Amber and Iron

1

“Krell!” The voice echoed through the cavernous corridors of Storm’s Keep and went on booming even after the echoes had faded, bouncing around the inside of the death knight’s empty helm. “Show yourself.”

The death knight recognized the voice, and he burrowed deeper into his hole. Even here, far underground, water from the constant storms that lashed his island found its way through cracks and crevices. The rain ran in rivulets down the stone wall. Water seeped into his empty boots and flowed through his shin guards.

“Krell,” said the voice grimly, “I know you’re down there. Don’t make me come after you.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Krell mumbled. “I’ll come out.”

Sloshing through the water, the death knight waded along the short corridor that led to an opening sealed off by an iron grate, hinged so that the slaves could open it when they were sent down to clean.

Krell clomped heavily up treacherous stairs carved out of the cliff-face. Peering through the eye slits of his helm, Krell saw the black coat and white lace collar of the Lord of Death. He saw no more than that. Krell didn’t have the nerve to look the god in the eye.

Krell promptly fell to his knees.

“My lord Chemosh,” prayed the cringing death knight. “I know I let you down. I admit I lost the khas piece, but it wasn’t my fault. There was a kender and a staff that turned into a giant bug . . . and how I could know the monk was suicidal?”

The Lord of Death said nothing.

Metaphorically speaking, Krell started to sweat.

“My lord Chemosh,” he pleaded, “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be in your debt forever. I’ll do anything you command of me. Anything! Spare me your wrath!”

Chemosh sighed. “You are fortunate that I have need of you, miserable wretch. Stand up! You’re dripping on my boots.”

Krell rose ponderously to his feet. “You’ll save me from her, too?” He jerked his thumb up at the sky to indicate the vengeful goddess. Zeboim’s fury was lighting the skies, her thunderous fist pounding the ground.

“I suppose I must,” said Chemosh, and he sounded lethargic, too worn-out to care. “As I said, I have need of you.”

Krell was uneasy. He didn’t like the god’s tone. Risking taking a closer look, the death knight was startled by what he saw.

The Lord of Death looked worse than death. One might say he looked alive—alive and suffering. His face was pallid, drawn, and haggard. His hair was ragged, his clothes unkempt. The lace at his sleeve was torn and stained. His collar was undone, his shirt half-open. His eyes were empty, his voice hollow. He moved in a listless manner, as though even lifting his hand cost him great effort. Though he spoke to Krell, he didn’t really seem to see him or take much interest in him.

“My lord, what is wrong?” asked Krell. “You don’t look well....”

“I am a god,” returned Chemosh stonily. “I am always well. More’s the pity.”

Krell could only imagine there had been some crushing defeat in the war.

“Name your enemy, lord,” said Krell, eager to please, “the one who did this to you. I will find him and rip him—”

“Nuitari is my enemy,” said Chemosh.

“Nuitari,” the death knight repeated uneasily, already regretting his rash promise. “The God of the Dark Moon. Why him, particularly?”

“Mina is dead,” said Chemosh.

“Mina dead?” Krell was about to add “Good riddance!” when he remembered just in time that Chemosh had been strangely enamored of the human female.

“I am truly sorry, my lord,” Krell amended, trying to sound sympathetic. “How did this . . . um . . . terrible tragedy happen?”

“Nuitari murdered her,” said Chemosh viciously. “He will pay! You will make him pay!”

Krell was alarmed. Nuitari, the powerful god of dark magic, was not quite the enemy he’d had in mind.

“I would, my lord, but I am certain you will want to avenge her death on Nuitari yourself. Perhaps I could seek vengeance on Chislev or Hiddukel? They were undoubtedly in on the plot—”

Chemosh flicked a finger, and Krell went flying backward to smash up against the stone wall. He slid down the wall and lay in a heap of jumbled armor at the feet of the Lord of Death.

“You sniveling, craven, squirming toad,” Chemosh said coldly. “You will do what I tell you to do, or I will turn you into the spineless jellyfish that you are and hand you over to the Sea Goddess with my compliments. What do you have to say to that?”

Krell mumbled something.

Chemosh bent down. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

“As always, my lord,” Krell said glumly, “I am yours to command.”

“I thought you might be,” said Chemosh. “Now come along.”

“Not... not to visit Nuitari?” Krell quailed.

“To my dwelling, you oaf,” said Chemosh. “There is something I need you to do for me first.”

-^s^c^^^^^v^^V’

Having determined to take a more active interest in the world of the living with the view to one day ruling over that world, the Lord of Death had left his dark palace on the planes of the Abyss. He had searched for a suitable location for his new dwelling and found it in an abandoned castle overlooking the Blood Sea in the area called the Desolation.

When the Dragon Overlord, Malys, seized control of this part of Ansalon, she ravaged the countryside, laying waste to fields and farmlands, towns and villages and cities. The land was cursed so long as she was in power. Nothing grew. Rivers and streams dried up. Once-fertile fields became windswept desert. Starvation and disease spread. Cities such as Flotsam lost much of their population as people fled the dragon’s curse. The entire area became known as the Desolation.

With the death of Malys at the hands of Mina, the dread effects of the dragon’s evil magic on the Desolation were reversed. Almost from the moment of Malys’s demise, rivers began to flow and lakes to fill. Small shoots of green thrust up out of barren soil, as though life had been there all this time, waiting only for the enchantment that held it in thrall to be removed.

With the return of the gods, this process accelerated, so that already some areas were almost back to normal. People returned and began to rebuild. Flotsam, located about one hundred and fifty miles from Chemosh’s castle, was not quite the rollicking, bustling center of commerce—both legal and illegal—that it had once been, but it was no longer a ghost town. Pirates and legitimate sailors of all races roamed the streets of the famous port city. Markets and shops reopened. Flotsam was back and open for business.

Large areas of the Desolation still remained cursed, however. No one could figure out why or how. A druidess devoted to Chislev, goddess of nature, was exploring these areas, when she came across one of Malys’s scales. The druidess theorized that the presence of the scale might have something to do with the continuation of the curse. She burned the scale in a sacred ceremony, and it is said that Chislev herself, disturbed by this disruption of nature, blessed the ceremony. The destruction of the scale did nothing to change things, but the story spread and the theory took hold, so these cursed areas became known as “scale-fall.”

One of these scale-fall areas Chemosh claimed for his own. His castle stood on a promontory overlooking the Blood Sea on what was known as the Somber Coast.

Chemosh cared nothing about the lingering curse. He had no interest in green and growing things, so it mattered little to him that the hills and valleys around his castle were denuded, barren, empty expanses of ashy soil and charred stone.

The castle he took over was in ruins when he found it, the dragon having slain the inhabitants and razed and burned the castle. He had chosen this location because it was only about fifty miles from the Tower of the Blood Sea. He had intended to use his castle as a base of operation, planning to store here the sacred artifacts he would remove from the wreckage of the Tower. Here, he had fondly imagined, he would take his time sorting, cataloging and calculating the immense value of the sacred artifacts that dated back to the time of the Kingpriest of Istar.

The castle would not only serve as a depository for the artifacts but as a fortress to guard them. Using rock mined by lost souls in the Abyss, Chemosh rebuilt the castle, making it so strong not even the gods themselves could assail it. The Abyssal rock was blacker than black marble and far harder. Only the hand of Chemosh could shape it into blocks, and the blocks were so heavy only he could lift them into place. The castle was constructed with four watchtowers, one on each corner. Two walls—an inner wall and an outer wall—surrounded it. The most unique feature of this castle was that no gates penetrated the walls. There appeared to be no way in and no way out.

The dead who guarded the castle needed no gates. The wraiths, ghosts and restless spirits Chemosh brought to defend his dwelling could pass through the Abyssal rock as easily as a mortal slips through a leafy green bower. Chemosh needed an entrance for his new disciples, however. The Beloved were dead, but they still retained their corporeal forms. They entered through a magical portal located at a single point in the north wall. The portal could be controlled by Chemosh, the castle’s master, and by one other, the person who was to have been the castle’s mistress.

Mina.

Chemosh had meant the castle to be a gift to her. He had named it both in her honor and as a tribute to his new disciples. He called it Castle Beloved.

But only Mina’s ghost had come to take up residence.

Mina was dead, slain by Nuitari, the God of the Black Moon, the same god who had put an end to Chemosh’s ambitious designs. Nuitari had secretly raised up the ruins of the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar. He had seized the treasure trove of holy artifacts that was to have put Chemosh on the throne as ruler of the heavenly pantheon. Nuitari had captured Mina, taken her prisoner, and in order to flaunt his power over the Lord of Death, Nuitari had slain her.

Chemosh now dwelt alone in Castle Beloved. The place had become loathsome to him, for it was a constant reminder of the ruin of his schemes and plots. Much as he detested the castle, he found he could not leave. For Mina was there. Her spirit came to him there. She hovered near his bed—their bed. Her amber eyes gazed at him but could not see him. Her hand reached out to him but could not find him. Her voice spoke, but she could not talk to him. She listened for his voice, but she could not hear him when he called to her.

The sight of her ghostly form tormented him, and he tried countless times to leave her. He returned to his abandoned dwelling in the Abyss. Her spirit could not follow him there, but the memory of her was there, and her memory left him feeling such bitter pain, he was forced to return to Castle Beloved to find solace in the sight of her wandering ghost.

Chemosh would have his revenge against Nuitari, that much was assured. His plans were vague, however, still in formation. The death knight alone could not dislodge the powerful god from his Tower, though Chemosh did not say that to Krell. He planned to let Krell shake in his boots for a while. Krell owed Chemosh a few uncomfortable hours for losing Ariakan.

Nor did Chemosh tell the death knight that his bungling had worked out for the best. Zeboim was Nuitari’s sister, but there was no love lost between the siblings. Chemosh now had a way to acquire Zeboim as a powerful ally.

The Lord of Death, accompanied by a most reluctant Ausric Krell, passed through the inner and outer walls of the castle and entered the main hall, empty, save for a throne that stood upon a dais in the center. There was room on the dais for two thrones, and when he had first built the castle, there had been two thrones. The larger and more magnificent of these thrones belonged to the god. A smaller and more delicate throne was intended for Mina. Chemosh had smashed that throne to pieces.

The wreckage of the throne lay strewn about the hall. Krell, clumping in after him, trod on some of the rubble. Hoping to regain favor in the eyes of the god, Krell began gushing over the castle’s architectural design.

Chemosh paid no attention to the death knight’s fawnings. He seated himself on his throne and waited, tensely, for Mina’s ghost to come to him. The waiting was always agony. Part of him secretly hoped she would not materialize, that he would never see her again. Perhaps, then, he could forget. But if for some reason more time passed than was usual and her ghost did not appear, he felt he would go mad.

Then she was here, and Chemosh gave a sigh that was mingled despair and relief. Her form, wavering and delicate and pale as though she were spun of cobweb, drifted through the hall toward him. She wore some sort of loose-fitting gown made of black silk that seemed stirred by the undercurrents of the deep, for it undulated gently around her ghostly form. She lifted a ghostly hand as she drew near him, and her mouth opened, as though she was saying something. Her words were smothered by death.

“Krell,” Chemosh said tersely. “You reside on the plane of death, as does she. Speak to Mina’s spirit for me. Ask her what it is she so desperately wants to tell me! It is always the same,” he muttered feverishly, plucking the lace on his sleeve. “She comes to me and seems to want to say something to me, and I cannot hear her! Perhaps you will be able to communicate with her.”

Krell had hated Mina in life. She had faced him unafraid the first time they’d met, and for that, he’d never forgiven her. He was glad she was dead, and the last thing he wanted to do was act as a go-between for her and her lover.

“My lord,” Krell ventured to point out, “you rule the plane of Death and Undeath. If you can’t communicate—”

Chemosh turned a baleful eye upon the death knight, who bowed and muttered something about being happy to speak to Mina whenever she should decide to put in an appearance.

“She is here now, Krell. Talk to her! What are you waiting for? Ask her what she wants!”

Krell looked about. He saw nothing, but he didn’t like to disappoint his lord and so he began talking to a crack in the wall.

“Mina,” said Krell in sonorous and mournful tones, “Lord Chemosh would like to know—”

“Not there!” Chemosh said in exasperation. He gestured. “She is here! Next to me!”

Krell stared about the hall, then said as diplomatically as possible, “My lord, the journey from Storm’s Keep was a strenuous one. Perhaps you should lie down—”

Chemosh bounded off the throne and strode angrily toward the death knight. “There’s not much of you left, Krell, but what there is I’ll shred into infinitesimal pieces and scatter to the four corners of the Abyss—”

“I swear to you, my lord!” Krell cried, backing up precipitously, “that I do not know what you’re talking about! You say, ‘Speak to Mina,’ and I would be glad to do your bidding, but there is no Mina for me to speak to!”

Chemosh halted. “You cannot see her?” He pointed to where she was standing. “If I extend my arm, I could touch her.” He suited his action to his words and held out his hand to her.

Krell turned his helmed head in the direction indicated and stared with all his might. “Oh, of course. Now that you point her out—”

“Don’t lie to me, Krell!” Chemosh cried savagely, clenching his fist.

The death knight recoiled. “My lord. I am truly sorry. I want to see her, but I do not—”

Chemosh shifted his gaze from Krell to the apparition. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t see her. Strange. I wonder . . .”

He raised his voice, shouting, so that it echoed through the shadowy realm of death. “To me! Servants, slaves! To me! Now!”

The hall filled with a ghostly throng, constrained to come at their master’s bidding. Wraiths and specters gathered around Chemosh and waited in their customary silence for him to command them.

“You see these minions of mine, do you not, Krell?” Chemosh made a sweeping wave of his arm.

Left behind by the river of souls as it flowed through eternity, the undead who had fallen prey to the blandishments of the Lord of Death floated in a stagnant swamp of their own evil.

“Yes, my lord,” said Krell. “I see them.” They were low creatures, and he cast them a disdainful glance.

“And you don’t see Mina standing among them?”

Krell stood dithering in an agony of indecision. “My lord, since my death, my eyesight is not what it used to be—

“Krell!” Chemosh shouted.

The death knight’s shoulders slumped. “No, my lord. I know you don’t want to hear this, but she is not among these—”

The Lord of Death flung his arms around Krell, embraced him tightly, crumpling his armor, and staving in his breastplate.

“Krell,” cried Chemosh, “you have saved my sanity!”

The death knight’s eyes flared in astonishment.

“My lord?”

“What a fool I have been!” Chemosh declared. “But no more. He will pay for this! I swear by the High God who cast me out of heaven and by Chaos who saved me that Nuitari will pay!”

Releasing Krell and dismissing the other undead with an impatient gesture, Chemosh stared at the image of Mina, still floating before him.

“Give me your sword, Krell,” Chemosh ordered, holding out his hand.

The death knight drew his sword from its scabbard and handed it to the god.

Gripping the sword, Chemosh stared for another long moment at the ghost of Mina. Then, sword in hand, he raised it and leapt at the illusion.

The image of Mina vanished.

Chemosh stepped back, thinking out loud. “A remarkable illusion. It fooled even me. But it could not fool you, my dear brother, my excellent friend, Lord Krell!”

“I am glad to have pleased you, my lord.” Krell was confused—thankful, but confused. “I don’t quite follow you, though—”

“An illusion, Krell! Mina’s ghost was an illusion! That is why you could not see her. Mina is not in your realm—the realm of death. Mina is alive, Krell. Alive—and a prisoner.”

Chemosh grew grim. “Nuitari lied to me. He did not slay her, as he pretended. He has imprisoned her in his Tower beneath the Blood Sea. Why, though? What is his motive? Does he want her for himself? Did he assume I would forget her, once I thought she was dead? Ah, I see his game. He has probably told her I abandoned her. She would not believe him, though. Mina loves me. She will be true to me. I must go to her....”

He paused.

“What if he has succeeded in seducing her? She is mortal, after all,” the god continued, his voice hardening, “This Mina once swore to love and follow Queen Takhisis, only to turn from her to me. Perhaps Mina has turned from me to Nuitari. Perhaps they both plot against me. I might be walking into a trap....”

He whipped around. “Krell!”

“My lord!” The death knight was trying desperately to keep up with the peregrinations of the god’s thoughts.

“You say that Zeboim recovered the khas piece containing the soul of her son?” Chemosh asked.

“It wasn’t my fault!” Krell said hurriedly. “There was a kender and a giant bug—”

“Quit whining! You actually did something right for a change. I am going to send you on an errand.”

Krell didn’t like the god’s sly smile.

“What errand would that be, my lord?” the death knight asked warily. “Where am I going?”

“To Zeboim—”

Krell clunked down onto his knees. “You might as well finish me now, Lord Chemosh, and get it over with.”

“Now, now, Krell,” said Chemosh soothingly. He was suddenly in an excellent humor. “The Sea Goddess will be glad to see you. You are going to bring her welcome news—provided she allows you to live long enough to tell it—”

2

The dwarf and half-elf had been gazing into the dragonmetal basin, both of them sniggering at the sight of Chemosh’s lamentations over his “dead” mistress and mocking the Lord of Death, making sport of him as they’d done for many days now, when things began to go terribly wrong.

“He’s onto us!” said the dwarf, alarmed.

“No, he’s not,” said the half-elf sneering.

“I tell you he’s figured it out!” cried the dwarf. “Look there! He’s got a sword! End the spell, Caele! Quickly!”

“We’re in no danger, Basalt, you coward,” said Caele, his lip curling. “What do you think? He’s going to leap through time and space and cut off our ears?”

“How do you know he can’t?” Basalt roared. “He’s a god! Just end it!”

Caele took one look at the god’s face—livid with rage, his eyes blazing like the eternal fires of the Abyss—and decided his fellow archmage might be right. The half-elf placed both hands on the heavy dragonmetal basin, dug in his feet, and pushed the basin off the pedestal, dumping the contents onto the floor. Blood sloshed over Caele’s bare feet and splattered the black robes of the dwarf.

The god and his sword vanished.

Basalt mopped his face with a black sleeve. “That was close!”

“I still don’t think he could have done anything to us,” Caele muttered.

“We didn’t dare risk it.”

Caele thought back on the enormous sword the god had been wielding and was forced to agree. He and Basalt stood in silence staring gloomily at the empty dragonmetal basin and the pool of blood. Both of them were thinking of another god who was going to be angry, a god much closer to home.

“It wasn’t our fault,” Caele muttered, biting his nails. “We have to make that clear.”

“It was only a matter of time before Chemosh discovered the deception,” Basalt agreed.

“I’m surprised it lasted this long,” Caele added. “He’s a god, after all. Be certain to remind the Master of that when you tell him what happened—”

“When I tell him!” Basalt glowered.

“Yes, of course, you should tell him,” stated the half-elf coolly. “You are the Caretaker, after all. You are the one in charge. I am but your underling. You tell the Master.”

“I am the Caretaker of the Tower. You were the one tasked with casting the illusion spell. For all I know, it was your fault that Chemosh found out! Perhaps you made a mistake—”

Caele quit biting his nails. His long, thin fingers curled to claws. “Perhaps if you hadn’t panicked and ordered me to end the spell prematurely—”

“End the spell! What are you talking about?”

