshade didn’t have any way to alert Rhys to the change of plans. He could only hope that his partner would take the hint, which—after all—was going to be an extremely broad one.

Krell reached out his gloved hand to make a move. As Nightshade had anticipated, the death knight was about to pick up the dark knight piece. He was going to move Lord Ariakan.

Nightshade lowered his head like a bull he’d seen at a fair and charged.

10

Some part of Rhys was cognizant of the khas board and the pieces on it and what was going on in the game. Another part of him was not. That part of him was on the hillside, bare feet cool in the dew-sparkled green grass, the sun warm on his shoulders. He was finding it increasingly hard to stay on the hillside, though.

Jagged flashes of agony disrupted his meditative state. Every time Krell laid his cold and fleshless hand upon Rhys, the horrible touch further depleted his strength and his will.

According to their plan, he had several more moves to go. He would have to lose more pieces.

Night had fallen outside. Through the window, Rhys could see the flicker of lightning on the horizon; Zeboim waiting impatiently for news.

Inside, no fire burned, no candle flared. The board was illuminated by the red glow of Krell’s eyes. Rhys tried to focus … but he was finding it impossible to make sense of a game that had never made sense. Trying to remember what piece he was supposed to move, he was alarmed to see the black hexes rise up from the board and float a good three inches off the surface. Rhys blinked his eyes and drew in a deep breath, and the black hexes returned to their normal position.

Krell’s fingers drummed on the chair. He leaned forward, his hand reaching for one of the dark knight pieces.

When Nightshade first broke into a run, Rhys feared his eyes were again deceiving him. He stared at the khas piece, willing it to return to normal.

Krell gave a startled grunt and Rhys realized that he wasn’t seeing things. Nightshade had taken the game into his own hands. The pawn was making his own move.

Dodging in and out among the khas pieces, Nightshade barreled across the board and launched himself straight at the dark knight khas piece. The kender wrapped both arms around the legs of the blue dragon and kept going.

Pawn and knight tumbled off the board.

“Here now,” Krell said sternly. “That’s against the rules.”

Rhys could not see the khas pieces, but he could hear them land on the floor, one with a clatter and the other with a yelp.

Krell gave a low rumble of anger. His red eyes turned on Rhys.

Snatching up his staff, holding it in both hands, Rhys rose from his chair and drove the staff with all his might into the center of the death knight’s helm, hitting Krell between the fiery eyes.

Rhys hoped that the jab in the heavy steel helm would distract the death knight, slow him long enough for Rhys to find Nightshade and Lord Ariakan. Rhys did not anticipate doing any damage to Krell.

But the staff was holy, blessed by Majere, the last gift of the god to his lost sheep.

Acting on its own accord, the staff flew out of Rhys’s hands. As he stared, amazed, the staff altered form, changing into an enormous mantis, the insect sacred to the god Majere.

The mantis was ten feet tall, with bulbous eyes and a green shell body, and six huge green legs. The huge praying mantis grasped the death knight’s head with its spiny forelegs. The mantis clamped its mandibles over Krell’s cringing spirit and began to feed off him, the jaws of the god tearing through the armor to reach the accursed soul beneath.

Caught in the grip of the gigantic insect, Krell screamed in horror, his coward’s heart shriveling.

Rhys whispered a quick prayer of thanksgiving to the god and knelt down swiftly to recover the khas piece and the kender. He found them easily enough, for Nightshade was jumping up and down and waving his arms and shrieking. Rhys picked up Nightshade.

“He doesn’t want to be rescued!” the kender yelled.

Rhys thrust Nightshade into the leather scrip, then picked up the dark knight khas piece. The pewter was hot to the touch, as though it had just come molten from the fire.

Rhys glanced at Krell, grappling with the god, and guessed that Ariakan’s vengeance-thirsting soul would continue to remain bound to this world for a long time to come.

Her son’s spirit was Zeboim’s concern. Rhys deposited the khas piece into the pouch, wincing at the kender’s yelp as Nightshade came into contact with the blazing metal. Rhys had no time to help. Krell was starting to recover from the first horrific shock of the mantis’s attack and was now fighting back, slugging the insect’s green body with his fists, kicking it savagely, trying to fling it off him. Rhys had to make good their escape while Krell and the mantis were still battling. Rhys hoped that the mantis would destroy Krell, but he dared not stay around to see the final outcome.

He turned to run. He’d only taken a few steps when he realized he wouldn’t be able to run far. He was too weak.

Gasping for breath, sick and dizzy, he staggered into the night. His legs trembled, his feet stumbled on the uneven cobble-stones and he tripped over a broken stone. He was so weak he could not recover his balance. He fell forward onto his hands and knees. He tried to keep going. All he could do was pant. He was sick. He was exhausted. He was finished. He lacked the strength to run anymore, and behind him, he heard fell heavy footfalls and Krell roaring in fury.