The stern voice came from behind them. The two Black Robes exchanged alarmed glances and then, cringing, both turned to face their master, Nuitari, God of the Black Moon.

Both wizards bowed low. They both wore the Black Robes, symbol of their dedication to Nuitari. Beyond that, the likeness between them ended. Caele was tall and gaunt, with straggling, greasy hair that he rarely bothered to wash. He was half-human, half-elven, and united in his hatred of both races. Basalt, the dwarf, was short and stocky. His black robes were neat and clean, his beard combed. He didn’t much like anyone of any race.

Straightening, the two tried to appear at ease, as if they were completely unconscious of the fact they were standing on a stone floor awash in dragon’s blood, with the overturned basin of dragonmetal wobbling about at their feet.

The tall Caele looked down his long nose at Basalt, who glared up from beneath his heavy black brows at Caele.

“Tell him,” Caele mouthed.

“You tell him,” Basalt growled.

“Someone had better tell me, and tell me soon,” hissed Nuitari.

“Chemosh discovered the illusion,” Basalt said, trying to meet the god’s dark and unforgiving eye, and finding it difficult.

“He was coming straight at us,” Caele whined, “waving a huge sword. I told Basalt the god couldn’t harm us, but the dwarf panicked and insisted on ending the spell—”

“I didn’t insist that you upend the basin,” snapped Basalt.

“You were the one howling like a wounded wyvern—”

“You were just as scared as I was!”

Nuitari made an abrupt gesture with his hands.

Basalt, quailing, asked in a low voice, “Master, will Chemosh come to free her?”

No need to name which “her” he was talking about.

“Perhaps,” said Nuitari. “Unless the Lord of Death is more wise than he is obsessed.”

Caele looked sidelong at Basalt, who shrugged.

The god’s round moon face with its lidless eyes and full-lipped mouth held no expression. The mages could not tell if he was pleased or displeased, surprised, or alarmed, or simply bored with the whole procedure.

“Clean up the mess,” was all Nuitari said before he turned on his heel and walked out.

It took both Caele and Basalt to lift the heavy basin, which was in the shape of a serpentine dragon with the coiled tail forming the bowl, back onto the pedestal. Once the basin was in place, they stared down at the pool spreading across the stone tile floor.

“Should we try to salvage some of the blood?” Basalt asked. Dragon’s blood, especially that given by a willing dragon, was an extremely rare and valuable commodity.

Caele shook his head. “It’s been tainted now. Besides, the blood loses its potency for spellcasting after forty-eight hours. I doubt the Master will be attempting this spell again any time soon.”

“Well, then fetch rags and a bucket and we’ll—”

“I may be your underling, Basalt, but I am not your lapdog!” Caele returned angrily. “I do not fetch! Get your own rags and bucket. I must inspect the basin to see if it was damaged.”

Basalt grunted. The basin was made of dragonmetal. He could have dropped it off the top of the Lords of Doom, and it would land at the bottom without suffering a dent. He knew from experience, however, that he could either spend the next half hour in a bitter argument with Caele that the dwarf would never win, or he could go fetch the rags and bucket himself. The pantry where they kept such mundane objects was located some three levels from where they were standing, a long trek up and down the stairs for the dwarf’s short legs. Basalt considered magicking away the spilled blood or conjuring up rags. He rejected both, however, for fear Nuitari would find out.

Nuitari had forbidden his mages from using magic for trivial or frivolous tasks. He maintained that for a mage to use magic to wash his supper dishes was an insult to the gods. Basalt and Caele were expected to do their laundry, catch their food (one reason they had devised the contraption in which they had caught Mina), cook and clean—all without the benefit of spellcasting. Other mages who would eventually come to live in the Tower would have to live under the same restriction. They would be required to perform all such menial tasks with labor that was physical, not magical. Basalt stalked off on his errand, returning with aching calf muscles and in a bad mood.

He came back to find Caele amusing himself by drawing stick figures with his toe in the dragon’s blood.

“Here,” said Basalt, tossing Caele a rag. “Now that you’ve inspected the basin, you can clean it.”

Caele regretted not having taking advantage of the dwarf’s departure to leave. The half-elf had continued to hang about the spellcasting chamber in hopes that Nuitari would return and be impressed to find Caele taking such excellent care of the basin that was one of the god’s favorite magical artifacts. Since there was still a chance Nuitari might come back, Caele began to wipe away the remnants of dragon’s blood.

“So what did the master mean by Chemosh being wiser than he is obsessed?” asked Basalt. The dwarf was down on his hands and knees, scrubbing vigorously at the stained stone with a bristle brush.

“He’s obsessed with this Mina, that much is clear. That’s how we were able to perpetrate this fraud on him.”

“Something that I never understood anyway,” Basalt grumbled.

Caele, mindful that the Master might be in earshot, was effusive in his praise.

“Actually, I consider Nuitari’s ploy quite brilliant,” said the half-elf. “When we first captured Mina, the Master intended to use the threat of her death as a way to keep Chemosh’s mouth shut. Chemosh, you see, had threatened to tell Nuitari’s two cousins that he had secretly built this Tower and was trying to establish his own power base independent of them. He threatened to tell all the gods that the Master has in his possession a cache of holy artifacts belonging to each and every one of them.”

“But the threat of death didn’t work,” Basalt pointed out. “Chemosh abandoned Mina to her fate.”

“This is where the Master’s true brilliance shone,” said Caele. “Nuitari killed her as Chemosh watched, or rather, the Master pretended to kill her.”

Caele waited a moment, hoping Nuitari would enter and thank his faithful follower for the compliments. Nuitari did not come, however, and there was no sign he’d overheard the half-elf’s flattering remarks. Caele was growing bored with cleaning. He threw down the rag.

“There, I’m finished.”

Basalt stood up to inspect the job. “Finished! When did you start? Look at that. There’s blood in the scales around the tail, and in the eyes and teeth, and it’s seeped in all these little crevices between the scales—”

“That’s just the way the way the light hits it,” said Caele carelessly. “But if you don’t like it, do it yourself. I have to go study my spells.”

“This is precisely the reason why I was made Caretaker!” Basalt told Caele’s back as the half-elf was walking out the door. “You are a pig! All elves are pigs.”

Caele turned, enmity flickering m his slanted eyes. His fists clenched.

“I’ve killed men for such insults, dwarf.”

“You killed a woman for it, at least,” Basalt said. “Strangled her and pushed her off a cliff.”

“She got what she deserved and so will you, if you keep talking like that!”

“Like what? You have no love for elves yourself. You say worse than that about them all the time.” Basalt polished the basin, working the rag deep into the crevices.

“Since the bitch who gave birth to me was an elf, I can say what I like about them,” Caele retorted.

“Fine way to talk about your mother.”

“She did her part. She brought me into this world, and she had a good time doing it. At least I had a mother. I didn’t sprout up in a dark cave like some sort of fungus—”

“You go too far!” Basalt howled.

Just not far enough!” Caele hissed in fury, his long fingers twitching.

The dwarf threw the rag to the floor. The half-elf forgot about studying his spells. The two glared at each other. The air crackled with magic.

Nuitari, watching from the shadows, smiled. He liked his mages to be combative. It kept the sharp edges honed.

Basalt was half mad. Caele was wholly mad. Nuitari knew that long before he’d brought them to his Tower beneath the Blood Sea. He didn’t care, not so long as they were good at their jobs, and both were extremely good, for they’d had years to perfect their gifts.

Due to their long life spans, the half-elf and the dwarf were among the few spellcasters remaining on Krynn who had served the God of the Dark Moon prior to his mother’s theft of the world. Both had excellent memories and had retained their knowledge of their spellcraft over the intervening years.

These two were among the first to look into the heavens and see the black moon, and they were among the first to fall down on their knees and offer their services to their god. Nuitari transported them to this Tower on one condition—that they not kill each other. Both the dwarf and the half-elf were exceptionally powerful wizards. A battle between would not only end in the loss to him of two valuable servants, it would probably do serious damage to his newly reconstructed Tower.

Caele—half Kagonesti, half-Ergothian—was prone to violent rages. He’d committed murder before and had no compunctions about doing it again. Having renounced both the human and the elven side of himself, he had left civilization, roaming the wilderness like a savage beast until the return of his magic had made life worth living again. As for Basalt, his use of dark magic had gained him numerous enemies, who, when the gods of magic vanished, were elated to find their foe was suddenly powerless. Basalt had been forced to hide deep underground, where he’d lived in despair for years, mourning the loss of his art. Nuitari had given the dwarf back his life.

Nuitari waited patiently to see the outcome. Such flare-ups were frequent between the two. Their dislike and distrust of each other paled in comparison to their fear of him, however, and thus far, nothing had ever come of their altercations. This confrontation was more tense than usual, for both were nervous and on edge after the encounter with Chemosh. Sparks and spells might have flown, but Nuitari gave a loud cough.

Basalt’s head jerked around. Caele’s eyes flickered in fear. The magical tension whistled out of the room like the air out of an inflated pig bladder.

Basalt thrust his hands into the sleeves of his robes lest he be tempted to use them. Caele swallowed several times, his jaw working, as though he were literally having to masticate his anger before choking it down.

“You want to know why I went to all this trouble to create this illusion of Mina?” Nuitari asked, entering the room.

“Only if you want to tell us, Master,” said Basalt humbly.

“I am intrigued by this Mina,” said Nuitari. “I find it hard to believe the death of a mere mortal would have such a shattering effect upon a god, yet Chemosh was nearly destroyed by his grief! What kind of power does this Mina hold over him? I wonder, too, about Mina’s relationship with Takhisis. There are rumors the Dark Queen was jealous of this girl. My mother! Jealous of a mortal! Impossible. That’s why I ordered you to continue using the illusion spell—to stop Chemosh from coming to Mina’s rescue so that we could study her.”

“Did you learn anything about her, Master?” Caele asked. “I believe you must have found my reports particularly enlightening—”

“I read them,” said Nuitari. He had found the reports of Mina’s behavior in captivity to be extremely enlightening, especially in one regard, but he wasn’t about to tell either of them that. “Now that I have satisfied your curiosity, return to your duties.”

Caele grabbed up a rag and began polishing the basin. Basalt rinsed out his rag in water that now had a pinkish tinge to it and got back down on his hands and knees.

When Nuitari’s footfalls could no longer be heard echoing through the corridors of the halls of magic, Caele flung his rag into the water bucket.

“You finish. I have my spells to study. If the Lord of Death is on his way to tear down our Tower, I am going to need them.”

“Go along then,” Basalt said grimly. “You’re of no use to me anyway. But wash your feet before you leave this chamber. I don’t want to see bloody footprints marking up my clean halls!”

Caele, who never wore shoes, thrust his bare feet into the water bucket. Basalt eyed the dried blood spattered on the half-elf’s already filthy robes but said nothing, knowing it would be useless. Basalt considered himself fortunate Caele deigned to wear robes at all. He’d spent years running around the forest naked as a wolf and just as savage.

Caele started out the door, then stopped, turning around. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. When you were alone with Mina, did she talk to you about becoming a disciple of Chemosh?”

“Yes,” said Basalt. “I thumbed my nose at her, of course. What about you?

“I laughed in her face,” said Caele.

The two eyed each other suspiciously.

“I’ll be taking my leave now,” Caele stated.

“Good riddance,” Basalt said, but only to his beard.

Shaking his head, he went back to scrubbing and muttering.

“That Caele is a pig. I don’t care who hears me say it. That long nose of his is always stuck in the air. Thinks he’s Reorx’s balls, he does. Lazy bastard, too. And a liar. Leaves me to do the work and he takes the glory.”

The dwarf scrubbed vigorously. “Can’t let blood soak into the grout. Leaves a permanent stain. The Master would have my beard. I wonder,” Basalt added, sitting back on his haunches and staring after the half-elf, “if Caele really laughed at Mina, or if he took her up on her offer to become one of Chemosh’s chosen. Perhaps I should make mention of this to the Master....”

Caele shut himself up in his room and took out a spell book. He did not open it, however, but sat staring at it.

“I wonder if Basalt fell for Mina’s lies. I wouldn’t put it past him. Dwarves are so gullible. I must remember to inform Nuitari that Basalt might be a traitor....”

3

The Tower remained standing, undisturbed. Chemosh did not come to tear it down stone by magical stone in order to rescue his beloved mistress.

“Give him time,” said Nuitari.

The god had posted himself outside the room in which he kept Mina imprisoned, waiting for the Lord of Death.

More time passed. Mina remained in isolation in her cell, cut off from contact with gods or men, and still her lover did not come to free her.

“I underestimated you, my lord,” Nuitari murmured to his unseen foe. “For that, I apologize.”

Chemosh would be ecstatic to know the woman he loved was still alive. He would be furious at the deception played upon him. The Lord of Death was not one, apparently, to let either joy or rage rob him of his senses. Chemosh wanted Mina, but he also wanted the powerful holy artifacts Nuitari was keeping under lock and key inside the Tower. The Lord of Death was undoubtedly seeking a way to obtain both.

“What are you doing?” Nuitari asked his fellow god. “Have you run tattling to the other gods? Are you telling them how big, bad Nuitari restored the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar? How he recovered and claimed as his own a treasure trove of holy artifacts? Did you tell them that?”

Nuitari smiled. “No, I think you did not. Why? Because then all the gods would know the secret of the artifacts and once they all know, they will all want their toys returned. Where would that leave Chemosh? Back in the cold, dark Abyss.”

At the end of the Age of Might, the Kingpriest of Istar had decreed that all the holy artifacts of those gods who were not good and righteous gods (as judged by the Kingpriest) were to be confiscated by the King-priest’s armies of holy warriors. In addition to those that were confiscated, the Kingpriest offered rich rewards for all artifacts deemed to be used for evil purposes. Between the holy warriors, “good” citizens, thieves, and looters, the temples of almost every god on Ansalon was stripped of religious artifacts.

First, people took artifacts that came from the temples of the overtly evil gods—Chemosh and Takhisis, Sargonnas, and Morgion. The temples of the neutral gods were the next to fall victim to the artifact hunters, the claim being made that “any god who is not for us is against us.”

Finally, as religious fervor (and greed) spread, holy warriors raided the temples of the Gods of Light, including those of the goddess of healing, Mishakal, for although she was Paladine’s consort, Mishakal committed the sin of opening her doors of healing to all mortals, even those who were not deemed worthy of a god’s blessing. Her clerics had actually been known to lay healing hands on thieves and prostitutes, kender and dwarves, and even wizards. When the clerics of Majere, god of justice, heard that Mishakal’s priests were being beaten and her artifacts stolen, they sought to protest. Their monasteries were then raided. Their artifacts went next.

Soon, the holy artifacts of every god in the pantheon, with the exception of Paladine, were locked up in what had once been the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar but which was now known as Solio Febalas, the Hall of Sacrilege. It was whispered that Paladine’s priests were starting to grow nervous, and that more than a few had been seen locking up the god’s holy relics in their storerooms. But even they were not safe.

When the Cataclysm struck Istar, the Hall of Sacrilege was destroyed in the fire of the gods’ wrath. The gods were confident the artifacts had been consumed in the conflagration. They wanted mortals to live on their own for a while.

No one had been more surprised to discover the artifacts intact than Nuitari. His single idea had been to claim the Tower for his own. Finding the artifacts had been a bonus. He knew he could not keep a secret as powerful as this forever. It would be only a matter of time before the other gods discovered the truth and came to him, demanding the artifacts back. The artifacts were in a safe place, guarded both by powerful magical spells and by Midori, an ancient and bad-tempered sea dragon. Such safeguards would keep out mortals; they would not stop a god.

Nuitari didn’t have to worry about that.

The gods would stop the gods.

Each god would want his or her own artifacts, of course. Each god would also want to insure that although he got his, no other gods would get theirs.

For example, Mishakal would not want Sargonnas, currently the most powerful God of Darkness, to regain his artifacts. She would seek out allies in her efforts to impede him—unlikely allies, such as Chemosh, who would side with Mishakal in this, for the Lord of Death was locked in a power struggle with Sargonnas and would not want the Horned God growing stronger that he already was. Then there was Gilean, God of the Scales, who might well oppose both the gods of Light and of Darkness, for fear that the return of these artifacts to any of the gods would upset an already teetering balance.

The sacred fur would really fly when the gods found out Nuitari was in possession of artifacts of Takhisis, the dead Queen of Darkness, and those of the self-exiled god, Paladine. Although their creators were gone, the artifacts remained, as did their holy power, which could be immensely useful to any god or mortal who laid hands on them. The squabbling over these alone might well last for centuries.

Meanwhile, Nuitari’s plan was to go about heaven making secret deals, quietly handing over an artifact here and another one there, playing the gods one off the other, all the while strengthening his own position.

Though Nuitari had hated Takhisis and had done his best to oppose her in everything she had ever done, he was like his mother in one regard—he had her dark ambition.

Opposing that ambition were Nuitari’s two cousins, Lunitari and Solinari. The gods of White and Red Magic would not give a bent copper for the holy artifacts. The Kingpriest, not trusting wizards or their magic, had not kept any artifacts belonging to wizards. Those magical objects that were found (and there were few, for the wizards had hidden most away) were immediately destroyed. Nuitari’s cousins would be furious when they heard he had gone off and built his own Tower. They would be furious—and they would be dismayed, grief-stricken. Since the beginning of time, the gods of the three moons had stood together in unity to guard what was most precious to them—the magic.

The three cousins had no secrets from each other. Until now.

Nuitari felt badly about breaking faith with his cousins, just not badly enough. Ever since his mother, Takhisis, had betrayed him by snatching away the world—his world!—he had determined that from then on he would trust no one. Besides, he had devised the means to appease his cousins. Nothing would be the same between them again, of course. But then, nothing would ever be the same for any of gods. The world—and heaven—had changed forever.

Nuitari wondered what Chemosh was up to, and this brought the god’s thoughts back to Mina. Nuitari came here often. Not to question Mina. His Black Robes had been doing that, and they had found out precious little. Nuitari had been content to merely watch her. Now, on impulse (and thinking, too, that Chemosh might yet surprise him), Nuitari decided to interrogate Mina himself.

He had moved her from the crystal cell in which he’d first imprisoned her. The sight of her prowling about had proven to be too distracting for his wizards. He had wrapped her in a magical cocoon of isolation, so she could not communicate with anyone anywhere, and shifted her to a suite of rooms intended as living quarters for the Black Robe archmages who were destined to populate the Tower beneath the Blood Sea.

Mina was lodged in chambers meant for a high-ranking wizard. These consisted of two rooms, a sitting room and study, lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves—and a private bedroom.

She paced her quarters like a caged minotaur, walking the length of the sitting room, going from there into the bedroom, and then retracing her steps into the sitting room. His wizards reported that she sometimes walked like this for hours, walked and walked until she was exhausted. She did nothing else except pace, despite the fact that Nuitari had provided her with books on a variety of subjects, ranging from religious doctrine to poetry, philosophy to mathematics. She never so much as opened a single book, his wizards reported—at least, not that they had observed.

Nuitari had provided other forms of entertainment. A khas board stood on a pedestal in a corner. The pieces were covered with dust. She’d never touched it. She ate little, just enough to keep up her strength for pacing. He was glad he had not gone to the expense of putting down a rug. She would have worn a hole in it.

The God of Dark Magic could have melted through the walls, had he chosen, and taken her by surprise. He decided he would not start off their relationship in such an antagonistic manner and so, removing the powerful wizard lock from the door, he knocked and politely requested permission to enter.

Mina did not pause in her restless pacing. If she glanced at the door, that is as much as she did. Amused, Nuitari opened the door and walked into the room.

Mina did not look up. “Get out and leave me alone. I have answered all your foolish questions I am going to answer, or better yet, tell that Master of yours that I want to see him.”

“Your wish is my command, Mina,” said Nuitari. “The Master is here.”

Mina halted her pacing. She did not cringe or appear the least discomfited. She faced him boldly, defiantly. “Let me go!” she demanded, then she added unexpectedly, her voice low and impassioned, “Or kill me!”

“Kill you?” Nuitari allowed his heavy lidded eyes, which always looked as if they were half-closed, to open. “Has my usage of you been that ill, that you should wish for death?”

“I cannot stand to be confined!” Mina cried, and her gaze roved about the room, as though she would bore through solid rock with her eyes.

She regained mastery of herself in the next moment. Biting her lip and looking as though she regretted her outburst, she added, “You have no right to keep me here.”

“No right at all,” Nuitari agreed. “But then, I am a god and I do what I want with mortals, your rights be damned. Though even I don’t go about murdering the innocent, as does Chemosh. I have been hearing reports of his Beloved—as he terms them.”

“My lord does not murder them. He gives them the gift of life unending,” Mina retorted, “lasting youth and beauty. He takes away the fear of death.”

“I’ll give him credit. He does do that,” Nuitari said dryly. “As I understand it, once you’re dead, the fear of dying is considerably reduced. At least, that is how you explained it to Basalt and Caele when you tried to seduce them.”

Mina kept her gaze level with his, which Nuitari found disconcerting. So few mortals could face him or any god. He wondered, with a flash of irritation, if this chit had been so bold with his mother.

“I told them of Chemosh,” Mina said, unapologetic. “That is true.”

“Neither Basalt nor Caele took you up on your offer, though, did they?”

“No,” Mina admitted. “Their respect and reverence for you is great.”

“Let us say they like the power I give them. Most wizards like the power and would be very loath to lose it, even in exchange for ‘life unending’ which, from what I have observed, is more like death warmed over. I doubt if you’ll convert many wizards to the worship of your lord.”

“I doubt it myself,” said Mina, and she smiled.

Her smile transformed her face, made the amber eyes glow, and Nuitari was drawn to their warm allure. He actually felt himself start to slide into them, felt her warmth congeal around him ...

He brought himself up with a start and regarded her narrowly. What power did this mortal possess that she could seduce a god with her smile? He’d seen far more attractive mortal females. One of his Black Robes, a wizardess named Ladonna, had been known for her beauty and was far superior in looks to this Mina. Yet there was something about her that, even now, stirred him profoundly.

“Please understand, my lord. I had to try to convert them. It was the only way I could escape.”

“Why do you want to leave us, Mina?” Nuitari said, feigning hurt feelings. “Have we mistreated you in any way? Beyond confining you, of course, and that is for your own safety. Basalt and Caele are both, I confess, a little insane. Caele, especially, is not to be trusted, not to mention the fact there are dangerous scrolls and artifacts lying about that could do you harm. I have tried to make your stay as pleasant as possible. You have all these books to read—”

Mina glanced at the shelves and made a dismissive gesture. “I have already read them.”

“All of them?” Nuitari regarded her with amusement. “You will forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“Choose one,” Mina challenged.

Nuitari did so, taking a book off the shelf.

“What is the title?” she asked.

“Draconians: A Study. Can Good Come of Evil?”

“Open to the first page.”

Nuitari did so.

Mina began to recite. “‘Scholars have long held that because draconians were created by evil magicks, born of the perverted eggs of good dragons, draconians are evil and will forever remain so, capable of possessing no redeeming qualities. However, a study of a group of draconians who are currently settled in the city of Teyr reveals’—” She stopped. “Do I quote correctly?”

“Word for word,” said Nuitari, and he snapped shut the book.

“I read a lot when I was a child at the Citadel,” Mina said, and then she frowned, “or I think I must have. I can’t really remember reading. All I remember is sunshine, and the waves rushing around my feet, and Goldmoon brushing my hair. . . . Yet I think I must have spent a great deal of time reading, for whenever I pick up a book, I discover I have already read it.”

“I’ll wager you have not read this one.” Nuitari caused a volume to materialize in his hand. “Spells of Conjuration for the White Robe, Advanced Levels.”

Mina shrugged. “Why would I want to read it? I have no interest in magic.”

“Indulge me,” said Nuitari. “Read the first chapter. If you do this for me, I will grant you permission to leave your room for an hour each day. You may walk the halls and corridors of the Tower. Under guard, of course.” For your own safety.

Mina eyed him, as though wondering what game he was playing. She reached out her hand.

Nuitari wasn’t certain what he expected to gain from this experiment— perhaps nothing more than the pleasure of humbling this young mortal, who was altogether too arrogant and bold for his liking.

“I should warn you,” he said, as he handed her the book, “this has a spell on it....”

“What kind of spell?” Mina asked. She took the book from his hands and opened it.

“A spell of warding,” said Nuitari, watching in wonder.

He recalled when Caele had picked up this book. The author, a White Robed wizard, had placed a warding enchantment on it, so that only those of the White Robes could use the spells. Caele of the Black Robes had dropped the book with a curse, then spent the next few moments wringing his burned fingers and swearing. He’d sulked for a day and a half over the incident and refused to go back to help Basalt with the unpacking.

A disciple of Chemosh would certainly not be able to handle this book without punishment.

Mina ran her hands over the soft leather binding. She traced with her fingers the title stamped in gold on the cover.

Nuitari wondered if the warding spell had worn off.

Mina opened the book, studied the first page.

“You want me to read this?” she asked, skeptical.

“If you please,” said Nuitari.

Shrugging, Mina began to read.

Nuitari was astonished, and he could not remember the last time a mortal had astonished him. She was reading the words of the language of magic, a feat only a trained wizard should be able to do.

Her pronunciation of the words of the spell was flawless. Even after hours of study, White Robed wizards would have stumbled through this spell, and here was Mina, a disciple of Chemosh, with not an ounce of moon-magic in her bones, reading it perfectly the first time. The spidery words should have clogged her mouth, stuck in her throat, burned her tongue. As he listened to her rattle them off in a bored monotone, he regarded her with amazement.

Nuitari might have concluded that Mina was a wizardess in disguise, except for one thing.

She read the spell flawlessly yet without understanding.

So might a human scholar of the elven language read aloud an elven love poem. The human might know and understand and be able to pronounce the words, but only an elf could give the words the delicate shades of meaning the elven author intended. Only a wizard could give these words the life required to cast the spell. Mina knew what she was saying. She just didn’t care. Reciting the spell was an exercise to her, nothing more.

Had his mother, Takhisis, taught Mina magic?

Nuitari thought this over and rejected it.

Takhisis detested magic, distrusted it. She would have been well pleased with a world that had no magic in it, for she viewed magic as a threat to her own powers. Takhisis had not taught Mina magic, and she certainly would not have learned to read the language of magic from the mystics of the Citadel of Light. Nor yet from Chemosh.

Strange. Very strange.

Mina halted mid-sentence, looking up at him. “Do you want me to go on? The rest is just more of the same.”

“No, that will do,” Nuitari said. He took the book from her hands.

“I won the wager. I have an hour of freedom.” Mina started toward the door.

“All in good time,” Nuitari said, halting her. “I have no one to serve as your escort. Basalt is scrubbing up spilt blood and, as I said, you would find Caele a dangerous companion. I fear you must bear with me a while longer.”

Nuitari decided to try another experiment on Mina—an oddity his Black Robes had observed about her. He secretly cast a spell on her. The spell was a simple sleep spell, one of the first learned by the novice mage. Nuitari could have cast it in an eye blink, but he did not want her to have any suspicion that he was working magic on her. Strand by strand, he plied the threads of magic back and forth, back and forth, weaving the spell over her and around her, the magic covering her like a warm blanket. All the while, he kept her engaged in idle conversation, so that she would not notice what he was doing.

“You know nothing of your childhood,” he said to her, as he worked his magic. “According to what Basalt wrote, you were found on board an abandoned ship at the age of eight, washed up on the shore of Schallsea Isle near the Citadel of Light. You remember nothing—not your name, not your parents, nor what happened to the ship—”

“That is true,” said Mina, frowning. She added impatiently, “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

“Humor me, my dear. You were adopted by Goldmoon, a former follower of Mishakal, who had been the first to bring the worship of the true gods back to the world after the Cataclysm. She was the one who brought the power of the heart into this world during the Fifth Age. Goldmoon was a good woman, a devout woman. She took an interest in you, loved you like a daughter.”

He finished his sleep spell and cast it on Mina. Nuitari watched and waited.

Mina tapped her foot on the floor and looked meaningfully at the locked door. “You promised me an hour of freedom,” she said.

“All in good time. As a child, you were curious about many things,” Nuitari said softly, his wonder and mystification growing. “You were known for asking questions. You were particularly curious about the gods. Why had they left? Where had they gone? Goldmoon mourned the absence of the gods, and because you loved her, you wanted to please her. You told her you would go seeking the gods and bring them back to her— Do you feel at all sleepy?”

She glared at him accusingly. “I cannot sleep, not in this cage. I walk like this half the night trying to wear myself out—”

“You should have told me sooner that you suffered from insomnia,” said Nuitari. “I can help.”

He reached into the magic, snatching some rose petals from the ethers. As a god, he didn’t need spell components to work this magic, but mortals were impressed by them. “I will cast a sleep spell upon you. You should lie down, lest you fall and hurt yourself.”

“Don’t you dare work your foul magic on me!” Mina cried angrily, striding toward him. “I won’t—”

Nuitari tossed the rose petals into the air. They fell down around Mina as he recited the words of the magical sleep spell, the same spell he’d cast on her earlier.

This time, the spell worked. Mina’s eyes closed. She swayed where she stood, then collapsed onto the floor. She would have bruised knees and elbows and a bump on her head when she awoke, but then, he’d warned her to lie down.

He knelt beside her, studied her.

She was, to all appearances, fast asleep, wrapped in the spell’s enchantment.

He pinched her arm, hard, to see if she was shamming.

She did not awaken.

Nuitari rose to his feet. He cast one more look at Mina, then walked out of the room. He went over again in his mind Basalt’s report.

The subject, Mina, is magic-resistant, Basalt had written, but with this qualification: she is resistant to the mam only if she does not know that mam is being cast upon her! Basalt had underlined this twice. If a spell is cast upon her without her knowledge, the magic—even the most powerful—has no effect upon her. However, if she is told in advance a spell is going to he cast upon her, she fails victim to it immediately, without even an attempt to defend herself.

Basalt concluded by writing, In several hundred years of practicing magic, I have never before seen a subject behave like this, nor has my fellow wizard.

Nuitari stood outside Caele’s room. Peering through the walls, the god could see Caele lying sprawled on his bed, indulging himself in an afternoon nap. Nuitari knocked on the door and called out the half-elf’s name in a peremptory voice. He watched, amused, to see Caele jolt to wakefulness.

Stifling a yawn, Caele opened the door. “Master,” he said. “I was just studying my spells—”

“Then you must have them inscribed on the backs of your eyelids,” said Nuitari. “Here, make yourself useful. Take this book back to the library for me.”

He tossed the white-bound spellbook of the White Robed wizard at Caele.

Instinctively, Caele caught it.

Blue and yellow sparks leapt off the white binding. Caele yelped and dropped the spell book to the floor. He thrust his burnt fingers into his mouth.

Nuitari grunted. Turning on his heel, he walked off.

This was all very strange.

4

Chemosh stood on the battlements of his cliff-top castle, gazing moodily out at the Blood Sea and thinking of various ways to avenge himself on Nuitari, rescue Mina, steal the Tower, and obtain the valuable artifacts stashed inside. He conceived and then discarded several plans, and after considerable thought, he was forced to admit that the prospect of achieving all of these goals was likely impossible. Nuitari was clever, curse him. In the eternal khas game waged between the gods, Nuitari had anticipated and thwarted Chemosh’s every move.

Chemosh watched the waves break on the rock-bound coast. Below those waves Mina languished, trapped inside Nuitari’s prison. Chemosh burned with a fierce desire to descend to the ocean floor and march inside and seize her. He avoided the temptation. Chemosh would not give Nuitari the satisfaction of mocking him. He would make Nuitari pay and he would get Mina back. He had yet to figure out how he was going to do this. Nuitari was in complete control of the win.

Almost. There was one piece on the board over which no one had any control. One piece that might give Chemosh the game.

Chemosh was thinking of this plan and that when he noted a wave, larger than the rest, rise up and move rapidly toward shore.

“Krell,” he said to the death knight, who was skulking about in obsequious attendance upon his lord, “Zeboim is coming to pay me a visit.

Krell leapt a foot in the air. If steel could have lost color, his helm would have gone white.

Chemosh pointed. “Look at that wave.”

Zeboim stood poised gracefully atop the mammoth wave. The water curled underneath her bare feet. Her hair streamed behind her. Sea foam clothed her. She held the wind in her hands and cast it forth as she came. Gusts started to buffet the castle.

“You might try hiding in the wine cellar,” suggested Chemosh, “or the treasure vault, or under the bed, if you can fit. I’ll keep her occupied. You had best hurry . . .”

Krell needed no urging. He was already running for the stairs, his armor clanking and rattling.

The wave broke over the battlements of Castle Beloved. The torrent of green water, tinged with red, would have drenched the god who stood there, if he had permitted the water to touch him. As it was, the sea swirled about his boots and cascaded down the stairs. He heard a roar and a clatter. Krell had been swept off his feet by the flood.

Zeboim calmly stepped onto the battlements. With a wave of her hand, she banished the sea, sent it back to fling itself in endless fury at the base of the cliff on which he had built his castle.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Chemosh asked blandly.

“You have my sons soul in your possession!” said Zeboim, her aqua eyes blazing. “Free him—now!”

“I will do so, but I want something in return. Give me Mina,” returned Chemosh coolly.

“Do you think I carry your precious mortal around in my pocket?” Zeboim demanded. “I have no idea where your little trollop has gone. Nor do I care.”

“You should,” Chemosh said. “Your brother is holding Mina against her will. Return Mina to me and I will free your son—if he’ll go.”

“He will leave,” said Zeboim. “He and I had a little talk. He’s ready to move on.” She thought the deal over. “Give me that wretch Krell”—she ground his name between her teeth—“and we’ll call it a bargain.”

Chemosh shook his head. “Only if you will give me that annoying monk of Majere. First things first, though. You must restore Mina to me. Your brother has her locked in the Tower of High Sorcery beneath the Blood Sea.”

“Rhys Mason is not a monk of Majere,” cried Zeboim, offended. “He is my monk and he is passionately devoted to me. He adores me. He would do anything for me. If it hadn’t been for him and his loyal dedication to me, my son would still be a prisoner of that—”

Zeboim paused. Chemosh’s last words had just hit her. “What do you mean—Tower of High Sorcery in the Blood Seal” she blazed. “Since when?”

“Since your brother restored the Tower of High Sorcery that was formerly at Istar. His newly built Tower is now at the bottom of the Blood Sea.”

Zeboim scoffed. “A Tower in the Blood Sea? My sea? Without my permission? You take me for a fool, my lord.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” Chemosh feigned surprise. “Brother and sister, so loving and close. He must tell you everything. I assure you, Lady, that your brother, Nuitari, has raised up the Tower that once stood in Istar. He is restoring it to its former glory and he plans to bring Black Robe wizards beneath the ocean to populate it.”

Zeboim was struck dumb. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She glared at Chemosh, convinced he was lying, yet she glanced back uncertainly at the sea that seemed to quiver with her outrage.

“The Tower is not far from here,” Chemosh added, gesturing. “A stone’s throw. Look to the east. Do you recall where the Maelstrom used to be? About one hundred miles from shore. You can see it from where we stand—”

Zeboim looked beneath the water. Now that it had been pointed out to her, the god was right. She could see a tower.

“How dare he?” Zeboim flared.

Thunder shook the castle walls, causing Krell, cowering at the bottom of a well, to quake in his boots. The impetuous goddess prepared to leap headlong from the battlements.

“We’ll see about this!”

“Wait!” Chemosh shouted against the crashing roar of her ire. “What of our bargain?”

“That is true.” Zeboim reflected more calmly. “We have business to finish before I shred my brother’s eyeballs and feed them to the cat. You will free my son.”

“If you free Mina.”

“You will give me Krell.”

“If you give me the monk.”

“And you,” said Zeboim haughtily, “you must put an end to these so-called Beloved.”

“Am I to be denied disciples?” Chemosh demanded, aggrieved. “I might as well ask you to stop soliciting sailors.”

“I do not solicit sailors,” Zeboim flared. “They choose to worship me.”

The two stood eyeing each other, both of them thinking how to gain what he or she wanted.

Mina will at last be in my grasp, Zeboim reflected. I’ll have to turn her over to Chemosh eventually, but for a little while, I can use her to my own advantage.

Should I trust the Sea Witch with Mina? Chemosh asked himself, then thought, reassured, Zeboim does not dare harm her. I will keep her son’s soul hostage until we make the trade.

As for Krell, tormenting him has grown to be a bore, Zeboim realized. My monk is far more valuable to me—not to mention entertaining. I will keep him.

>Majere is a distinct threat, Chemosh was thinking. Zeboim is a minor irritant. If, as she claims, this meddlesome monk has switched his loyalties from the Mantis God to the Sea Witch, then Rhys Mason no longer poses a threat to me. I know how Zeboim treats her faithful. The poor man will be lucky to survive. And having Krell available to me instead of constantly hiding under the bed will be of considerable advantage.

As for this Tower . . . Zeboim moved on to the next irritant. I’m not surprised at anything that moon-faced little brother of mine would do. He’ll pay for his impudence, of course. I’ll shake his Tower to ruins! But why is the Lord of Death interested in a Tower of High Sorcery? Why should Chemosh care one way or the other? There’s something more here than meets the eye. I must find out what.

So Zeboim didn’t know about the Tower. Chemosh considered that interesting. I feared brother and sister were in league. Apparently not. What will she do? What can she do? Nuitari is not someone for even a sister to cross.

The sea rolled, and waves came and went as the two gods viewed this deal from every angle.

Finally, Zeboim said graciously, “I promise Mina will be restored to you. I know how to deal with my brother. Provided, of course, that you free my son’s soul in return.”

Chemosh was likewise gracious. “I could agree to that. I want Krell for myself. In return, I give you the monk.”

Chemosh is up to something. He is giving in too easily, Zeboim thought, eyeing him.

She is giving in too easily. Zeboim is up to something, Chemosh thought, eyeing her.

Still, thought both, I’m getting the best of this bargain.

Zeboim held out her hand.

Chemosh took her hand and they concluded the deal.