Rhys looked up at the starlit heavens.

“Zeboim,” he cried, his breath torn and ragged. “Your son is safe in my possession. It is up to you now.”

The sea rose. Gray clouds, massed on the horizon, waited for the command to attack. Rhys also waited, confident that at any moment the goddess would carry them off this island.

A single stroke of lightning zinged from sky to ground. Striking the top of the tower, the bolt blasted off a great chunk of rock. Thunder rumbled, distant and far away. Rhys stood in the courtyard, the kender and the khas piece in his pouch.

The death knight’s heavy boots pounded closer.

The mantis’s horrific attack had scared Krell witless. No mortal could inflict pain on a death knight, but a god could and Krell knew agony and terror as the insect’s mandibles chomped down on his soul, as the hideous, bulbous eyes reflected back the nothingness of the death knight’s cursed existence.

Krell had always detested bugs.

He managed to land a few panic-stricken punches against the mantis and those were enough to dislodge it. Krell yanked his sword from its sheathe and thrust the blade into the insect’s body. Green blood oozed. The mantis’s jaws clicked horribly. Its spiny claws lashed out at him.

Krell slashed wildly at the mantis, hating it again and again. He struck blindly, flailing away at it, not aware of what he was hitting, only wanting the horrible bug dead, dead, dead. It took him a few moments to realize he was stabbing thin air.

Krell halted, looked fearfully around.

The mantis was gone. The monk’s staff was there, lying on the floor. Krell lifted his foot, prepared to stomp on the staff and grind it to splinters. He held his foot poised in the air. Suppose he touched it and the bug came back? Slowly, Krell lowered his foot to the floor and edged away. Keeping as far from the staff as possible, he circled warily around it.

Krell peered under the table. The knight piece was not there, nor was the kender.

Krell looked at the board. The other knight piece remained, standing on its hex. He snatched it up, stared at it hopefully, then flung it from him with a bitter curse.

The death’s knight’s view of the theft having been blocked by a giant mantis trying to eat his head, Krell had not actually seen Rhys run off with the khas piece. But the death knight had no problem figuring out what had happened. He set off in pursuit of the monk, spurred on by the dreadful knowledge of what Chemosh would do to him if he lost Ariakan.

Krell dashed into the courtyard. He could see Rhys some distance away, running for his life. He could also see storm clouds, gray and menacing, gathering overhead. A bolt of lightning struck one of the towers. The next bolt, he had the feeling, would be aimed at him.

“Don’t you lay a hand on me, Zeboim!” Krell bellowed, desperately dissembling. “Your monk stole the wrong khas piece. Your son is still in my possession. If you do anything to help this thief escape, Chemosh will melt down your pretty pewter boy and hammer his soul into oblivion!”

Lightning flickered from cloud to cloud; thunder gave a low, ominous growl. The wind rose, the skies grew darker and still darker. A few spatters of rain fell, along with a couple of hail stones.

And that was all.

Krell chuckled and, rubbing his hands, he went after the monk.

Rhys heard Krell’s bellow and his heart sank.

“Zeboim!” Rhys called urgently. “He’s lying. I have your son! Take us away from here!”

Lightning flickered. The rumble of thunder was muted. The clouds swirling about overhead were confused, unsure. The death knight raced across the parade ground. His fists clenched, his red eyes flaring, Krell advanced, incensed. When he caught Rhys, he would do more than break a few fingers.

“Majesty,” Rhys prayed, “We risked our lives for you. Now is time for you to risk something for us.”

Rain drizzled down in desultory ploppings all around him. The wind sighed and gave up. The clouds began to retreat.

“Very well, Majesty,” said Rhys. He yanked the scrip from his belt. “Forgive me for what I’m about to do, but you’ve left me no choice.”

Grasping the pouch in his one good hand, Rhys looked around, getting his bearings, judging distance. This would be his last move, use up all his remaining strength. He broke into his final sprint.

The heavens opened. The rain fell heavily, pounding at him. Rhys ignored the goddess’s warning. She could bluster and blow and threaten all she wanted. She dared not do anything drastic to him, for he might, in truth, have her son in his possession.

Zeboim tried blowing him off his feet. Rhys picked himself up and kept on running. She threw hail stones at his face. He flung up his arm to protect his eyes and kept going.

Krell pounded after him. The death knight’s footfalls shook the ground.

Rhys slipped and stumbled, his strength flagging. He did not have far to go, however. The parade ground ended in a jumble of rocks, and beyond that, the sea.

Krell saw the danger and his pace increased.

“Stop him, Zeboim,” Krell shouted angrily. “If you don’t, you’ll be sorry!”

Rhys thrust the scrip containing the kender and the khas piece into the bosom of his robe and climbed out onto the jagged rocks that were wet and slick from the rain. He slipped, had to use both hands to steady himself, and he sobbed in agony from the pain of his broken fingers.