“Bring Mina to me and I will start your son’s soul on its journey to its next bloody conquest,” said the Lord of Death.

“I will return with Mina,” said Zeboim, “and I will let you know what I find out about this Tower. I’m sure there must be some mistake. My brother would never deceive me.”

Liar, thought Chemosh.

“I merely told you as a courtesy,” he replied nonchalantly. “What Nuitari does or does not do with his Tower holds no interest for me.”

Liar, thought Zeboim.

“Until we meet again, dear friend,” she gushed.

“Until we meet again,” said Chemosh suavely.

“Ugh, how I hate that wretch!” Zeboim said to herself as she strode across the ocean floor. “I’ll make him pay!”

“Conniving witch,” Chemosh muttered. “I’ll fix her.” He raised his voice. “Krell! You can come out now! Mina will soon be restored to us, and when she is, I want to be ready to act.”

5

Unaware his life had been used as a bargaining chip by his goddess, Rhys remained in Solace, as he had promised Gerard. Several days passed after their conversation, during which time Rhys saw very little of the sheriff. Whenever he did run across him, Gerard would always rush past with a wave of his hand and the muttered words, “Can’t talk now, but soon. Very soon.”

Rhys returned to his work at the inn, where he received a warm welcome from the inn’s proprietor.

“I’m glad you’re back, Brother,” said Laura, wiping her hands on her apron. “We missed you, and not just for cutting up potatoes, either, though no one else around here can cut them into those neat little squares like you do.”

“I am pleased to be back,” Rhys said.

“You have a way about you, Brother,” Laura continued, bustling about the kitchen. She lifted a lid and a gush of spicy steam rolled out of a kettle. She peered into the pot, dipped in a spoon, and shook her head. “Needs more salt. Where was I? Oh, yes. You have a kind of calm that spreads over everyone when you’re around, Brother, and evaporates when you’re not.”

Lifting a ball of bread dough from a crock, she began to deftly knead it, working as she talked.

“The day you left, Cook quarreled with the scullery maid, who was so upset she spilled a pot of ham and beans and nearly scalded herself. Not to mention the two fistfights we had in the yard, and then there was the youngster who took a notion to slide all the way down the banister from tree-level to ground and ended up breaking his arm. When you’re here, Brother, nothing like that ever happens. Everything just seems to go as smooth as my lady’s backside.

“Oh, dear!” Laura clapped her hand to her mouth and flushed bright red. “I beg your pardon, Brother. I didn’t mean to be talking about my lady’s backside.”

Rhys smiled. “I think you overrate my influence, Mistress Laura. Now, since it is close to supper, I should be starting on those potatoes ...”

Rhys sliced potatoes and onions, hauled water, and listened sympathetically to Cook’s complaints about the scullery maid, then he soothed the scullery maid, who didn’t know what she could ever do to please Cook. He enjoyed working in the inn’s kitchen. He liked the hectic times, such as dinner and supper, when he was often doing three things at once, working with his sleeves rolled up past the elbow, rushing about with no time to think of anything except worrying that the potatoes were underdone, or that the haunch of meat roasting on a spit over the open fire was cooking unevenly.

When the crowds departed and the doors of the inn closed for the night, Rhys enjoyed the peace and quiet, though there were mountains of crockery to wash, and kettles and pots to scrub, and the floor to sweep, and water to haul, and bread dough to mix so that it could spend the night rising. The simple, homely tasks reminded him of his life at the monastery. His arms elbow-deep in sudsy water, he would wash out ale mugs and reflect on Majere and wonder what the enigmatic god was doing and why he was doing it.

When Rhys ended up breaking a mug, he realized that he was still angry at Majere and that, far from abating, his anger was being fueled by the god’s continued stubborn presence in Rhys’s life. Like some spoilt and ill-behaved child whose parents persist on coddling him no matter how much he misbehaves, Rhys did not deserve the god’s care of him; he felt guilty accepting it when he couldn’t return it.

He came to almost resent the emmide. Yesterday he had tried leaving it behind in his room, only to find he felt awkward and uncomfortable without it, almost as if he were walking through Solace naked, and Atta was so bothered by its absence (she kept halting to stare back at him with a puzzled expression), that he eventually gave up and went back to fetch it.

He had other trials of faith. Sometimes Laura would send Rhys to the market to do the daily shopping, if she was too busy to go herself. On his way, he would pass by the street known among the citizens in jest as “God’s Row.” Here the clerics of the various gods of Krynn we’re building new temples of worship to welcome back the gods who had long been absent from the world. The temple of Majere was a modest structure located about halfway up the street. Rhys would often see Majere’s clerics working in the gardens or walking about the grounds, and he was sorely tempted to enter the temple and thank Majere humbly for his care of his unworthy servant and to ask the god’s forgiveness.

Whenever he thought about doing this, whenever his feet started to carry him in that direction, Rhys would see again his brethren lying dead on the floor of the monastery, their bodies twisted in the agonies of their death throes. He would think of his brother and all those his brother had duped and murdered. Even Zeboim—cruel, arrogant, willful, and unreliable as she might be—had done more to help Rhys to find answers to his questions than the good and wise Majere. Rhys would turn away from the temple and return to the business of buying onions.

While Rhys was chopping vegetables and wrestling with his god, Nightshade roamed the streets of Solace, keeping an eye on the Beloved. Atta accompanied the kender, keeping an eye on Nightshade. Atta did not have much work to do to keep the kender honest. Nightshade was particularly inept at the time-honored and much celebrated (among kender, at least) art of “borrowing.”

“I’m all thumbs and two left feet,” Nightshade would admit quite cheerfully.

He wasn’t very good at borrowing because he wasn’t all that interested in the things that interested other kender. He wasn’t curious enough, he supposed, or rather, he was curious, just not about other people’s possessions. He was curious about their souls, especially those souls who had not yet advanced onto the next stage of their life’s journey. Nightshade had the ability to communicate with such spirits, be they lost and wandering, angry, unhappy, vengeful, or destructive. He could also, as Rhys had told Gerard, see the Beloved for what they were—walking corpses.

Sometimes, however, the kender’s hands would take on a life of their own and start to think for themselves, and then they would find their way into someone’s pocket or purse or absent-mindedly stuff a bag of kumquats down the kender’s pants’ leg or carry off a pie that was reduced to crumbs before Nightshade became conscious of the fact he hadn’t paid for it.

Atta had been taught to keep a close watch on the kender, and whenever she saw Nightshade stand too close to anyone or veer off toward the baker’s stall, the dog would swiftly interpose her body between that of the kender and the potential victim and herd the kender gently back onto the straight and narrow.

Thus it was that Nightshade was able to steer clear of the sheriff’s deputies and concentrate on his search for one of the Beloved in order to set a trap for it.

He was, unfortunately, successful.

Three days after their meeting, at about midafternoon, as Rhys was dicing potatoes, Gerard shoved open the kitchen door and thrust his head inside.

“Brother Rhys?” he called, peering through the steam. “Oh, there you are. If Laura can spare you, I’d be glad of your company.”

“Go along, Brother,” said Laura. “You’ve done work enough for six monks this day.”

“I will be back in time to help with dinner,” Rhys said.

Gerard cleared his throat. “Uh, no, you won’t, I’m afraid, Brother.”

“We’ll make do,” Laura said. As Rhys was removing his apron, she frowned at Gerard. “You take care of him, Sheriff.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Gerard, fidgeting while Rhys hung up his apron and rolled down his sleeves.

Laura wiped her face with a flour-covered hand. “I’ve seen you, Sheriff, and my brother, Palin, with your heads together, talking in whispers. You’re up to no good, sir, both of you, and I don’t want you dragging the Brother here into it.”

“No, ma’am,” said Gerard. “We’ll be careful.”

Latching onto Rhys, Gerard hustled him out of the inn.

“Everything’s ready,” he said, as they hurried down the long flight of stairs. The kender and Atta stood waiting for them at the bottom. “Nightshade’s found a candidate. We’ll set the trap tonight.”

Rhys felt chilled. He would have much preferred being back at his work in the kitchen. “What does Palin Majere have to do with this?” he asked sharply.

“Well, aside from the fact he’s the Lord Mayor of Solace and it was my duty as sheriff to inform him of any danger threatening our city, he is—or was—one of the most powerful sorcerers in Ansalon. Before that he was a White Robe mage. I wanted his advice.”

“I’ve heard he renounced the magic,” said Rhys.

“That’s true, Brother,” Gerard said, adding, with a wink, “but he hasn’t renounced those who practice it. Here we are, Nightshade. Where are you taking us?”

“Over to the bridge stairs,” said Nightshade. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Sheriff, but he’s one of the Vallenwood Guards. You probably know him. His name is Cam.”

“Cam! Damnation!” Gerard swore, his brow darkening. “Are you sure?”

Nightshade gave a solemn nod. “I’m sure.” He rested his hand on Atta’s head. “And so is she.”

Gerard swore again. “This is going to be hard!” He frowned at the kender. “I hope to heaven you’re wrong.”

“I hope so, too, sir,” said Nightshade politely, then added in a mutter beneath his breath. “But I know I’m not.”

“What is a Vallenwood Guard?” Rhys asked to distract Gerard, who was taking this news very hard.

“They guard the stairs that lead up to the walkways,” Gerard explained, pointing overhead to the narrow bridges that ran from tree branch to tree branch. This was a busy time of day and crowds of people were walking the bridges, either going to and from their treetop homes or frequenting the businesses that were built in the trees.

“With the city growing so rapidly, there came to be too many people tromping about on the bridges. They weren’t built to carry such a load. Boards came loose and fell down on people’s heads. One of the swinging bridges almost collapsed. Several ropes gave way, causing the bridge to sag suddenly. People were hanging on for dear life.

“We decided to limit the number of people who go up there. Either you have to own a house up top, in which case you’re given a pass, or you have to prove that you have business up there. The guards man the bottom of the stairs and keep track of who goes up and comes down.”

They came within sight of the wooden stairs that led up into the tree branches. Two young men, both wearing green uniforms marked by an embroidered vallenwood leaf on the breast, stood at the base of the stairs, asking people questions, and either allowing them to ascend or sending them on their way.

“That’s him,” said Nightshade, pointing his finger. “He’s one of the Beloved.”

“Which one?” Gerard asked, eyeing the kender. “There are two young men standing there. Which one is the Beloved?”

“The one with the red, curly hair and the freckles,” Nightshade answered promptly.

“That’s Cam, all right,” Gerard said with a sigh. “Dammit to the Abyss and back again!”

“I’m sorry,” Nightshade said. “He has a really nice smile. He must have been a good guy.”

“He is,” said Gerard glumly, “or rather, was. What about you, Brother? Can you verify the kender’s claim?”

“If Nightshade says he is one of the Beloved, then I take his word for it,” Rhys replied.

“What about Atta?” Gerard asked.

They all looked down at the dog. She stood alertly at Rhys’s side, and they could all see her gaze was fixed on the red-haired young guard who was chatting and laughing with two girls. A low growl rumbled in her chest. One corner of her lip curled.

“She agrees with Nightshade,” said Rhys.

Gerard glowered. “Forgive me, Brother, but you’re asking me to trust the word of a kender and the growl of a dog. I’d feel better if I had your opinion. I know young Cam, and I know his parents. They’re good people. If I’m going to have to apprehend him, I want to know for sure he’s one of these Beloved.”

Rhys stood, unmoving. “I am not at all certain I like this, Sheriff. What kind of trap are you proposing we set?”

Gerard didn’t answer. Instead he gestured over to where young Cam was talking and laughing with the young women.

“He may be arranging to meet one of those girls this very night, Brother.”

Rhys still hesitated, then said, “Take Atta away. If she sees me going near one of the Beloved, she might attack him. I will meet you back at the inn.”

When Atta was out of sight, Rhys gripped his staff and walked over to the stairs. He knew what he was going to find. Neither Nightshade nor Atta had ever been wrong before. He walked up to the young man, just as he and the young women burst into laughter.

Seeing Rhys approach, Cam turned from his flirting to attend to his duty.

“Good afternoon, Brother,” he said, giving Rhys an engaging smile. “What is your business up top?”

Rhys looked directly into the young man’s green eyes.

He saw no light, only shadows—shadows of hope unfulfilled, shadows of a future that would never come to pass.

“Are you unwell, Brother?” asked Cam, placing a solicitous hand on Rhys’s arm. “You don’t look good. Perhaps you should sit here in the shade and rest. I could bring you some water.. . .”

“Thank you,” said Rhys, “but that will not be necessary. I will rest a moment here where it is cool.”

Several vendors had put up stalls near the bridge stairs to take advantage of the near-constant traffic. This included an enterprising seller of meat pies, who had set up tables and benches for the convenience of his customers. The two young women with whom Cam was talking were supposed to be selling ribbons from their stall, though at the moment they were doing more giggling than trade.

“Suit yourself, Brother,” said Cam, and he turned back to his conversation with the young women.

Ignoring the glares and pointed remarks of the meat pie vendor, who did not like non-paying customers taking up table space, Rhys sat on the bench and listened to the conversation Cam was having with the two girls. He did not need to listen long. One arranged to meet Cam this very night.

Rhys rose to his feet and took his departure, much to the gratification of the meat pie vendor, who bustled over quickly to where the shabby monk had been sitting and dusted off the bench.

6

Rhys found Gerard and Nightshade standing outside the inn in the company of two people, both of them strangers to Rhys.

“Well, Brother?” Gerard asked.

Rhys had no need to answer. Gerard could tell by the expression on Rhys’s face that the news wasn’t good. He swore and angrily kicked at a clod of dirt with the toe of his boot.

“The young man arranged to meet one of the young women at a place called Flint’s Lookout tonight, an hour after Darkfall,” Rhys reported.

“We can discuss business later. You forget that I await the pleasure of an introduction, Sheriff,” said one of the two strangers.

“Mistress Jenna, Head of the Conclave of Wizards,” said Gerard, “and this gentleman is Dominique Helmsman, Holy Warrior of Kiri-Jolith. Brother Rhys Mason, former monk of Majere.”

“Former monk?” repeated Mistress Jenna with a quirk of her eyebrow.

A woman in her later years, Mistress Jenna was still alluring, still able to fascinate. Her eyes were large and lustrous; the fine lines around the eyes seemed to fade in the light of their splendor. She was dressed in red velvet robes trimmed with gold and silver. Jewels sparkled on her fingers. The pouches she wore at her waist were made of the finest leather, hand-painted with fanciful flowers and beasts. A very fine emerald hung from a golden chain around her neck. Mistress Jenna was not only one of the most powerful wizards on Ansalon, she was also one of the wealthiest.

“I’ve never met a ‘former’ monk of Majere before,” she continued archly, “and you must explain why your robes are a rather unusual shade of green.”

Rhys bowed but remained silent.

“Brother Mason has found favor in the eyes of Zeboim,” said Gerard.

“Not too much favor, I take it,” said Mistress Jenna, eyeing Rhys’s sea-green robes with amusement.

“You are fortunate in having Zeboim’s regard, Brother.” Dominique Helmsman stepped forward to hold out his hand. “Far better to have the Sea Witch for you than against you, as my people know well.”

Dominique had no need to name his people. His surname, Helmsman, as well as his jet-black skin, proclaimed him an Ergothian, a race of ship-builders and sailors who lived on the island of Ergoth in the western part of Ansalon. Because Ergoth was an island and its people dependent on the sea for their living, the Ergothians built numerous temples to Zeboim and were among the most dedicated of her followers. Thus it was that even an Ergothian Holy Warrior of Kiri-Jolith, god of Light, could proclaim his respect for the dark and capricious goddess of the sea and feel no conflict.

Rhys had heard of these paladins of Kiri-Jolith, god of righteous war, though he had never before met one. Dominique looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was tall and muscular; his face was handsome, though he seemed somewhat stern and unapproachable, as though he were constantly reflecting on the serious side of life. He wore a brown and white surcoat emblazoned with the head of a bison, the symbol of Kiri-Jolith, over glistening chain mail. His black hair was plaited in a single braid that hung down his back, as was the custom of his people. He carried the longsword that was the sacred weapon of the god buckled around his waist in a scabbard etched with holy symbols. The knight’s hand was never far from his sword. By this and other signs (a yelp from Nightshade), Rhys judged the sword to be a holy artifact blessed by the god.

“I am honored to meet you both.”

Rhys bowed again to the lady wizardess and then bowed to the holy warrior. Straightening, he stood, staff in hand, looking at them. Atta, well trained, sat quietly at his side. Rhys could see himself in their eyes: a tall, too-thin monk dressed in shabby robes of an unfortunate green color. His only possessions of value: a black and white dog and a plain wooden staff. His only companion: a kender who was sucking dolefully on burned fingers. Nightshade had made the mistake of trying to examine Dominique’s holy sword.

Rhys could not blame these two important people for having doubts about him, though they were too polite to show it.

Mistress Jenna broke the silence that was starting to grow uncomfortable.

“This is quite a pretty mystery you have set before us, Brother Rhys Mason. The lord sheriff has told us something about these so-called ‘Beloved of Chemosh.’ I find his report fascinating, especially the notion they can’t be destroyed.” She gave a condescending smile. “At least by a monk and a kender mystic.”

“I have nothing against mystics,” Dominique added in a stern and serious tone, “or against kender. It is just that your powers to deal with the undead are understandably limited.”

“He’s just mad because I touched his stupid sword,” growled Nightshade. He gave the paladin a baleful look. “It’s all Atta’s fault. She wasn’t keeping an eye on me. She was watching them. I don’t think she likes either of them, especially the wizardess.”

Rhys had noticed that Atta was steering clear of Mistress Jenna. The dog did not growl, as she would have with one of the Beloved, but she pressed close against Rhys’s side and kept a suspicious eye on the wizardess.

Mistress Jenna hadn’t been meant to overhear, but she proved she had by saying with a shrug, “He’s right. She doesn’t like me. Dogs take against me, I’m afraid.”

“I am sorry, Mistress—” Rhys began.

“Oh, don’t apologize!” Jenna smiled. “Most dogs find it difficult to be around wizards. I think it has to do with the spell components we carry: bat guano, newts’ eyeballs, dried lizard tails. Dogs don’t like the smell. Cats, on the other hand, don’t seem to mind. One reason mages tend to use felines as familiars, I suppose.”

Gerard cleared his throat. “This is all very interesting, but the two of you have traveled a long distance and there are things we need to discuss—”

“Quite right, Sheriff,” said Mistress Jenna briskly. “Let us return to business. We can discuss dogs later. I have a room in the inn. We can talk in far more comfort and privacy there. Brother Mason, if you would lend me your arm to support my feeble steps, I would be grateful.”

Mistress Jenna slid her bejeweled hand into the crook of Rhys’s elbow. Her steps were no more faltering than Atta’s. She was obviously a woman accustomed to being obeyed, however, and Rhys did as she requested.

Mistress Jenna drew Rhys near her and then glanced over her shoulder to see Atta trotting alongside Nightshade.

“Gerard has been touting the praises of this marvelous dog of yours, Brother. She is trained to herd both sheep and kender, or so I understand.”

“Primarily sheep, Mistress,” said Rhys with a smile.