He could hear Krell’s hissing breath behind him and feel his rage. Rhys pressed on.

His strength was gone by the time he reached the island’s edge. He didn’t need it by then, anyway. He had only one more step to take and that would not require much energy.

Rhys looked down. He stood at the top of a sheer cliff. Below him—far below him—the sea heaved and swelled and crashed up against the rock face. The goddess’s anger and fear lit the night until it was as bright as day. Rhys noted small details—the swirling foam, the green sweep of algae trialing off a glistening rock, floating on the surface like the hair of a drowned man.

Rhys looked out over the ocean to the horizon, shrouded in mist and driving rain.

Krell had reached the rocks and was blundering his way through them, cursing and swearing and waving his sword.

Moving carefully, so as not to slip, Rhys climbed up onto a promontory extending out over the sea. He stood poised, his soul calm.

“Hold on, Nightshade,” Rhys said. “This is going to get a little rough.”

“Rhys!” the kender wailed, terrified. “What are you doing? I can’t see!”

“Just as well.”

Rhys lifted his face to heaven.

“Zeboim, we are in your hands.”

He stood as though on the green hill, the sheep flowing over it in a mass of white, Atta poised at his side, looking into his face, her tail wagging, waiting eagerly for the command.

”Atta, come bye,” Rhys said and jumped.

11

Night seeped from the Blood Sea’s depths, spreading ink-like through the water, drifting gently toward the surface. Mina gazed upward, watching the last vestige of flickering sunlight shimmer on the water’s surface. Then it vanished, and she was in utter darkness.

During the hours they had spent waiting and watching the tower in the Blood Sea, she and Chemosh had seen no one enter it, no one leave. The sea creatures swam past the crystal walls as carelessly as they swam past the coral reef or the hulk of a wrecked ship lying on the ocean floors. Fish brushed up against the walls, traveling up and down the smooth surface, either finding food or entranced by their own reflections. None appeared afraid of the Tower, though Mina did notice that the sea creatures avoided the strange circlet of red-yellow gold and silver at the top. None would come near the dark hole in the center.

With the coming of night beneath the waves, Chemosh watched to see if any lights appeared in the Tower.

“There were windows in the Tower of Istar,” he recalled, “though you could not see them by day. All you could see was the smooth, sheer, crystal walls. When night fell, however, the wizards in their chambers would light their lamps. The Tower would gleam with pinpoints of fire. The people of Istar used to say that the wizards had captured the stars and brought them to the city for her own regal glory.”

“The Tower must be deserted, my lord,” said Mina. She fumbled for his hand in the darkness, glad to feel his touch, hear the sound of his voice. The darkness was so absolute she was beginning to doubt her own reality. She needed to know he was with her. “There seems nothing sinister about it. The fish go right up to it.”

“Fish are not noted for their intelligence, no matter what Habakkuk says to the contrary. Still, as you say, we’ve seen no one come near the place. Let us investigate.” He released her hand from his grasp and was gone.

“My lord,” Mina called, reaching out to him. “My mortal eyes are blind in this murk. I cannot see you. I cannot see myself! More to the point, I cannot see where I am going. Is there some way you can light my path?”

“Those who can see can also be seen,” said Chemosh. “I prefer to remain cloaked in darkness.”

“Then you must guide me, Lord, as the dog guides a blind beggar.”

Chemosh grasped her hand and pulled her swiftly through the water, making no difference between it and air. The water flowed past Mina, washing over her body. Once, tentacles brushed her arm and she jerked away. The tentacled creature did not pursue her. Perhaps she tasted bad. If Chemosh noticed the creature, he paid no attention. He pressed forward, eager and impatient.

As they drew nearer the Tower, Mina became aware that the walls were shining with a faint phosphorescence, greenish blue in color. The eerie light covered the crystal walls, giving the Tower a ghostly appearance.

“Wait here for me,” Chemosh said, letting go her hand.

Mina floated in the darkness, watched as the god drew near the Tower. He ran his hands over the smooth surface of the walls and peered through the crystal walls, trying to see inside. The crystal reflected his own image back to him.

Chemosh craned his neck. He looked up and he looked down and around. He shook his head, profoundly perplexed.

“There are no windows,” he said to Mina. “No doors. No way inside that I can see, yet there must be. The entrance is hidden, that is all:’

He moved along the walls, searching with his hands as well as his eyes. She could see his silhouette, black against the green phosphorous glow. She kept him in sight as long as she could, and then he disappeared, drifting around a corner of the building.

Mina was alone, utterly alone, as if she stood on the brink of Chaos.

She was parched with thirst and hungry. The hunger she could endure; she’d gone without food on many long marches with her army. Thirst was a different matter. She wondered how she could be thirsty, when her mouth was filled with water, except that the water tasted of salt and the salt was increasing her thirst. She did not know how long she could survive without drinking, before the need for water would become critical and she would have to admit to Chemosh that she could no longer go on. She would have to remind him, once again, that she was mortal.

Chemosh returned suddenly, looming out of the darkness.

“Admittedly, it has been many centuries since I last saw this Tower, yet something about it did not look right to me. I have figured out what is wrong. At least one third of it remains buried beneath the ocean floor. That includes the entrance presumably. In the old days, a single door led inside the Tower and now that door is buried in the sand. I can find no other way—”

Chemosh halted, staring. “Do you see that?”

“I see it, my lord,” said Mina, “but I am not sure I believe it.”

Deep inside the Tower, lights winked on. First one. Then another. Small globules of white-blue light appeared in different levels of the Tower—some far above them, near the top; others down below. Some of the lights seemed to be shining from deep within the Tower’s interior, others closer to the crystal walls.

“It is as I remember,” said Chemosh. “Stars held captive.”

The lights were like starlight, cold and sharp-edged. They illuminated nothing, gave off no warmth, no radiance. Mina watched one closely. “Look there, my lord,” she said, pointing.

“What is it?” Chemosh demanded.

“One of the lights went out and then came back,” said Mina. “As if something or someone had walked in front of it.” “Where? Which light?”

“Up there, about two levels. My lord,” Mina added, “you can enter the Tower. You are a god. These walls, no matter if they are solid or illusion, cannot stop you.”

“Yes,” he said, “but you cannot.”

“You must go in, my lord,” said Mina. “I will wait for you outside. When you find an entrance, you will come for me.”

“I don’t like to leave you alone,” he said, yet he was tempted. “I will call you if I have need.”

“And I will come, though I am at the ends of the universe. Wait for me here. I won’t be long.”

He swam toward the crystal wall, swam through the crystal wall. The darkness, warm and smothering, pressed down on her.

Mina kept watch on the star-like lights, focusing on them and not on her thirst, which was becoming acute. She counted eight lights scattered all over the tower, with no two on the same level, if there were levels. None of them blinked on or off but burned steadily.

She missed Chemosh, missed his voice. The silence was thick and heavy as the darkness. Suddenly, quite near her, a ninth light flared.

This light was different from the others. It was yellow in color and seemed warmer, brighter.

“I can stay here, thinking of nothing except the unbearable silence and the taste of cool water on my tongue, or I can go discover the source of this light.”

Mina pushed herself through the water, half-swimming, half-crawling, moving slowly and stealthily toward the strange light.

As she drew near, she saw that it was not a single point of light, as she had first supposed, but multiple lights, like a cluster of candles. She realized that the lights looked different—warmer, brighter—because they were outside the walls. She could see the light mirrored on the crystal surface. She drew nearer, curious.

The series of lights hung in the water as though strung together, like small lanterns hung on a rope. The lights were lined up in a row, jagged and irregular, which bobbed and drifted and gently swayed with the underwater currents.

“Strange,” said Mina to herself. “It looks like some sort of net—”

Her danger flashed before her in that instant. She tried to flee, but movement beneath the water was agonizingly slow and sluggish. The lights started to spin rapidly, dazzling her, so that she was blinded and confused. A net of heavy rope whipped out from the center of the whirling lights and, before she could escape it, settled over her.

She fought desperately to free herself from the entangling folds of heavy rope that fell over her head and shoulders, wrapped around her arms and hands and thrashing legs. She tried to lift the folds of the net, put it aside, shove it off her, but the lights were so bright that she could not see what she was doing.

The net drew in around her, tighter and tighter, until her arms were squeezed up against her chest, her feet and legs trussed up so that she could not move.

She could see and feel the net being dragged through the water with her inside, moving rapidly toward the crystal wall. The net did not stop when it reached the wall and it seemed that she must smash into the crystal. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the shattering impact.

A sensation of numbing cold, as if she’d fallen into bone-chilling water, was all that happened. Gasping from the shock, she opened her eyes to see that she had passed through a kind of porthole that had swirled opened to admit her and was now spiraling shut behind her.

The net’s movement ceased. Mina hung suspended in the water. Still entangled in the net, she could not easily turn her head and she had only a limited view of her surroundings. From what she could see, she was in some type of small, well-lighted chamber filled with sea water.

Two faces peered at her through a crystal pane.

“Fishermen,” Mina realized suddenly, recalling how the fishermen on Schallsea Isle would use lights at night to lure fish to their nets. “And I am their catch.”

She could not get a good look at her captors, for the net began to revolve and she was losing sight of them. The two were apparently as shocked to see her as she had been to see them. They began speaking to each other—she was able to see their mouths move, though she could not hear what they were saying.

It was then she noticed the surface of the water over her head ripple, as though air were being blown into the chamber. Looking up, she saw that the water level was starting to sink. The fishermen were pumping the water out of the room, replacing it with air.