“Was she trained to this skill from a puppy?”

“She was born to it, you could say,” Rhys replied. “Both her parents were experienced herd dogs.”

“The reason I am asking about the dog is not just from idle curiosity. I own a mageware shop in Palanthas and I have such a problem with kender! You can’t imagine! I employ a guard, but the expense is considerable and the clever little beasts always seem to outwit him anyway. I was thinking a dog might be far more reliable, and certainly a dog would eat less than this brute I’ve hired. Would such a thing be possible?”

Jenna seemed serious about her need and truly interested in what Rhys had to say. He guessed this was a woman who could charm the birds out the vallenwoods if she had a mind to do so and not just through the use of her magic. She was also extremely dangerous. As Head of the Conclave of Wizards, Jenna presided over godly magic in Ansalon—magic that had been gone for years with the absence of the gods and had only recently returned. She was a powerful force in this world and he could see that power in her eyes—a flicker of fire smoldering deep beneath a smooth and placid surface, a fire that spoke of deadly battles fought and victories obtained but only at great cost.

Rhys said politely he had no doubt a dog could be trained to handle the job, though—unlike with Gerard—he did not offer to do the training himself. After this subject had been exhausted, while they were ascending the stairs leading to the inn’s upper floors, Jenna made her apology.

“I truly did not mean to insult you when I spoke about you and the kender lacking the power to deal with these Beloved, Brother. I fear I offended you.”

“Perhaps just a little,” he replied.

“I could see that.” Jenna patted his arm. “I have a regrettable lack of tact, as I’ve often been told. Or maybe, like your dog, you don’t like the stench of magic.”

She cocked an eye at him.

Rhys didn’t know what to say. He was confused by the way she seemed to bore into the core of his soul to see what was inside him.

“At any rate,” she continued, before he could dredge up some excuse, “I hope you will forgive me. Here is my room. Watch it, Brother!” Jenna said sharply, raising a warding hand. “Don’t touch the door handle. You might want to stand back.”

Rhys stepped back, narrowly avoiding bumping into Gerard and the paladin, who were coming up the stairs behind him, both so deeply engrossed in their discussion of the notorious outlaw Baron Samuval, who had taken over half of Abanasinia, that neither was paying particular attention to where they were going. Nightshade clumped up after, grumbling about missing his dinner.

They all waited as Jenna spoke some words in the eerie language of magic that Rhys, shut up in his monastery for most of his life, had never before heard. He was reminded of spider’s legs, wispy cobwebs and silvery bells. Nightshade stood humming a little tune and looking around in bored fashion. The door glowed briefly a faint blue color then swung open.

“I suppose she thinks that’s supposed to impress us,” Nightshade said in an aside to Atta. “I could do that—if I wanted to.”

The dog, by her look, appeared to share the kender’s feelings.

“I always use magic to lock my door,” Jenna explained as she ushered them into the room that was the finest the inn had to offer. “Not because I have all that much of value to protect. It’s just I’m hopeless about misplacing keys. I am perfectly serious about wanting one of your dogs,” she added as Rhys walked past her. “I wasn’t just making myself agreeable.”

Jenna won Nightshade over by passing around a tray of sweetmeats and offering them their choice of ale or a pale, chilled wine. Once they were settled, with Nightshade penned up in a corner by Atta, everyone turned to Rhys.

“Gerard has told us some of the story, Brother,” said the paladin. “But we would like to hear it in your own words.”

Rhys told his tale reluctantly. He guessed that neither was going to believe him. He didn’t blame them. In their place, he would find his story difficult to swallow. Rhys decided he would not waste time in arguing with them or trying to convince them what he said was the truth. If they scoffed, he’d be on his way. He had to find Lieu. He’d wasted time enough as it was.

Neither Jenna nor Dominique spoke as long as Rhys was talking. Neither interrupted him. Both regarded him with grave attentiveness.

At the point when Rhys briefly described the murder of the monks, Dominique murmured a few words, and Rhys realized the paladin was saying a prayer for the souls of Majere’s faithful. Dominique frowned when he heard Rhys tell how he had forsaken Majere and shifted his allegiance to Zeboim, but the paladin said no word of reproach.

Rhys deliberately invited Nightshade to offer his own version of events. Rhys had come to value the kender’s courage and resolve, and he wanted to make it clear they were friends and partners. Nightshade’s tale was lengthy and rambling. He leapfrogged from one thought to another, so that he was occasionally incoherent. Both Jenna and Dominique listened in patience, though sometimes Mistress Jenna was forced to put her hand to her twitching lips to keep from laughing.

When Rhys and Nightshade had no more to tell, the wizardess and the paladin remained silent for a moment. Both looked extremely grave. Gerard said nothing either. He waited for them to speak.

Nightshade fidgeted in his chair, trying to catch Rhys’s eye. He jerked his head meaningfully toward the door and mouthed the words, “Let’s get out of here!”

Rhys shook his head, and Nightshade heaved a loud sigh and kicked at the rungs of his chair with his heels.

“Well, Brother,” said Jenna after a moment, “that is quite a story.”

Rhys inclined his head but did not comment.

Nightshade cleared his throat and said loudly, “Say, I smell pork chops. Does anyone else smell pork chops?”

Gerard sat forward. “We believe we have located one of these Beloved. What I propose is that we arrange to set a trap for him—”

“For ‘it’,” Dominique corrected. “These Beloved are shells of flesh, nothing more. The soul has managed to escape, or so I devoutly hope and pray.”

“It, then,” Gerard said grimly, remembering that “it” had been a friend. “We will set a trap for it. We must try to take Cam unawares, question him—it.”

Jenna was skeptical. “We can try to interrogate the Beloved, but I don’t think we’ll find out anything worthwhile. As the paladin says, the soul has departed. This is nothing more than a mindless slave of Chemosh. If left alive, it will commit more heinous crimes in the name of the Lord of Undeath. I think we should destroy it.”

“I agree,” said Dominique firmly. “Though from what Brother Rhys has told us, destroying it may not be easy.”

Rhys looked from one to the other in astonishment that warmed to a feeling of overwhelming relief. They believed him. He had been fighting this terrible battle with only two friends—a dog and a kender—to aid him. Now he had allies, formidable allies. Now he could share at least part of this unbearably heavy burden.

When Gerard asked for Rhys’s opinion, Rhys could not immediately answer. At last he said, his voice husky, “I am afraid I agree with them, Sheriff. I know that this Cam is known to you, but the paladin of Kiri-Jolith is right. This being is not the young man you knew. It is a mindless, soulless monster that will kill again if not stopped.”

“That’s all very easy for you three to say, but I can’t be going about murdering the citizens of Solace!” Gerard exclaimed wrathfully. “The townsfolk would be up in arms if I let a wizard roast poor Cam to cinders or a paladin stick a holy sword through him! People won’t see him as a monster. They’ll see Cam—the kid who won the sack race at the fair last year! Damn it, I need to be able to talk to him. I need proof he is one of the Beloved. I would think you two would want proof, as well. I mean, we all trust Brother Rhys, but—”

Mistress Jenna raised her hand.

“I understand, Sheriff,” she said mildly. “If you need us to capture this thing alive, we will do our best to capture it.”

She exchanged glances with Dominique, as much to say they must humor the poor man, then she continued smoothly, “What is your plan for this trap, Sheriff?”

“I was thinking of detaining him on his way home from work, then take him to my office where we could all have a talk.”

“That is far too dangerous, Sheriff,” protested Dominique. “Not only for yourself, but for innocent bystanders. We have no idea what havoc this thing could wreak if it felt cornered.”

Gerard sighed and ran his hand through his yellow hair, causing it to resemble a stand of corn after a high wind. “Well, what do you suggest, sir?” he asked glumly.

“I have an idea,” said Rhys. “The Beloved arranged to meet this girl at a place known locally as ‘Flint’s Lookout.’ This is located outside of Solace, just off the main road leading into town. It’s the highest point for miles around with a good view of the city. We could wait for the Beloved there. Few people travel the road after nightfall. It’s isolated and a safe distance from town.”

Mistress Jenna was nodding her head.

“A good plan,” said Dominique.

Gerard glanced around at them. “I want to make one thing clear. You give me a chance to talk to Cam first, alone. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Mistress Jenna, rather too readily, or so Rhys thought. “I, for one, would be interested to hear what one of these creatures has to say.”

Gerard grunted. Though bringing these two to Solace had been his idea, he was clearly not happy with any of this. They arranged a meeting time, then Mistress Jenna, rising, politely indicated it was time to leave.

“I have spells to study,” she said, adding, with an apologetic glance at Gerard, “Just in case.”

“And I have evening prayers at the temple,” said Dominique.

“And I have pork chops in the kitchen!” cried Nightshade happily.

The kender was the first out the door and down the stairs. Atta, after a glance at Rhys, received permission to accompany him. The paladin followed, and Mistress Jenna closed and locked her door, leaving Gerard and Rhys alone together.

“I really hate this!” Gerard muttered. “I know—I brought these two here to help stop these Beloved, but I didn’t know it would be Cam! I’ve watched that kid grow up. When I was posted here before the War of Souls, Cam was always hanging around the barracks. All he could talk about was wanting to be a knight. I taught him how to use a sword. They can say all they want about this monster not being him, but it has his smile, his laugh—”

Gerard stopped his ranting. He looked at Rhys, gave a rueful sigh, and ran his hand through his hair again.

“You are in a difficult position, Sheriff,” Rhys said quietly. “I will do what I can to help you.”

“Thanks, Brother,” Gerard said gratefully. “You know, sometimes I wish I’d been born a kender. No worries. No cares. No responsibilities. Nothing but pork chops. See you tonight, Brother. I’d ask you to say a prayer, but we’re up to our eyeballs in gods as it is.”

He ran down the stairs, hastening off on his own business. Rhys followed more slowly. He thought regretfully of that feeling of relief he’d experienced.

It hadn’t lasted long.

7

Flint’s Lookout was located atop a hill overlooking Solace. Gerard and his team assembled near the boulder where, according to local legend, the famed Hero of the Lance, Flint Fireforge, had stopped to rest on the momentous night when a Plains woman and a blue crystal staff had brought word of the return of the true gods, and the War of the Lance had begun.

The view was spectacular. Smoke from cook fires drifted lazily into the air. The sun’s dying rays glinted orange off Crystalmir Lake and sparkled in the diamond-paned windows of the Inn of the Last Home, one of the few buildings visible through the thick foliage of the vallenwood trees.

“It is lovely,” said Mistress Jenna, looking about. “So peaceful and quiet. The past seems very close here. One could almost expect the old dwarf to come walking over the hillside, along with his friend the kender. They would have more right to be here than we do.”

“We have problems enough with undead without you conjuring up more ghosts, Mistress,” said Gerard. He meant it as a jest, but in the tense atmosphere, it fell flat. No one laughed. “We better take our places before night falls.”

They left the road and the old dwarf’s boulder and entered the outskirts of the forest that blanketed the hillside. They walked among firs and oaks, maples and walnuts, coming to a halt when Gerard deemed they couldn’t be seen from the road, yet the road was still in sight.

“We have some time before Cam is due to come,” Gerard said.

He had made the walk in grim and somber silence, punctuated occasionally by soft, inward sighs. Rhys’s heart ached for his friend, but he knew only too well there was nothing he could say that would bring any comfort.

“I brought a blanket to keep off the damp.” Gerard unrolled a blanket and spread it on a bed of dead pine needles. “We might as well be comfortable while we wait.”

He gestured to the blanket with bluff gallantry. “Mistress Jenna, please be seated.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Jenna replied with a smile. “But I am not as limber as I was in my twenties. If I sat down on that blanket, it would take three gully dwarves and a gnomish infernal device to hoist me onto my feet again. If no one has any objections, I will commandeer this tree trunk.”

Seating herself on the stump of an oak tree, Jenna smoothed out the skirts of her robe and carefully placed a lantern she had brought with her on the ground at her feet. The lantern was small and delicate, made of hand-blown glass set in silver wrought in intricate filigree. Inside, a red candle burned with a blue-white flame.

“I see you admire my lantern, Brother,” said Jenna, noting Rhys regarding the lantern with frank curiosity. “You have an eye for beauty. And for value. The lantern is very old. It dates back to the time of the Kingpriests.”

“It is lovely,” Rhys agreed. “More lovely than useful, it would seem. It gives only a feeble light.”

“It is not meant to illuminate the darkness, Brother.” Jenna chuckled. “It shields the flame that I use for my magic. The lantern itself is magical, you see. Even this small bit of candle, once placed inside the lantern, will burn for hours on end. The flame cannot be blown out or doused, not even if I was caught in a cyclone or had fallen into the sea. You can take a closer look, Brother. Pick it up, if you want. It won’t bite.”

Rhys squatted down. Despite what she said, he did not presume to try to touch it. “A relic dating back to the Third Age must be of immense value.”

“If I sold it, I could probably buy half of Solace with the proceeds,” stated Jenna.

Rhys looked up at her. “Yet you risk such a valuable artifact here this night.”

Jenna regarded him intently. He noted how the fine lines around her eyes had a way of intensifying her gaze, concentrating it, like sunlight shining through a prism.

“Either you do not understand the serious nature of this threat, Brother, or you imagine that I do not,” she said briskly. “I am not here as Jenna, a long-time friend of Palin Majere. I am here in my capacity as Head of the Conclave of Wizards. I will be making a full report to the Conclave immediately upon my return, for we must determine the best way to deal with this crisis. The same is true of our holy paladin. He will be making reports to the priests and clerics of all the gods of Light, as well as the assembled Council of the Knights of Solamnia. This is not a kender outing for us, Brother. Dominique and I have come armed for battle. We carry with us the best weapons we have at our disposal.”

“I am sorry, Mistress,” Rhys said quietly. “I meant no disrespect.”

He should be grateful. This was what he’d wanted, yet now he was filled with unease. On one hand, he was thankful that at last the world would know of this threat. On the other, fear could lead to inquisitions, torture, persecutions of the innocent. The cure might be far worse than the disease.

“For good or ill, the matter is out of your hands now, Brother,” said Mistress Jenna, guessing his thoughts. “Oh, no you don’t, sir!”

She plucked away a small hand, belonging to Nightshade, as it was reaching for the lantern. “Look over yonder. I believe I see a poltergeist wandering about the base of that oak tree.”

“A poltergeist?” Nightshade said eagerly. “Where?”

“Over there.” Jenna pointed. “No, more to the left.”

Nightshade hastened off in pursuit, Atta following along dubiously at his heels.

Jenna turned back to Rhys. “You must promise to keep that kender as far from me as humanly possible. By the way, can he really talk to dead people?”

“Yes, Mistress. I have seen him myself.”

“Remarkable. You must bring him to Palanthas some time for a visit. There are several dead people I would like to contact. One of them had in his possession a spellbook reputed to have been written by my father, Justarius. I tried to buy it from him, but the old fool said he’d take it to his grave before he sold it to me. Apparently he did, because I searched his house after his death and could not find it.”

Jenna glanced into the sky. “Lunitari will be full this night. Excellent for spellcasting.” She fixed her prism-eyes upon Rhys. Her expression was serious, her tone grave. “The paladin and I will handle the Beloved, Brother. You watch over our friend the Sheriff.”

She glanced at Gerard as she spoke. “He must not be allowed to interfere with our work. If he does, I won’t be responsible for the consequences. Now leave me, Brother. I want to go over my spells one final time.”

She closed her eyes and clasped her hands in her lap.

“No sign of a poltergeist,” said Nightshade, returning, disappointed.

Rhys steered the kender away from both Mistress Jenna and Dominique, not that the paladin would have noticed a hundred kender. Dominique was with them in body, not in spirit. Accoutered in full plate armor, and steel helm, he wore the tabard marked by the symbol of Kiri-Jolith. He knelt on the ground, his sword before him. His eyes shone with holy fervor as he murmured the words of a prayer, asking his god for strength in the hour of trial about to come.

The chill evening wind blew down from the mountains, picking up dry leaves and sending them rustling and skittering along the deserted road. That same chill wind blew through the emptiness of Rhys’s soul as he watched the knight pray.

“There was a time when I knew faith like that,” he said to himself softly.

A follower of Zeboim, he should be calling upon his goddess for help in his own hour of trial. He did not think the lady would much approve of his companions, however, so he did not bother her. His task, as he saw it, was to make certain everyone came out of this relatively unscathed, including—for Gerard’s sake—the wretched thing that had once been a fun-loving, good-hearted young man.

Gerard prowled restlessly beneath the trees, keeping watch down the road. He remained some distance from the rest of the group, making it clear he did not want company. Rhys looked back to see Nightshade creeping up again to stare at the lantern, and he hurriedly suggested that he and Atta and the kender play a game of “Rock, Cloth, Knife.”

Nightshade had recently taught Atta how to play this game that required each player to choose in three turns whether he was “rock” (closed fist), “cloth” (open fist) or “knife” (two fingers). The winner was determined by the following: Rock crushed knife. Cloth covered rock. Knife cut cloth.

Atta would place her paw on the kender’s knee and Nightshade would interpret this action to be whatever he thought she meant, so that by turns Atta might be “cloth” which covered the rock or “knife” which cut cloth.

“Everyone’s so serious,” Nightshade remarked. “Atta has knife, Rhys. You have cloth, so you lose. I have rock, Atta. You lose, too. I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll win next time.” He gave the dog a pat to soothe her wounded feelings. “I’ve seen livelier gatherings in graveyards. Do you really believe they’re going to be able to kill it?”

“Hush, keep your voice down,” Rhys cautioned, with a glance at Gerard. “We’ve both fought the Beloved before. What do you think of their chances?”

Nightshade pondered. “I know the wizardess doesn’t put much store in my spellcasting, and that holy warrior looked sideways at your staff. If you want my opinion, I don’t think they’re going to do much better. Atta! You won! Dishcloth beats both of us!”

The sun had set. The sky was lit with pale yellow that melted into shimmering blue, deepening to starlit black over the mountains. The red moon glimmered orange in the afterglow. The small flame from Jenna’s lantern seemed far brighter now that darkness surrounded them.

Jenna sat quite still, her eyes closed, her hands making elaborate motions as she rehearsed her spellcasting. Dominique had finished his prayer. He rose stiffly from his kneeling position and reverently sheathed his sword.

The night’s stillness was broken by Gerard.

“Cam’s on his way up here! Nightshade! I need you! Come with me. No, the dog stays here.”

Nightshade jumped to his feet and went off with Gerard. Rhys stood up. A word and touch upon her head kept Atta at his side.

Her expression calm, concentrated, Mistress Jenna moved from beneath the tree branches into a patch of red moonlight. She lifted her face to the moon and smiled, as though basking in its blessed rays. Dominique walked over near her and whispered something. Jenna nodded silently in agreement. Reaching into one of her pouches, she drew out an object and clasped it in her hand. Dominique walked off to take up a position some distance from her, yet keeping her within sight.

The two had secretly formed their own strategy, Rhys realized, one they had probably not bothered to discuss with Gerard.

Rhys clasped his emmide tightly.

Gerard and Nightshade stood together by the boulder.