The water is as air to you … the air will be as water.

Mina recalled Chemosh’s warning about the spell he had cast over her, a warning she had not taken very seriously at the time, for she had not imagined that the two of them would be separated.

The water level was falling rapidly.

Mina pushed at the net with her hands and kicked her feet, trying frantically to free herself. Her efforts were futile, only caused the net to spin wildly.

She tried to draw attention to her plight, doing her best to shake her head, pointing upward.

The faces in the window watched her struggles with avid interest. Either they did not understand or they did not care.

Mina had not forgotten Chemosh’s admonition to call him if she were in trouble. She had been too startled to do so when she first was caught in the net, and then too busy trying to free herself. After that, she had been too proud. He was constantly reminding her that she was weak as all mortals are weak. She wanted to prove herself to him, as she had proven herself at Storm’s Keep. Common sense dictated that she seek his help now.

Mina would not yell out his name in a panic, however. Though she died in this moment, her pride would not allow to beg him.

“Chemosh,” Mina said softly, to herself, to the memory of his dark eyes and his burning touch, “Chemosh, I am in need. The inhabitants of this Tower have caught me in some sort of net.”

The top of her head broke through the surface of the water. She could feel the air on her scalp. Soon she would be exposed to the air.

“Chemosh,” she prayed swiftly, as the water level continued to drop, “if you do not come to me soon, I will die, for they are depriving me of the water I need to breathe.”

Silence. If the god heard her, he did not answer.

The water level fell to her shoulders. She dared not draw in a breath. She held the water in her lungs as long as she could, until her lungs burned and ached. When the pain became too great, she opened her mouth. Water spewed down her chin. She tried to breathe, but she was like a landed fish. She gasped for life, her mouth opening and closing.

“Chemosh,” she said, as the light began to fade, “I come to you. I am not afraid. I embrace death. For now I will no longer be mortal …”

The net and its captive hit the floor. Eagerly, the two wizards turned the handle to the door of the air lock and hastened inside, the skirts of their black robes sloshing through the ankle-deep water. The two leaned down for a better look at their catch.

The woman lay on her back, enmeshed in the net, her eyes wide open, mouth gasping, her lips blue. Her hands and feet twitched spasmodically.

“You were right,” said one wizard to the other, his tone one of academic interest. “She is drowning in air.”

12

Gliding through the crystalline Tower walls, Chemosh found himself in a room intended for use as a library in some future point of time. The room was in disarray, but shelves, lining the walls, were undoubtedly meant to hold books. Scroll cases stood empty in the center of the room, along with several writing desks, an assortment of wooden stools and numerous high-backed leather chairs, all jumbled together. A few books stood on the shelves, but most remained in boxes and wooden crates.

“I seemed to have arrived on moving day,” Chemosh commented.

Walking over to a shelf, he picked up one of the dusty volumes that had toppled over on its side. The book was bound in black leather with no writing on the cover. A series of glyphs inscribed on the spine bore the book’s title, or so Chemosh supposed. He could not read them, was not interested in reading them. He recognized them for what they were—words of the language of magic.

“So …” he murmured. “As I suspected.”

Dropping the book onto the floor, he looked about for something on which to wipe his hands.

Chemosh continued to poke around, peering into crates, lifting the lids on boxes. He found nothing of any interest to him, however, and he left the library by way of a door at the far end. He entered a narrow corridor that curved off to his left and right. He looked down one way and then down the other, saw nothing that aroused his curiosity. He strolled off to his right, glancing into open doors as he passed. He found empty rooms, destined to be living quarters or school rooms. Again, nothing of interest, unless you counted it as interesting that someone was obviously preparing for a crowd.

Chemosh had never before walked the halls of one of the Towers of High Sorcery. The provinces of the gods of magic, the Towers are home to wizards and their laboratories, their spellbooks and artifacts, all of which are jealously guarded, off-limits to all outsiders. That includes gods.

Especially gods.

Prior to the rise of Istar, Chemosh had never felt any inclination to enter one of the Towers. Let the wizards keep their little secrets. So long as they didn’t interfere with his clerics, his clerics did not interfere with wizards. Then came the Kingpriest and suddenly the world—and heaven—changed.

When the Kingpriest tossed the wizards of Istar out on their ears and then filled up the Tower with holy artifacts, stolen from the ruins of demolished temples, the gods were incensed. Several of the more militant, including Chemosh, proposed storming the Tower of Istar and removing their artifacts by force. The proposal was debated in heaven and eventually discarded; the idea being that this would take away the free will of the creatures they had created. Mankind must deal with mankind. The gods would not intervene, not unless it became clear to them that the foundation of the universe itself was threatened. Chemosh wanted his artifacts returned to him, but he wanted the destruction of the Kingpriest and Istar more, and so he went along with the others. He agreed to wait and see.

Mankind dropped the ball. They went along with the Kingpriest, supported him. The universe gave a dangerous lurch. The gods had to act.

They rained down destruction on the world. Clerics vanished. The Age of Despair began. The gods kept apart, remained aloof, waiting for the people to return to them. Chemosh might have secured his artifacts then, but he was hip-deep in a dark and secret conspiracy meant to return Queen Takhisis to the world. He dared not do anything that might draw attention to their plot. When the War of the Lance started and the other gods were preoccupied, Chemosh entered the Blood Sea to search for the Tower. It was gone, buried deep beneath the shifting sands of the ocean floor.

Now the Tower had been rebuilt and he had no doubt that his artifacts and those of the other gods must be somewhere inside. They had not been destroyed. He could sense his own power emanating from those he had blessed and in some instances forged. His essence was quite faint, not strong enough to help him locate his holy relicts, but it was there—a whiff of death amidst the roses.

Chemosh irritably rubbed a smudge of dust off the sleeve of his coat. He was thinking over what to do, whether it would be worth his while to institute a search.

A quiet voice, soft with threat and malice, broke the silence. “What are you doing in my Tower, Lord of Death?”

A gibbous head, pale as corpse light, hung disembodied in the darkness. Lidless eyes were darker than the dark; thick full lips pushed in and out.

“Nuitari,” said Chemosh. “I guessed I might find you hanging about here somewhere. I haven’t seen much of you lately. Now I know why. You’ve been busy.”

Nuitari glided silently forward. His pallid hands slipped from out the folds of the sleeves of his velvet black robes. The long, delicate fingers were in constant motion, rippling, grasping like the tentacles of a jelly fish.

“I asked a question—what are you doing here, Lord of Death?” Nuitari repeated.

“I was out for a stroll—”

“At the bottom of the Blood Sea?”

,`—and I happened to pass by. I couldn’t help but notice the improvements you’ve made to the neighborhood.” Chemosh glanced languidly about. “Nice place you’ve got here. Mind if I take a look around?”

“Yes, I mind,” said Nuitari. The lidless eyes never blinked. “I think you had better leave.”

“I will,” said Chemosh, pleasantly, “as soon as you return my artifacts.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Then let me refresh your memory. I am here to recover the artifacts that were stolen from me by the Kingpriest and secreted in this Tower.”

“Ah, those artifacts. I fear that you must go home empty-handed. They were all most regrettably destroyed, burned to ashes in the fire that consumed the Tower.”

“Why is it I don’t believe you?” Chemosh asked. “Perhaps because you are a consummate liar.”

“Those artifacts were destroyed,” repeated Nuitari. He slid his restless hands inside the sleeves of his robes.

“I wonder”—Chemosh eyed Nuitari intently—“do your cousins, Solinari and Lunitari, know about this little construction project of yours? Two Towers of High Sorcery remain in the world—the Tower at Wayreth and the Tower of Palanthas that is hidden in Nightlund. The three of you share custody of those Towers. My guess is you’re not sharing custody of this one. Taking advantage of the confusion when we returned to the world, you decided to strike out on your own. Your cousins will find out eventually, but only after you’ve moved in your Black Robes and all their spellbooks and paraphernalia so that it would be difficult for anyone to dislodge you. I doubt your cousins will be very happy.”

Nuitari remained silent, the lidless eyes dark and impassive.

“And what about the other gods?” Chemosh continued, expanding on his subject. “Kiri-Jolith? Gilean? Mishakal? And your father, Sargonnas? Now, there’s a god who will be very interested in hearing about your new Tower—especially since it’s located underneath the sea route his ships take to Ansalon. Why, I’ll bet the horned god sleeps easier at night, secure in the knowledge that a bunch of Black-Robe wizards who have always despised him are working their dark arts beneath the keels of his ships. Then there’s Zeboim, your dear sister? Should I go on?”

Nuitari’s thick, full lips curled in a sneer. Although Zeboim and Nuitari were twins, sister and brother despised each other as they despised the parent gods who had given them life.

“None of the other gods knows, do they?” Chemosh concluded. “You’ve kept this a secret from us all.”

“I do not see that it is any of your business,” Nuitari responded, the lidless eyes narrowing.

Chemosh shrugged. “Personally, I don’t care what you do, Nuitari. Build Towers to your heart’s content. Build them in every ocean from here to Taladas. Build them on the dark moon, if you’ve a mind. Oops, bad joke.” He grinned. “I won’t say a word to anyone if you give me back my artifacts.

“After all,” Chemosh added with a deprecating gesture, “they are holy artifacts, sacred relicts, blessed by my touch. They’re of no use to you or your wizards. They could, in fact, be quite deadly if any of your Black Robes was so foolish as to try to mess with them. You might as well hand them over.”

“Ah, but they are useful to me,” Nuitari said coolly. “Their purchasing power alone is worth something, as you have just proven by making an offer for them.”