“There he is,” said Gerard, and he put his hand on Nightshade’s shoulder.

A young man was walking energetically up the hill. There was no mistaking him, for he carried a torch to light his way and the firelight shone brightly on his red hair.

“Take a good look at him, Nightshade,” said Gerard. “A good look inside him.”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” said Nightshade. “I know what you want me to see, but I don’t. There’s nothing inside him. Not anymore.”

Gerard’s shoulders slumped. “All right. Go back and stay with Rhys.”

“I can help you talk to him,” Nightshade offered, feeling sorry for his friend. “I’m good at talking to dead people.”

“Just... go back,” Gerard ordered. A nerve in his jaw twitched.

Nightshade ran off.

“Cam is on his way,” he reported, adding sadly, “They don’t come much deader.”

Jenna and Dominique exchanged glances.

“Nightshade,” Rhys said, leaning down to whisper into the kender’s ear, “I’m going to join Gerard.”

“I’ll come with you—”

“No,” said Rhys. His gaze went to Jenna and the paladin. “I think you should stay here.”

Dominique placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, partially drawing it from its scabbard. The weapon began to shine with an eerie white light.

“You’re right. I still have blisters on my fingers.” Nightshade peered into the tree branches. “I’ll have a great view of the action from up there, and I can still cast my spells, if you need me. Give me a boost, will you?”

Rhys hoisted the kender into the lower branches of the walnut tree. Nightshade scrambled from limb to limb and was soon lost to sight.

Rhys walked softly, moving without sound through the shadows. Atta padded along beside him, her white patches of fur taking on a pinkish color in the red moonlight. Neither Jenna nor Dominique paid any attention to him.

“Here, Brother, take the torch,” said Gerard, handing Rhys the flaring light. “Now, back off.”

“I think I should stay with you,” said Rhys.

“I said back off, Monk!” Gerard flared. “He’s my friend. I’ll handle this.”

Rhys had serious misgivings, but he did as he was ordered, walking back to stand in the shadows.

“Who’s there?” Cam called, holding up his torch. “Sheriff? Is that you?”

“It’s me, Cam,” said Gerard.

“What in the Abyss are you doing here?” Cam demanded.

“Waiting for you.”

“Why? I’m off-duty now. I’m free to do what I please,” Cam returned, irritated. “If you must know, I’m meeting someone here, a young lady. So I’ll just bid you a good-night, Sheriff-—”

“Jenny’s not coming, Cam,” said Gerard quietly. “I told her father and mother about you.”

“Told them what?” Cam challenged.

“That you took an oath to Chemosh, the Lord of Death.”

“What if I did?” Cam demanded. “Solace is a free city, or so that old fart of a Mayor keeps saying. I can worship any god I choose—”

“Unbutton your shirt for me, son,” said Gerard.

“My shirt?” Cam laughed. “What’s my shirt go to do with anything?”

“Humor me,” said Gerard.

“Humor yourself,” said Cam rudely. Turning, the young man started to walk away.

Gerard reached out, seized hold of Cam’s shirt and gave it a sharp yank.

Cam whipped around, his freckled face contorted in fury, his fists clenched. His shirt placket gaped open.

“What’s that?” Gerard asked, pointing.

Cam glanced down at a burn mark on his left breast. He smiled, then touched it reverently with his fingers. He looked back at Gerard.

“Mina’s kiss,” Cam said softly.

Gerard started. “Mina! How do you know Mina?”

“I don’t, but I see her face all the time. That’s what we call the mark of her love for us. Mina’s Kiss.”

“Cam,” said Gerard, his expression grave. “Son, you’re in a lot of trouble, more trouble than you can ever imagine. I want to help—”

“No, you don’t.” Cam snarled. “You want to stop me.”

Rhys had heard those words before, or something very like them.

He was going to try to stop me.... Lleu’s words, spoken as his brother stood over the corpse of the Master. Then there was poor Lucy’s husband, hacked to bits. Maybe he had wanted to stop her.

“Now listen to me, Cam—”

“Gerard!” Rhys cried. “Look out!”

His warning came to late. Cam lunged, hands reaching for Gerard’s throat.

The attack caught Gerard completely off-guard. He fumbled for his sword, but he did not have time to draw it before the hands of the young man closed with bone-crushing strength around his neck.

Calling upon Kiri-Jolith, Dominique ran to the sheriff’s rescue. His sword flared with holy zeal. Rhys was running, too, but the Beloved possessed a grip that was as strong as death and as unrelenting. Gerard would be dead, his windpipe crushed, before either Dominique or Rhys could reach him.

A small black and white furry body dashed past Rhys. Atta launched herself into the air and flung herself at the grappling men. She crashed into them bodily, knocking both Cam and Gerard to the ground, jarring loose Cam’s hold on his victim.

Gerard rolled over on his back, gasping for air.

Cam fought with the dog, who was attacking him viciously, her snapping teeth going for his jugular.

“Monk, call off your dog!” Dominique cried.

“Atta!” Rhys yelled. “To me!”

The dog was in a red rage, intent on the kill. The blood of the wolf that had been her distant ancestor pounded in her ears, drowning out her master’s command.

Cam seized hold of Atta by the scruff of her neck, wrenched her off him. He twisted her neck, then flung her limp body away.

Rhys couldn’t leave Gerard, who was gasping for breath. Rhys looked back in agony at Atta. He could not see her very well, for she lay outside the light of his torch. She didn’t appear to be moving.

There was a rustle of leaves and a crashing sound, and Nightshade tumbled down from his perch amidst the branches.

“She’s hurt pretty bad, but I’ll take care of her, Rhys!” the kender called with a catch in his voice.

He took Atta into his arms, and with tears running down his cheeks, began to croon to her softly, rocking her back and forth.

Rhys wrenched his gaze from his dog to the confrontation between Dominique and the Beloved. Cam had managed to regain his feet with amazing speed. His throat was slashed half-open, but only a small amount of blood oozed from the wounds.

He grinned at the paladin.

“What are you supposed to be? Huma’s ghost?”

Dominique brought forth a holy medallion he wore around his neck. He held it up in front of Cam.

“In the name of Kiri-Jolith, I call upon you to return to the Abyss from whence you came!”

“I don’t come from the Abyss,” said Cam. “I come from Solace, and get that thing out of my face!”

He knocked aside Dominique’s hand, sending the holy medallion flying out of the paladin’s grasp.

Coolly and calmly, Dominique plunged his sword in Cam’s breastbone.

Cam gave a strangled cry. He stared in disbelief at the sword that was buried in his chest up to the hilt.

Dominique yanked out the blood-smeared blade. Cam’s legs buckled. He fell to his knees, then toppled forward and lay unmoving.

“Blessed be Kiri-Jolith,” Dominique said reverently, and started to sheathe his sword.

Cam lifted his head.

“Hey, there, Huma. You missed!”

Dominique staggered backward, nearly dropping his blade in astonishment. Recovering himself, he leaped at the Beloved and brought down his sword in a slashing arc of white fire. The blow severed Cam’s head from his neck.

The body lay twitching on the ground. The head rolled a short distance away, ended up facing Gerard.

The Sheriff had managed to regain his breath.

“Cam, I’m sorry—” Gerard began then gasped in horror.

One of the eyes in the severed head winked at him.

The mouth opened and laughed. The headless body rose up on its hands and knees and began to crawl toward the severed head.

Gerard made a gargling sound. “Oh, gods!” he gasped, his throat raw. “Kill it! Kill it!”

Dominique stared at the grotesque corpse wriggling on the ground. He lifted his sword to strike it again.

“Get out of my way!” Jenna cried. “All of you!”

Rhys took hold of Gerard. Dominique joined him, and between them, they half-carried, half-dragged the sheriff deeper into the forest.

Jenna held a glittering orange gemstone in one hand and the burning red candle in the other. She began to chant the words of magic.

108

As Rhys watched, mesmerized, the candle flame grew larger and larger and brighter and brighter, until it blazed with such fierce intensity that the light made his eyes water.

By the brilliant light, he saw a grotesque sight. The arms of the corpse lifted up the severed head and affixed it back on the neck. Head and body melded together into one. Cam, looking much the same as always, except for a blood-spattered shirt, started walking toward them.

Jenna gave a cry and pointed at the Beloved.

A globe of light leaped from the candle, blazed through the darkness, and smote the Beloved.

Cam cried out and shut his eyes against the glare. He fell once again to his knees and remained crouched there, one hand covering his eyes, the other stretched out as though trying to fend off the spell.

He remained in that attitude, unmoving, his eyes shut against the glare until Jenna gave a gasp and sank, exhausted, to her knees. The bright light vanished, as though an immense breath had blown it out, leaving them in darkness so deep that Rhys was effectively blinded.

From out of the darkness came Cam’s voice.

“I guess I’ll be going now, Sheriff, unless you’ve brought along someone else who wants to try to kill me. . . .”

8

Gerard shook off Rhys’s attempts to restrain him and staggered to his feet.

“I may not be able to destroy you—or what’s left of you,” Gerard gasped, barely able to talk. “But I’ll set a watch on you day and night. You won’t hurt anyone else, at least not in Solace.”

Cam shrugged. “Like I said, I’m leaving anyway. Nothing for me around here anymore.”

His gaze swept the assembled group. “You have witnessed the power of Chemosh. Take this message back to your wizards and your holy paladins: I can be destroyed, but the cost of my destruction will be so great that none of you will have the stomach to pay it.”

Cam gave a grin and a cheerful wave, then turned and left them. He did not take the road back into town but headed east.

“Do something, Paladin!” Gerard cried angrily. “Say a prayer! Throw holy water on it. Do something!”

“I have done all I can, sir,” Dominique replied. “Hand me the torch.”

He held the torch over the area where trampled and bloody grass marked the fight with the Beloved, and began searching. Finding what he sought, he picked up the holy medallion the Beloved had knocked from his grasp.

Dominique regarded it thoughtfully, then shook his head. “I can feel my god’s rage. I can also feel his impotence.”

Rhys knelt beside Jenna, who was crouched on her knees, staring in disbelief at the place where the Beloved had been standing.

“Are you all right, Mistress?” Rhys asked in concern.

“That spell should have reduced it to ashes,” said Jenna, sounding dazed. “Instead ...”

She held out her hand. A fine sifting of ash, which had once been the orange gemstone, drifted through her fingers and fell to the ground next to a puddle of red wax—all that was left of her candle. A thin trail of smoke spiraled up from the blackened remnants of the wick.

“You’ve burned your palm,” said Rhys.

“It is nothing,” Jenna returned, sliding her sleeve hurriedly over her hand. “Give me your aid, Brother. Help me up. Thank you. I am fine. Go see to your poor dog.”

Rhys needed no urging. He hastened over to where Nightshade sat beneath the tree, holding fast to Atta. The dog was very still. Her eyes were closed.

Tears trickled down Nightshade’s cheeks.

His heart constricting in pain, Rhys knelt down. He reached out his hand to stroke her.

Atta stirred in the kender’s arms, lifted her head and opened her eyes. Her tail wagged feebly.

“I brought her back, Rhys!” said Nightshade in a tear-choked voice. “She wasn’t breathing, and she’d been so brave, and she tried her best to kill that thing, and I couldn’t bear to think of losing her!”

He had to stop a moment to swallow some tears. Rhys’s own tears were sliding down his face.

“I thought of all this, and how she and I shared a pork chop tonight, except that I didn’t really mean to share. I dropped it and she’s quick, when it comes to pork chops. Anyway, all this was in my heart and I said that little spell my parents taught me—the one I used to make you feel better that time we fought your brother. Everything that was in my heart just sort of overflowed and spilled out onto Atta. She gave a snuffle and then a snort. Then she opened her mouth and yawned, and then she licked my face. I think I must have some pork chop grease left on my chin.”

Rhys’s own heart was so full that he could not speak. He tried, but no words would come.

“I’m so glad she’s not dead,” continued Nightshade, hugging Atta, who was scrubbing his face. “Who would keep me out of trouble?”

Atta wriggled out of Nightshade’s arms. Shaking herself all over, she sat down on Rhys’s foot, looking up at him and wagging her tail wildly. The kender stood and brushed himself off, then wiped away tears and dog slobber. He looked up to find Mistress Jenna standing in front of him, regarding him with wonder.

She held out her hand—first removing all her rings.

“I apologize, Nightshade, for casting aspersions on you earlier,” Jenna said gravely. “I want to shake your hand. You are the only one whose spell worked this night.”

“Thank you, Mistress Jenna, and don’t worry about those aspersions you cast,” Nightshade assured her. “None of them hit me. I was up in the tree. As for your spell, it was a doozy! I still see blue spots dancing around in my eyes.”

“Blue spots. That was all it was good for,” Jenna said ruefully. “I’ve used that spell against undead more times than I can count. It has never before failed me.”

“At least the Beloved admits that it can be destroyed,” Rhys said in thoughtful tones.

“Yeah,” Gerard muttered. “At a cost so great none of us will be able to stomach it.”

“Of course there is a way to destroy it. Chemosh may promise unending life, but not even he can grant immortality,” Dominique stated.

“Why tell us then?” Jenna asked, frustrated. “Why not keep us in the dark?”

“The god hopes to frighten us from pursuing the matter,” Dominique surmised.

“He’s taunting us,” said Gerard, wincing as he massaged his sore neck. “Like a murderer who deliberately leaves a clue near the body.”

Mistress Jenna did not appear satisfied with these answers. “What do you think, Brother?”

“The god knows that his secret has been revealed. From now on, every wizard and cleric in Ansalon will be looking for these Beloved. Word will spread. Panic will set in. Neighbor will accuse neighbor. Parents will turn on their children. The only way to prove a person is innocent will be to kill him. If he stays dead, he is not one of the Beloved. The cost of destroying these creatures will be high indeed.”

“And Chemosh gains more souls,” Nightshade added. “That’s pretty smart.”

“I think you underestimate us, Brother,” said Dominique, frowning. “We will see to it that no innocents suffer.”

“Like your god’s clerics did in the days of the Kingpriest?” said Mistress Jenna sharply. “I daresay we wizards will be among the first to be accused! We always are.”

“Mistress Jenna,” said Dominique stiffly, “I assure you that we will be working in close contact with our brethren in the Towers.”

Jenna eyed him, then sighed. “Never mind me. I’m just tired, and I have a long night ahead of me.” She began sliding her rings back on her fingers. “I must return to the Conclave to make my report. It was good meeting you, Rhys Mason, former monk of Majere.”

She laid emphasis on that word. Her eyes, shining in Lunitari’s red light, seemed to challenge him.

Rhys did not take up her challenge. He did not ask her what she meant. He feared her mocking reply. At least, that’s what he told himself.

“You, too, Nightshade. May your pouches always be full and jail cells always be empty. Dominique, my friend, I am sorry I spoke with such ill will. We will be in contact. Sheriff Gerard, thank you for bringing this terrible matter to my attention. Finally, farewell to you, Lady Atta.” Jenna reached down to pat the dog, who cringed under her touch but allowed herself to be petted.

“Take good care of your lost master and see to it that he finds his way home. And now, friends and acquaintances, I bid you goodnight!”

Jenna placed her right hand over a ring on her left thumb, spoke a single word, and vanished from their sight.

“Whew!” Nightshade breathed. “I remember when we did that. Do you, Rhys? That time Zeboim magicked us off to the death knight’s castle—”

Rhys rested his hand on the kender’s shoulder.

Nightshade, taking the hint, fell silent.

Dominique had been listening. He regarded Rhys gravely, not liking the reminder that Rhys followed an evil goddess. He seemed about to say something when Gerard interrupted.

“A fine night’s work,” Gerard said grimly. “All we have to show for it is crushed grass, a few gouts of blood, and melted candle wax.” He sighed. “I’ll have to report all this to the mayor. I’d appreciate it, Sir Dominique, if you’d come with me. Palin’s bound to believe you, if he won’t me.”

“I will be glad to accompany you, Sheriff,” said the paladin.

“I don’t know what he’ll do, of course,” Gerard added, as they started off down the hill, “but I’m going to suggest we call a town meeting tomorrow to warn people.”

“An excellent idea. You can hold your meeting in our temple. We will end by praying for strength and guidance. We will send out messengers to all our clerics, as well as those of Mishakal and Majere—

“Speaking of Majere . ..” Gerard halted. “Where’s Brother Rhys?” He turned around to see Rhys, Nightshade and Atta still standing beneath the trees. “Aren’t you coming back to Solace with us, Brother?”

“I believe I will remain here for a while,” Rhys replied. “Give Atta a chance to rest.”

“I’m staying with him,” Nightshade added, though no one had asked.

“Suit yourself. See you in the morning, Brother,” said Gerard. “Thanks for your help tonight, and thanks to Atta for saving my life. She’ll find a big beef bone in her dog dish tomorrow.”

He and Dominique continued their walk and their planning and were soon lost to Rhys’s sight.

The night had grown very dark. The lights of Solace had gone out. The town had disappeared, swallowed up in sleep. Lunitari appeared to have lost interest in them now that Jenna was gone. The red moon draped herself in a bank of storm clouds and refused to return. A few drops of rain spattered. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

“We’re not going back to Solace, are we?” Nightshade heaved a sigh.

“Do you think we should?” Rhys asked quietly.

“Tomorrow’s chicken dumpling day,” Nightshade said in wistful tones. “And Atta was going to get a beef bone. But I guess you’re right. The important people have taken over. We’d only be in the way. Besides,” he added, cheering up, “there’s bound to be chicken dumplings wherever we end up. Where are we going?”

“East,” said Rhys. “After the Beloved.”

Monk, dog, and kender set off down the long road just as the storm broke and rain started to fall.

9

Nuitari arrived late to the Wizards Conclave that had been hastily convened in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. He found his two cousins, Solinari and Lunitari, already there. The expressions on the faces of the gods were grim, reflecting the grim expressions of the faces of their wizards. Whatever topic was under discussion did not bode well for the Robed mages of Ansalon, apparently.

Nuitari had only to hear the words, “Beloved of Chemosh” to know the reason why. His cousins glanced at him as he entered but said nothing, not wanting to miss any of Jenna’s report to her fellows.

This meeting of the wizards that formed the Conclave was not a formal meeting. Formal meetings of the Conclave, held at regularly scheduled intervals, were planned months in advance. They were lavish affairs, conducted by proscribed ritual and ceremony in the Tower’s Hall of Mages. This emergency meeting was hastily convened with no time to waste on formal rituals, and it was being held in the Tower’s library, where the wizards had ready access to reference books and scrolls dating back to ancient times. The wizards gathered around a large wooden table; Black Robes sat next to White Robes who sat next to Red Robes.

An emergency summons from the Head of the Conclave is generally considered a life-or-death matter, requiring every member of the Conclave to drop whatever he or she is doing and immediately travel the corridors of magic to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The penalties for not attending are severe and may result in the wizard being expelled from the Conclave.

An ancient spell, known only to the Head of the Conclave, permitted the mage to issue such an emergency summons. On her return to her home in Palanthas, Jenna had removed a rosewood box from its hiding place within the folds of time. Inside the box was a silver stylus. She dipped it in goat’s blood and then wrote the words of the summons upon lamb’s skin. She passed her hand over the words left to right, and then right to left, and back again, seven times. The words vanished. The lamb’s skin shriveled up and disappeared.