Nuitari raised a thin, pale finger, emphasizing a point. “Always provided that such artifacts exist, which, so far as I know, they do not.”

“So far as you know?” It was Chemosh’s turn to sneer and Nuitari’s turn to shrug.

“I have been extremely busy. I haven’t time to look about. Now, my lord, much as I’ve enjoyed our conversation, you really should leave.”

“Oh, I intend to,” said Chemosh. “My first stop will be heaven, where the other gods will be fascinated to hear about what a busy boy you’ve been. First, though, since I’ve come all this way, I’ll have a look around.”

“Some other time, perhaps,” Nuitari returned, “when I am at leisure to entertain you.”

“No need to put yourself out, God of the Dark Moon.” Chemosh made a graceful gesture. “I’ll just stroll around on my own. Who knows? I might happen to stumble across my holy relics. If so, I’ll just take them along with me. Get them out of your way.”

“You waste your time,” said Nuitari.

He motioned to a large wooden chest that stood on the floor. The chest was oblong, about as long as a human is tall, and made of rough-hewn oak planks. The chest had two silver handles, one on either end, and a golden latch in front to facilitate raising the lid. No lock, no key. Runes were burned into the wood on the sides.

“Try to open it,” suggested Nuitari.

Chemosh, playing along, put his hand to the handle in front. The chest began to glow with a faint reddish radiance. The lid would not budge. Nuitari flicked his pallid hand at one of the closed doors. It, too, began to give off the same reddish glow.

“Wizard-locked,” said Nuitari.

“God-opened,” Chemosh returned.

He struck the chest with his hand. The oak planks split apart. The silver handles clanged onto the floor, burying the golden latch in a pile of oak kindling. The books inside the chest spilled out onto the floor at the feet of the Lord of Death.

“So much for your wizard locks. Shall I kick in the door next? I warn you, Nuitari, I will find my artifacts if I have to break apart all the boxes and doors in this Tower, so be reasonable. It will be far less work for your carpenters if you just hand over my artifacts—”

“Your mortal is dying,” said Nuitari.

Chemosh paused in what he was saying, realizing, in the instant of pausing, that he had made a mistake. He should have said immediately and impatiently, “What mortal?” as if he had no idea what Nuitari was talking about and could care less.

He did say those words, but it was too late. He’d given himself away.

Nuitari smiled. “This mortal,” he said and he held out his hand.

Something lay wriggling on his palm. The image was blurry and Chemosh thought at first it was some sort of sea creature, for it was wet and flopped about inside a net like a new-caught fish. Then he saw that it was Mina.

Her eyes bulged in her head. Her mouth gaped, gasping. She writhed in agony, trying desperately to find air. Her blue-tinged lips formed a word.

“Chemosh…”

He was ready with his response and he spoke it calmly enough, though he could not wrench his gaze from her.

“I have so many mortals in my service and all of them dying—for such is the lot of mortals—that I have no idea who she is.” “She prays to you. Do you not hear her?”

“I am a god,” said Chemosh carelessly. “Countless pray to me.”

“Yet her prayers are special to you, I think,” Nuitari said, cocking his head.

Mina’s voice echoed from the darkness.

Chemosh … I come to you. I am not afraid. I embrace death. For now I will no longer be mortal.

“Such devout love and faith,” said Nuitari. “Imagine the surprise of my wizards when, while fishing for tuna, they catch instead a beautiful young woman. And imagine their surprise to find that she breathes water and drowns in air.”

The spell had only to be reversed and Mina would live. Chemosh had to locate her, though. She was somewhere in this Tower, but the Tower was immense and she had only seconds left. She was losing consciousness, her body shuddering.

“She is one mortal, nothing more. I can have a hundred, a thousand if I wanted them,” he told himself, even as he cast forth tendrils of his power, searching for her. “She is a burden to me. I am inside the Tower. I can take what I came for and Nuitari cannot not stop me.”

He could not find her. A shroud of darkness surrounded her, hid her from him.

“She dies,” said Nuitari.

“Let her,” said Chemosh.

“Are you certain, my lord?” Nuitari displayed Mina in his palm, placed his other hand over her, holding her suspended in time. “Look at her, Lord of Death. Your Mina is a magnificent woman. More than one god envies you, to have such a mortal in your service …”

“She will be mine in death as she was in life,” Chemosh returned, off-handedly.

“Not quite the same,” said Nuitari dryly.

Chemosh chose to ignore the salacious innuendo. “In death, her soul will come to me. You cannot stop that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying,” said Nuitari.

Mina’s eyes flickered open. Her dying gaze found Chemosh. She held out her hand to him, not in supplication. In farewell.

Chemosh stood with his arms at his side. His fists, hidden by the lace on his cuffs, were clenched.

Nuitari closed his fingers over her.

Blood seeped from between the god’s fingers. The red drops fell to the floor, fell slowly at first, one after the other. Then the drops were a trickle, the trickle a torrent. The god’s hand was suffused with blood. He opened it …

Chemosh turned away.

13

Across the continent of Ansalon, the Beloved of Chemosh walked the land. Young men and young women, healthy, strong, beautiful, dead. Murderers all, they walked about openly, fearing no law, no justice. Followers of Chemosh, they basked in the sunlight and avoided graveyards. Beloved of Chemosh, they brought him new followers nightly, killing with impunity, seducing their victims with sweet kisses and sweeter promises: unending life, unfading looks, forever young. All they asked in exchange was a pledge to Chemosh, a few simple words, spoken carelessly; the lethal kiss, the mark of lips burned on flesh, a new-risen corpse.

As time went by, the Beloved discovered that unending life was not all they had earned. They began to lose the memory of who they were, what they had done, where they had been. Their memories were replaced by a compulsion to kill, a compulsion to find new converts. If they failed in this, if a night passed and they had not delivered that fatal kiss, the god let them know of his disappointment. They saw in their dead minds his face, his eyes watching them. They felt, in their dead bodies, his ire, which burned in their dead flesh, growing more painful day by day. Only when his Beloved came to him with offerings of new converts did he ease their torment.

And so the Beloved of Chemosh roamed Ansalon, drifting from village to city, from farm to forest, always traveling east, the morning sun on their faces, to meet their god.

A god who was not on hand to receive them.

The Lord of Death left Nuitari’s presence with every intention of searching through the whole blasted Tower, from spire to basement, pillar to post, for his holy artifacts. He opened a door and there was Mina.

For now I will no longer be mortal.

He slammed shut that door, opened another. She met him there.

More useful to you dead …

Mina was in every room he entered. She walked with him through the corridors of the Tower. Her amber eyes gazed at him from the darkness. Her voice, her last prayer, whispered over and over. The sound of blood falling, drop by drop, onto the floor at Nuitari’s feet, thudded in his breast like the beating of a mortal heart.

“This is madness,” Chemosh said to himself angrily. “I am a god. She a mortal. She is dead. What of it? Mortals die every day, thousands at a time. She is dead. Her mortal weaknesses die with her. Her spirit will be mine for eternity, if I want it. I can banish it if I don’t. Far more practical …”

He caught himself staring into an empty crate for the heavens knew how long, not seeing that it was empty, seeing only Mina’s face, staring back at him. He realized that he was wasting his time.

“Nuitari took me by surprise. I had not expected to find the Tower rebuilt. I did not expect to find the God of the Dark Moon taking up habitation here. Small wonder that I am distracted. I need time to think how to combat him. Time to plan, come up with a strategy.”

Chemosh grew calmer, thinking this through.

“I will leave now, but I will return,” he promised the moonfaced god.

He walked through the crystal walls, through the shifting ocean depths, through the ethers heading back to the darkness of the Abyss.

Darkness that was empty and silent.

So very silent. So very empty.

“Her spirit will be here,” he said to himself. “Perhaps she will choose to go on to the next stage of her life’s journey. Perhaps she will leave me, abandon me, as I abandoned her.”

He started to go to the place where the souls passed from this world to Beyond, walking through the door that would lead to them to wherever it was they needed to go in order to fulfill the soul’s quest. He went there to receive Mina’s soul.

Or watch it walk away from him.

He stopped. He could not go there, either. He did not know where to go and in the end, he went nowhere.

Chemosh lay in his bed, their bed.

He could still smell her scent. He could see the depression in the pillow where she lay her head. He found a strand of glistening red hair and he picked it up and wound it around and around his finger. He ran his hand over the sheet, smoothing it, and he was running his hand over the soft, smooth skin, delighting in the feel of her warm and yielding flesh.

Delighting in the life. For she brought life to him.

He had once said to her: “When I am with you, that is the time I come closest to mortality. I see you lie back upon the pillow, and your body is covered with a fine sheen of sweat, and you are flushed and languorous. Your heart beats fast, the blood pulses beneath your skin. I feel life in you, Mina.”

All that was gone.

He lay on the empty bed and stared into the darkness. His plans were all thrown into disarray. The “Beloved” were roaming Ansalon, their deadly kisses bringing more and more converts to his worship, converts who would obey his least command. He would have a powerful force at his disposal. He was not now certain what he would do with them.

He had meant for Mina to lead them.

Chemosh closed his eyes in agony and, when he opened them again, she stood before him.

“My lord,” she said.

“You came to me,” he said.

“Of course, my lord,” she said. “I pledged you my faith, my love.”

He reached out to her.

The amber eyes were ashes. Her lips dust. Her voice was the ghost of a voice. Her touch ghostly chill.

Chemosh rolled over on the bed, away from her.

No mortal, not even a dead one, should see a god weep.