Within instants, the summons would appear to each member of the Conclave as letters of blood and fire. A White Robe, slumbering in her bed, was awakened by the bright light of fiery tracings blazing across the ceiling of her bedchamber. A Black Robe saw the words materialize on the wall of his laboratory. He left immediately, if reluctantly, for he had just finished summoning a fiend from the Abyss, who was undoubtedly smashing up the furniture in his absence. A Red Robe had been battling goblins when he saw the words emblazoned on the forehead of his foe. The Red Robe arrived bruised and out of breath, his hands covered in goblin blood. He’d been forced to leave behind a group of goblin-hunters, who were now looking about in baffled astonishment, wondering what had become of their magic-user.

“There goes my share of the bounty,” he muttered as he took his seat.

“Wait until my husband wakes up to find me missing,” said the White Robe at his side. “I’ll have some explaining to do when I go back home.”

“You think you have problems,” said the Black Robe, who sighed as he thought of the mess the demon was making in his laboratory. Provided he still had a laboratory.

All personal inconveniences were forgotten, however, as the wizards listened in shock to Jenna’s tale. She started at the beginning, telling Rhys’s story as he had told it to her. She ended with the ill-fated attack on the Beloved.

“The spell I cast was ‘Sunburst,’ ” she told them. “I assume all of you are familiar with it?”

There was a general nodding of hooded heads.

“As you know, this spell is particularly effective against undead. It should have fried that walking corpse to a crisp. It had no effect on it whatsoever. The Beloved laughed at me.”

“Since it is you, Jenna, who cast the spell, I must assume that there is no possibility that you made a mistake. That you mispronounced a word or used an impure spell component.”

The speaker was Dalamar the Dark, Head of the Order of Black Robes. Although an elf and one who was relatively young by elven standards, Dalamar appeared older than the eldest human at the table. His black hair was streaked with white. His eyes were set deep within hollow eye sockets. His fine-boned face seemed carved of ivory. Though he seemed frail, he was at the height of his power and well respected among all the Orders.

He should have been head of the Conclave but for a few regrettable mistakes in his past that had led both gods and wizards to oppose him and promote Jenna in his place. The two had been lovers many years ago and were still friends when they weren’t rivals.

“Since I am the one who cast the spell,” Jenna returned coolly, “I can assure you that there is no possibility that I made a mistake.”

Dalamar appeared skeptical.

Jenna raised her hand to heaven. “As Lunitari is my witness,” she declared. “Let the god send us a sign if I miscast the spell.”

“Jenna made no mistake,” said Lunitari with a frowning glance at Nuitari.

“Dalamar didn’t say she did,” Nuitari returned. “In fact, he said she didn’t.”

“That wasn’t what he meant.”

“Stop it, both of you,” Solinari intervened. “This is a serious matter, perhaps the most serious we have encountered since our return. Calm your ire, Cousin. Dalamar the Dark acted quite properly in asking for reassurance.”

“And he will get it,” said Lunitari.

The library was suddenly suffused with warm red light. Jenna smiled with satisfaction. Dalamar cast a glance toward heaven and inclined his hooded head in deference to the god.

“None of us doubts Mistress Jenna’s abilities, but even she must admit that there has to be some way to destroy these undead,” stated a White Robe. “As the paladin of Kiri-Jolith said, not even Chemosh can make a mortal indestructible.”

“There is always a first time for everything,” returned Dalamar caustically. “One hundred years ago, I would not have said that a god could steal away the world. Yet it happened.”

“Perhaps a sorcerer’s spell could destroy it,” suggested Coryn the White, the newest member of the Conclave. Although young, she was highly talented and reputed to be a great favorite of the god, Solinari.

Her fellow wizards, even those wearing the White Robes, regarded her with disapproval.

Sorcerers were those who used the wild magic that came from the world itself, not the godly magic from the heavens. Sorcerers had been practicing magic on Krynn during the gods’ absence. Sorcerers were not bound by the laws of High Sorcery but operated independently. In the days prior to the Second Cataclysm, such free agents would have been deemed renegades and hunted down by the members of all three Orders. Many members of this Conclave would have liked to have done that now but did not for several reasons: godly magic had only recently returned to Krynn, the wizards were still finding their way back to the old practices, their numbers were small and they were not yet well organized.

Mistress Jenna, as Head of the Conclave, advocated a policy of “live and let live,” and it was being followed for the most part. This did not mean, however, that wizards had friendly feelings for sorcerers. Quite the contrary.

Coryn the White had been a sorcerer who had only recently given up the wild magic for the more disciplined magic of the gods. She knew how the other mages felt regarding sorcerers, and she took a rather mischievous delight in teasing them. She was not teasing this time, however. She was deadly serious.

“Mistress Coryn has a point,” stated Jenna grudgingly. All the wizards regarded her in astonishment. A few Black Robes scowled and muttered.

“I have several sorcerers who are customers of mine,” Jenna continued. “I will contact them and urge them try their skills against these creatures. I do not hold out much hope that their luck will be any better than ours, however.”

“Hope!” a Red Robe repeated angrily. “Let us hope that these Beloved stomp the sorcerers into the ground! Do you realize what this would mean for us if a sorcerer could kill these heinous creatures and we could not? We would be the laughing stock of Ansalon! I say we keep knowledge of these Beloved to ourselves. Don’t tell the sorcerers.”

“Too late,” said a Black Robe grimly. “Now that the clerics know about it, they will be holding prayer services with the faithful rolling about on the ground in hysterics and priests flinging holy water on anything that moves. They’ll find a way to blame this on wizards. Wait and see if they don’t.”

“And that is the very reason we must establish guidelines for how we deal with the Beloved and make our position known to the public,” said Jenna. “Wizards must be seen to be working with everyone in order to find a solution to this mystery, even if that means joining forces with priests and sorcerers and mystics.”

120

“Thereby admitting that we can’t deal with it ourselves,” said a White Robe sourly. “What do you say, Mistress Coryn?”

“I agree with Mistress Jenna. We should be open and honest about these Beloved. The problems we wizards have faced in the past came about as a result of cloaking ourselves in mystery and secrecy.”

“Oh, I quite agree,” said Dalamar. “I say we throw open the doors of the Tower and invite the rabble to come spend the day. We can do demonstrations, set off fireballs and the like, and serve milk punch and cookies on the lawn.”

“Be sarcastic all you like, my friend,” Jenna returned coolly. “But that won’t make this terrible situation go away. Have you anything constructive to suggest, Master of the Black Robes?”

Dalamar was silent a moment, absently tracing a sigil on top of the table with a delicate fingers.

“What I find most intriguing is the involvement of Mina,” he said at last.

“Mina!” Jenna returned, astonished. “I don’t see why you find her so intriguing. The girl has no mind of her own. She was once a pawn of Takhisis. Now she’s a pawn of Chemosh. She’s merely traded one master for another.”

“I find it intriguing that it is the mark of her lips that is burned into the flesh of these wretched creatures,” said Dalamar.

“Please don’t doodle.” said Jenna, placing her hand over his. “The last time you did that, you burned a hole in the table. As for Mina, she is nothing more than a pretty face Chemosh uses to lure young men to their doom.”

Dalamar rubbed out the sigil with the sleeve of his black robe. “Nevertheless, I believe that she is the key that will unlock the door to this mystery.”

Nuitari was not surprised that his wizard’s thoughts tended in the same direction as his own. The bond between Nuitari and Dalamar was a close one. The two, god and mortal, had endured many trials together. Nuitari planned to eventually establish Dalamar as the Master of the Blood Sea Tower. Not just yet, however. Not until everything was settled with his two cousins.

“I’ll wager you wouldn’t be so interested in Mina if she were an old hag like myself,” said Jenna, giving Dalamar’s hand a teasing slap.

Dalamar took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You will never be an old hag, my dear. And you well know it.”

Jenna, who did know it, smiled at him and returned to business.

“Do you have anything to add, Mistress Coryn?”

“Judging by the clue the Beloved gave you, the way to destroy these things will not be easily discovered by anyone—cleric, wizard, or sorcerer. I would suggest that those apprentices currently studying in the Tower be instructed to search among the old records for some mention of similar beings, particularly in regard to Chemosh.”

“They are already at work,” said Jenna. “I have also contacted the Aesthetics and asked them to research the books in the Great Library. I do not believe that they will have much success, however. So far as I know, nothing like these Beloved have been seen upon Ansalon. Is there anything else? Any other questions?”

Jenna cast a glance around the table. The wizards sat in gloomy silence, shaking their hooded heads.

“Very well, then. Let us move on. The Conclave will now consider the guidelines that wizards will be required to follow if they come upon any of these Beloved. First and foremost, we must find some means of detecting them.”

“And of protecting the innocent, who are bound to be falsely accused,” added a White Robe.

“And of protecting ourselves, who are bound to be falsely accused,” said a Black Robe.

“And so it seems to me . . .” said a Red Robe.

Nuitari turned away. Such discussions would likely go on for hours before consensus was reached.

“My cousins,” he said. “I would speak with you.”

“You have our full attention, Cousin,” said Lunitari, and Solinari, coming to stand by her side, nodded his head.

The three gods had been watching the proceedings from their heavenly plane and, despite the fact that no mortal eye could see them, each took on his or her favorite aspect. Lunitari appeared as a vivacious, red-haired woman wearing red robes trimmed in ermine and gold. Solinari took the form of a young and physically powerful man. His robes were white, trimmed in silver. Nuitari took his usual form, that of a man with a moon-round face, heavy-lidded eyes and full lips. His jet-black robes were plain and unadorned.

Lunitari guessed immediately that something was up.

“You have information about these Beloved, Cousin,” she said, excited. “Chemosh has said something to you.”

Nuitari was scornful. “Chemosh is too busy strutting about being cock of the walk to talk to me. He believes he has done something quite clever. Personally, I am not all that impressed. A way will be found to destroy these shambling corpses, and that will put an end to that.”

“Then what do you want to speak to us about?” Solinari asked.

“I have built a Tower of High Sorcery,” said Nuitari. “My own tower.”

His two cousins stared at him blankly.

“What?” demanded Lunitari, unable to believe she had heard correctly.

“I have built a Tower of High Sorcery,” Nuitari repeated. “Or rather, rebuilt an old Tower—the one that used to stand in Istar. I raised up the ruins and added a few of my own touches. The Tower is located beneath the Blood Sea. Two of my Black Robes now inhabit it. I plan to invite more wizards to move in later.”

“You did this in secret!” Lunitari gasped. “Behind our backs!”

“Yes,” said Nuitari. What else could he say? “I did.”

Lunitari was furious. She lunged at him and there is no telling what she might have done, had not her cousin, Solinari, grabbed hold of her and dragged her back.

“Down through the centuries, since the time of our birth, we three have stood shoulder-to-shoulder, side-by-side,” said Solinari, keeping fast hold of his raging cousin. “We have been united in the cause of the magic and, because of our unity, magic prospered. When your mother betrayed us, we grieved together and joined forces to try to find the world. When we did find it, we acted in concert to restore magic to it. Only to discover that you have betrayed us.”

“Let us ask which of us is the true betrayer,” Nuitari said. “My mother, Takhisis, was deposed for her crime, made mortal, and then ignominiously slain by a mortal’s hand. Your father, Cousin Solinari, was once a god. He is now a beggar who roams Ansalon living off charity.

Nuitari shook his head. “And what of Nuitari? My mother gone. My father, Sargonnas, the rampaging bull, is intent on his minotaur ruling Ansalon! He has driven the elves from their homeland and is now sending out shiploads of minotaur settlers. He cares nothing for me or what I am about. We all know minotaurs think little of wizards, and that includes my father.”

His heavy-lidded eyes shifted to Lunitari. “Whereas your father, Gilean, is now the most powerful god in the heavens. Is it any coincidence that his daughter’s Red Robes run the Conclave?”

“The balance must be maintained!” Lunitari said, still smoldering. “Let me go, Cousin. I’m not going to harm him. Though I would like to snatch his black moon from the sky and shove it up his—”

“Peace, Cousin,” said Solinari soothingly. He turned to Nuitari. “The fact that the Red Robes are quite powerful may well be true, though I’m not saying it is,” he added as an aside with a cool glance at Lunitari. “Still, it doesn’t excuse what you did.”

“No it doesn’t,” Nuitari admitted. “And I want to make amends. I have a proposition. One I think will be agreeable to you both.”

“I’m listening, Cousin,” Solinari said. He seemed more grieved than angry.

Lunitari indicated, with an abrupt nod, that she was also interested to hear what he had to say.

“There are now three Towers of High Sorcery on Ansalon,” said Nuitari. “The Tower of Wayreth, the Tower of Nightlund, and my Tower in the Blood Sea. I suggest that, as it was in the days of the Kingpriest, each of the Robes be given its own Tower. The Red Robes will take control of the Tower of Wayreth. The White Robes will be ceded control of the Tower in Nightlund. My Black Robes will take over the Tower of the Blood Sea.”

The other two gods pondered this suggestion. The Tower of Wayreth was, to all intents and purposes, under the control of the Red Robes, since Jenna was Head of the Conclave and the Tower was the Conclave’s seat of power. The Tower of Nightlund had been closed since Dalamar had been banned from it as punishment. No wizard had been permitted to enter it, precisely for the reason that the gods feared the Tower would become a bone of contention, with both Black Robes and White Robes seeking to lay claim to it.

Nuitari had just provided a solution to the problem. Lunitari reflected on the fact that her cousin’s new Tower stood at the bottom of an ocean. It would not be easily accessible and was therefore not likely to pose much of a threat to her own power base. As for the Tower of Nightlund, it was located in the middle of one of the most deadly places on Krynn. If the White Robes did claim it, they would have to first battle their way to its threshold.

Solinari’s thoughts on the Blood Sea Tower were much the same as those of his cousin. His thoughts on the Nightlund Tower were also similar, except he was intrigued by the possibility of restoring the accursed land that now lay languishing beneath dark shadows. If his White Robes could remove the curse that lay over Nightlund, people could live there once again and prosper. All Ansalon would be in the debt of his White Robes.

“It’s something to consider,” said Lunitari grudgingly.

“I would like to think it over. But I am interested,” said Solinari.

Nuitari glanced around, as though he feared other immortal ears might be listening, then, with a gesture, he drew his cousins close.

“I had to keep this secret,” he said. “Even from you, those whom I most trust.”

Lunitari frowned, but she was clearly curious. “Why?”

“The Solio Febalas—the Hall of Sacrilege.”

“It was destroyed,” said Lunitari flatly.

“So it was,” said Nuitari. “But the sacred artifacts inside it were not. I have them now under lock and key, guarded by a sea dragon of a particularly nasty disposition.”

“The holy artifacts stolen by the Kingpriest,” Solinari said, amazed. “You have them?”

“Perhaps I should say now, since we have reached this agreement between us, we have them.”

“Do any of the other gods know of this?” Lunitari asked.

“Chemosh is the only one and he has kept his mouth shut thus far, though it is only a matter of time before he will spread the word.”

“The other gods would give anything to have those artifacts back!” said Lunitari exultantly. “From now on, we wizards, once reviled, will be a power in the world.”

“Henceforth, no cleric will dare raise his hand against us,” Solinari agreed.

The three fell silent. Nuitari was thinking that this had gone unexpectedly well, when Solinari said quietly, “You know, Cousin, that I can never again trust you in anything.”

“Nothing will ever be the same between us again,” Lunitari lamented sadly.

Nuitari looked from one to the other. His heavy-lidded eyes were hooded, his full lips compressed.

“Face it, Cousins, a new age has dawned. Observe Mishakal. No longer the gentle goddess of healing, she strides through heaven wielding a sword of blue flame. Kiri-Jolith’s priests march to war. Even Majere has left off staring at his navel and involved himself in the world, though I have no idea what he is up to. Trust between us all ceased the moment my mother stole away the world. You are right, Cousin. Nothing will ever be the same. You were fools to think it could.”

As he drew his hood up over his moon-face and left them, Nuitari wondered what they would have said if he had told them he had captured Mina...

10

“Basalt!” Caele accosted the dwarf as he was walking down a hallway. “Is it true the Master has left the Tower?”

“It’s true,” Basalt replied.

“Where has he gone?”

“How should I know?” Basalt demanded testily. “It’s not like he asks my permission.”

The dwarf kept walking, his hob-nailed boots ringing on the stone floor as he kicked at the hem of his robe to keep from stepping on it. Caele hastened after him.

“Perhaps the Master has gone to deal with Chemosh,” the half-elf said hopefully.

“Or perhaps he’s left us to face the Lord of Death on our own,” Basalt returned. He was in a grumpy mood.

Caele blanched. “Do you think he has?”

Basalt would have liked to have said yes, just to rattle the half-elf. He needed Caele’s help, however, so, reluctantly, he shook his head. “It’s something to do with Chemosh, but I don’t know what.”

Caele was not reassured. He fell in alongside Basalt. “Where are you going?”

“Coming to fetch you. Mina is to be granted freedom to walk up and down the hallway for an hour—under our supervision, of course.”

“Under your supervision,” said Caele. He made an about-face. “I have no intention of playing nursemaid to that scheming bitch.”

“Suit yourself,” Basalt said complacently. “When the Master returns, where shall I tell him to find you? In your room? Studying your spells?”

Caele halted. Swearing beneath his breath, he turned around. “On second thought, I’ll come with you. I would feel badly if some terrible fate were to befall you at the hands of that woman.”

“What do you think is likely to befall me?” Basalt demanded, bristling. “There’s not one jot or tittle of magic in her.”

“Apparently the Master does not share your confidence, since he requested both of us be on hand to guard her—”

“Shut up about her, will you,” Basalt growled.

“You are scared of her!” Caele said smugly.

“I am not. It’s just... well, if you must know, I don’t like being around her. There’s something uncanny about that female. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since the moment we mistook her for a fish and caught her in our net. By the black moon, I wish Chemosh would come and take her away, and that would be the end of her.”

“Someone could kill her and toss her body to the sharks,” Caele suggested.

Standing outside the door to Mina’s room, they could hear her inside, pacing.

“We could always tell the Master she tried to escape—”

Basalt snorted. “And how do you plan to murder her? Cast a magic spell on her? That would work, but only if you tell her in advance exactly what you’re going to do and how it’s going to affect her! Otherwise you might as well be dancing the kender randygazoo.”

Caele slid back the sleeve of his robe to reveal a knife strapped to his forearm. “We won’t need to tell her in advance how this would affect her.”

Basalt eyed the knife. The thought was tempting.

“You think Chemosh is mad at us now....”

“Bah! Nuitari will settle his hash.” Caele leaned nearer, spoke softer. “Perhaps this is what the Master intends for us to do! Why else would he tell us to remove her from her prison except to trick her into trying to escape. He even gave us orders on what to do if that should happen. ‘If she tries to flee, kill her.’ That’s what he said.”

Basalt had been cudgeling his brain, trying to figure out why Nuitari had agreed to release Mina from her safe prison. Much as he hated to admit it, Caele made sense.

“We kill her only if she tries to escape,” Basalt stated.

“She will,” Caele predicted. His eyes glinted with bloodlust. Spittle flecked his lips.

“You’re a pig,” said Basalt, and he placed his hand on the door and began to chant the spell that would reverse the wizard lock.

Inside the room, Mina halted her pacing. “The two Black Robes are coming, my lord,” she reported to Chemosh. “I can hear them walking down the corridor. Are you certain Nuitari is gone?”

“I would not be talking to you otherwise, my love. Only Nuitari can maintain such a powerful spell around you. Does he frighten you, Mina?”

“Nuitari does not frighten me, my lord, but he makes my skin crawl, like touching a snake or having a spider drop down my neck.”

“All three cousins are like that. It’s the magic. Some of us warned the gods: ‘Don’t permit your children to wield such power! Keep them subservient to you!’ Takhisis would not listen, however, nor would Paladine or Gilean. It was only later, when their own children turned against them, that they began to heed our wisdom. By then, of course, it was too late. Now I have the ability to humble the cousins, take away their power, pull their fangs.”

“How do you intend to do that, lord?” Mina asked.

Outside her room, she could hear one of the Black Robes fumbling with the door lock.

“Soon the world will see that wizards are helpless, impotent against my Beloved, and what will the world do? Turn from them in disgust! Even now, the wizards frantically search spellbooks and scrolls and artifacts, trying to find some way to stop me. They will fail. Nothing they do will have the slightest effect on the Beloved.”

“What of Nuitari?” Mina led the conversation back to where they had started.

“I beg your pardon for straying off the subject, my dear. Nuitari has gone to attend the meeting of his conclave, at which, I’m assuming, he’s telling his cousins that he’s betrayed them by building a Tower of his own. He won’t be back any time soon, and in a few moments, all chaos is going to break loose around here. Be ready.”

“I am, my lord,” said Mina calmly.

She could hear the dwarf’s sonorous voice chanting.

“You understand what you are to do?” Chemosh asked.

“Yes, my lord.” Mina resumed her pacing, as though nothing was amiss.

“The Hall of Sacrilege is located at the bottom of the Tower. There is a guardian, and the Hall is probably filled with traps, but I will assist you.”

“My lord—” Mina began, then fell silent.

“Speak freely, my love.”

“This is so important to you, my lord. Why do you not come yourself? Is this another test? Do you still doubt my love and my loyalty?”

“No, Mina, I do not,” Chemosh replied. “As you say, recovering these artifacts is vitally important to me. I know of nothing more important. But I cannot enter the Tower. Not anymore. Nuitari has blocked up the rat hole through which I managed to sneak the last time. He has made this Tower his domain. No other god may enter it.”

“Then how will you take control of the Tower, my lord?”

“Many Beloved are here already and more arrive daily. I have placed Krell in command, and he is forming a legion of warriors unlike any ever before seen on Krynn—warriors who can kill yet cannot be killed. You are not to concern yourself with this. Do what I ask of you, then return to me as swiftly as possible. I miss you, Mina.”

The Lord of Death was in Castle Beloved on the shores of the Blood Sea and Mina was in a Tower far below the surface of the waves, yet she felt the touch of his hands, his lips brush against her cheek.

“I miss you, my lord,” said Mina. Hearing the longing in his distant voice, her own heart ached. The door handle rattled. They had only a few more moments together.

“Ah, Mina, when I believed you were lost to me, I could not bear the thought of going on. I began to regret immortality. Remember, steal one artifact, just one from the Solio Febalas. That way I can prove to the other gods I have indeed found the treasure. Then cast upon the door the spell I taught you. After that, Nuitari may rant and rave all he likes, but I will be able to enter his tower.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He was gone.

Mina turned from the god to the two wizards who were by turns clomping and skulking into the room.

The dwarf Basalt, was a hairy black lump. She had never seen his face. He kept his hood pulled down low whenever he was around her, and between that and his scraggly black beard she’d yet to have a good look at him. She could see the half-elf’s face, more was the pity. Caele never wore the filthy cowl that straggled down his back. In truth, the cowl was so coated in grime she doubted the half-elf could peel it off his dirty black robes.

Basalt kept this hood down as usual, but she found Caele staring at her and that made her uneasy.

Before this, the half-elf had never looked at her directly. His gaze sidled about the room until he thought she wasn’t looking at him, and then she felt his eyes on her. The expression in his eyes appalled her. His gaze burned with such malevolence that her hand went instinctively to her hip for a weapon.

He looked at her directly, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a wolfish grin. He kept his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his robes, something else that was odd for him. She glanced back at the dwarf. Basalt seemed ill at ease. He had his hood pulled down lower than usual and he kept peering out from under it, first at her, then at the half-elf then back to her.

They’re going to kill me, Mina realized.

She found herself more annoyed than frightened. This could interfere with her lord’s plans. She would have to strike first, before they could use their magic on her. She had no weapon and no prospects of gaining one—in this prison cell, at least.

“Why are you vermin here?” she asked coldly.

“You’ve been granted an hour’s freedom to stroll the halls, Mistress,” said Basalt gruffly.

He gestured at the open door and then stood to one side, as did the half-elf, to permit her to walk past them.

They were waiting until her back was turned.

She would take on the half-elf first. The dwarf looked less enthusiastic and maybe the sight of his companion writhing on the floor, choking on his own blood, would cause him to have second thoughts.

Mina was almost level with Caele when she saw his hand twitch beneath his sleeve.

He has a knife there. He’s going to use that, not his magic. Of course, he takes pleasure in killing with his hands ...

She tensed, ready to strike, then the Tower shook from bottom to top, knocking her off-balance, so that she lurched into Caele and they both went down onto the floor in a heap.

The compact dwarf was less easy to topple. The shaking of the floor and walls and ceiling sent him staggering, but he maintained his balance.

“What the—” Basalt gasped.

“Nuitari!” A voice yelled, as yet another blow smote the Tower. “Come out of there, do you hear me? Come out and face me!”

“Chemosh!” cried Caele, floundering underneath Mina, who had fallen on top of him.

“No, that’s a woman’s voice!” Basalt said, his face pale and his eyes wide. “Zeboim! She’s found the Tower.” He groaned. “What a time for the Master to be gone!”

“You have to talk to her!” Caele gasped, adding with a snarl and a shove, “Get off me, you clumsy bitch!”

Though Mina was slender, she outweighed the scrawny half-elf, and she was impeding his attempts to try to stand. Her legs tangled with his; her feet tripped him. She jabbed him with an elbow and stuck her knee in his gut.

He was just about to throttle her when another blow smote the Tower and this time even the dwarf went down. They could hear the sound of breaking glass. Wooden beams groaned beneath the strain.

Caele realized somewhat belatedly this would be an ideal time to slay Mina, and he reached up his sleeve for his knife.

It wasn’t there.

He thought at first he’d dropped it, then, looking up, Caele found it.

Mina stood over him, his knife in her hand.

Leaning down, she pressed the point of the blade against his throat.

“If your lips so much as twitch, I’ll slit you from ear to ear,” she said. “The same goes for you, dwarf If you utter a single word of magic, your partner dies.”

Seeing by Basalt’s irresolute expression that perhaps he might be willing to risk such a tragic loss, Mina called out, “My Lord Chemosh, I pray you, look after these two while I go about your business.”

Two stone sarcophagi appeared in the room. On one sarcophagus was a carved figure of Basalt, his eyes closed, his hands folded across his chest. The other sarcophagus bore a similar representation of Caele.

“Get in,” said Mina, speaking to Basalt.

He looked at the sarcophagus and shook his hooded head.

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Caele twitched just then, and she dug the knifepoint in a little deeper. A sliver of red slid down the half-elf’s neck. He held still after that.

“I said, get in,” said Mina.

Seeing the dwarf was not moving, she raised her voice, “My lord—”

Basalt hurriedly climbed inside the sarcophagus. A slab of stone dropped down over the coffin, sealing the dwarf inside.

“You next,” she said to Caele. She shifted the blade from his throat to his ribs and walked him over to the other sarcophagus. When he hesitated, she sliced open enough flesh to persuade him to obey.

He hastily climbed inside, and a stone slab dropped down on him.

“Are they dead, my lord?” Mina asked.

“No,” Chemosh replied, his voice sounding above the roar of the Sea Goddess’s rage. “Not yet. They have air enough to breathe for a short time, ;f they don’t panic and use up all their air screaming.”

The muffled howls that had been emanating from the half-elf’s coffin ceased abruptly.

“Now, be on your way,” he told her.

“What about Zeboim?”

“She won’t bother you. Strangely enough, she’s here to rescue you.”

Another quake rocked the Tower, causing Mina to stagger.

“Nuitari?”

“Family issues are going to occupy a considerable amount of time for the Moon-Faced One. He’s trying to work things out with his cousins. On his return, he will find that he has considerable explaining to do to his sister. For now, the Tower of the Blood Sea is all yours, Mina. You are alone in it.”

“Except for the guardian. I need a weapon, my lord.”

“No, you won’t, Mina,” returned Chemosh. “Only a dragonlance would aid you against this guardian, and unfortunately, I have none of those at my disposal. You have your wits, Mina, and you have my blessing. Use them both.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Mina, and she was alone.

11

Mina found the long, circular staircase that wound around the Tower’s interior and began her descent. The staircase was made of mother-of-pearl and spiraled round and round, reminding her of the interior of a nautilus seashell. She could see here and there cracks in the walls, presumably from the shaking the Tower was enduring at the hands of the outraged goddess, and she worried the next jolt might split the walls. Fortunately the quakes rocking the Tower ceased. Mina could not see outside, but she guessed Nuitari had returned and was now trying to placate his furious sister.

Inside the Tower was silent. The seawater surrounding the structure seemed to suck out the sound, so that every noise made within had a muffled quality to it.

The silence was soothing. Now that she was no longer a prisoner, she felt at home here. She found it comforting, knowing the sea cradled her. Perhaps this stirred some long-buried memory of the shipwreck that had taken her parents from her and left her an orphan, a memory that was always there, lying just beneath the surface. One she could never quite recall.

“Our minds blot out such traumatic events in order to protect us from them,” Goldmoon had once told Mina. “You may remember what happened to you some day or you may never remember. Do not fret over it, child. It is quite natural.”

Mina had fretted. She felt guilty and ashamed that she had no memory of those parents who had loved her dearly, perhaps even sacrificed their lives for her, and she tried hard to bring to mind their faces or the sound of a mother’s voice. She became obsessed with trying to remember, an obsession that ended only when the One God, Takhisis, chided her for wasting her time.

“It does not matter who gave you birth!” Takhisis had said, cold and furious. “I am your mother. I am your father. Look to me for protection and succor and nourishment.”

Mina had obeyed the god’s command as she obeyed all others given to her by the One God. She had never allowed herself to think about her parents again, not until she had been imprisoned in this Tower below the sea. She had so much time on her hands in the Tower, time to think, time to remember her childhood. The frustration and the shame and the need to know returned. Mina took care to keep her obsession to herself. She did not want to anger Chemosh as she had angered Takhisis.

The spiral stairs were lit by magical globules of light placed at intervals and renewed daily by Basalt. Doors, opening off the stairs, led to the other floors of the Tower. Mina glanced at them curiously. She would have liked to explore, to see how the rooms were constructed and what they looked like, for the Tower intrigued her.

She did not have time, however. “I will postpone that for another day,” she said to herself, smiling at the thought, for she knew perfectly well she was never likely to see the inside of this Tower again.

The stairs brought her at last to the Tower’s base. She came up against a door made of steel banded with bronze and inscribed with runes. Runes had also been carved into the stone arch around the door. Mina recognized the runes as being the language of magic, the same as she’d read in the book Nuitari had given her. She knew what the runes said; she just didn’t know what they meant.

Giving up on the runes, Mina inspected the door, trying to find some way inside. The door had no handle, no lock. The runes probably provided information on how to open the door. Mina tried reciting them aloud, to no avail. The door didn’t budge.

Frustrated, Mina gave the door a kick.

The door revolved smoothly and silently on a center linchpin and swung open.

Mina stepped back, eyeing the door warily.

“This is too easy. This is a trap,” she muttered.

She did not enter. Drawing closer to the arched doorway, she examined it carefully.

“What an idiot I am!” she scolded herself. “If this is a trap, it is a magical one and I’ll never find it anyway. I might as well chance it.”

Mina walked through the door and was pleasantly surprised to find herself emerging safely on the other side. She was less pleasantly surprised to hear the door revolve and slam shut behind her. There were no runes on this side of the door. Apparently, once you got in, you were supposed to know the secret of how to get back out.

Shrugging, Mina turned away. She’d deal with that problem when the time came. Now she had her task before her. An amazing task. She stood before what looked to be an enormous fish bowl.

Mina and the other children in the orphanage had kept fish in glass bowls filled with water. The children were taught to feed the fish and care for them. They observed their habits and marveled at how the creatures breathed water as easily as people breathed air. This globe was similar to those fish bowls, except it was much, much larger—as big in circumference as the Tower itself. The glass walls were covered with runes etched into the glass. Shafts of sunlight illuminated the globe and the creatures swimming inside.

“It is beautiful,” Mina said softly, awed. “Beautiful and deadly.”

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The graceful jellyfish, drifting along at the mercy of the swirling currents, killed their prey by stinging it with a venom that paralyzed the victim and prevented it from escaping. These jellyfish were enormous, several times Mina’s size, with tentacles long enough to ensnare a full-grown man.

A gigantic squid, large enough to drag a ship beneath the waves, lay sprawled across the floor, its arms trembling as it slept. Stingrays slithered up the crystal sides of the globe. Monstrous bull sharks swam about, their jaws, filled with the rows of razor-sharp teeth, opening and closing. The floor was covered with fire coral, pretty to look at, burning to the touch.

Inside the center of the globe, surrounded by its lethal guards, was the Solio Febalas.

Mina stared, astonished. The Hall was not at all what she expected.

The structure resembled a child’s sand castle. It was simple in design with four walls, a tower at each corner, and crenellations on the battlements. There were no windows. She could see, from this angle, what appeared to be a door, but she could not make out any details. What was truly amazing was that the Hall of Sacrilege, supposedly containing any number of sacred artifacts, was only about four feet tall and four feet wide.

“It must be an illusion, a trick of the water,” Mina said to herself.

She ran her hand over the rune-etched surface of the crystal wall that blocked her way.

“The question is: how do I reach it? I stand outside an impenetrable wall of crystal encompassing water in which are swimming hundreds of deadly creatures. I have no idea how to get inside the globe, and if I manage that, I cannot breathe water, and even if I could, I would have to battle sharks and men-of-war and—”

She caught her breath. A large coral reef that formed a hillock inside the crystal globe gave a lurch, displacing thousands of fish, which swam away from it in flashing-scaled panic. A head emerged from beneath the coral reef, now revealed to be a huge shell, like that of a tortoise.

Gleaming yellow eyes fixed on Mina. She had found the guardian—a sea dragon.

More to the point, the sea dragon had found Mina.

The guardian of the Hall of Sacrilege was a sea dragon known as Midori. Reclusive, bad-tempered, and irritable, Midori was the oldest dragon on Krynn, which made her the oldest living creature in the world.

She numbered her years not by decades but by centuries. She was not sure exactly how old she was. She’d lost count around the ten-century mark. The passage of time meant little to her. Midori marked her life by momentous events and then only those events that had affected her directly.

One of these was the Cataclysm, for it had been a distinct annoyance. The fiery mountain that had struck the world, killing thousands and destroying a city, had also collapsed a wall of her sea cave, rudely waking her from a fifty-year nap. Rocks tumbled down, half-burying her and wholly burying her treasure hoard. She managed to dig out most of her treasure, but some valuable objects were irretrievably lost. Furious, Midori left her ruined lair and swam into the open sea to find out what all the commotion was about.

A confirmed recluse, a dragon who made no secret of the fact that she loathed and despised every other being on the planet, Midori was forced to seek out others of her kind and actually have conversations with them. This did not improve her humor.

She heard the tale of the Cataclysm from an excited young sea dragon, who told her the history of the human Kingpriests and their transgressions and subsequent punishment by the gods. Midori listened in growing ire. Humans were like fish. Here one minute, gone the next, and always plenty more where the others came from. She saw no reason why the gods should have destroyed a perfectly good lair over such a paltry matter. Seething, Midori moved what remained of her treasure into another lair and went back to sleep.

She slept through the War of the Lance, the Summer of Flame, the Chaos War, the Theft of the World, and the arrival of the Dragon Overlords, who never suspected her existence. She would have continued deep in slumber, but for a horrific scream that jolted Midori out of her sleep and caused her to open her eyes for the first time in several centuries.

The scream was the death cry of Takhisis Midori had never thought much of the Dark Queen. Some sea dragons had taken part in Takhisis’s wars. Midori had not been one of them. Her life was precious to her, and she saw no need to risk it for another’s cause. If Takhisis ruled the world or if she didn’t, it was all the same to Midori. But now, like the child who long ago left home, yet likes to know that her Mama is still there in case she’s needed, Midori felt bereft and even a little fearful.

If such a terrible fate could befall a god, no one—not even a dragon— was safe.

For the second time in her life, Midori left her lair and went out to discover the truth. She swam slowly and ponderously through the water, not burdened by years so much as by as the weight of the enormous shell on her back. Whereas land dragons have spiny protrusions on their backs and wings that enable them to fly, sea dragons have an enormous shell, like that of a tortoise, and flippers instead of clawed feet. The shell was designed for defense. Midori could withdraw her head and feet into it for safety, and that was where she slept. Over the centuries, as she slept, her shell had been overgrown by coral and barnacles, so that swimming with it was tantamount to picking up and moving a coral reef.

Thinking that this latest calamity might have something to do with Istar and that other Cataclysm, Midori returned to the Blood Sea and there came across Nuitari, busily raising up the ruins of some rotting old tower. The god was startled and not particularly pleased to see a sea dragon, for he had no idea one was in the vicinity and he feared she might cause trouble.

Nuitari was respectful to Midori, however, and told her the whole story—all about the Irda, Chaos, world-snatching, alien dragons, skull totems, a time-traveling kender, a girl named Mina, the War of Souls, the death of one god and the voluntary exile of another.

As Midori listened, her fears grew. A world where even gods could die was obviously a much more dangerous place than she’d realized. She was thinking of this and wondering how she would ever have a good epoch’s sleep again, when, unexpectedly, Nuitari made her an offer. He needed a guardian for some relics he’d picked up off the sea floor. The job was hers, if she wanted it.

Midori didn’t like Nuitari. She considered him a whining, ungrateful child, not worthy of the mother who had given birth to him. She didn’t particularly relish working for him, but she didn’t like the thought of returning to her lonely lair, either. She needed to keep an eye on things. Besides, if she grew bored or if he annoyed her too much, she could always leave. Midori agreed to move into Nuitari’s newly restored Tower, there to guard his store of valuable religious artifacts.

Nuitari assured her that, since his Tower was located far beneath the Blood Sea, there was little likelihood of any mortals annoying her. The only one who did come was Caele, a mongrel half-elf who was forced to visit her every so often to beg her to give him a drop or two of her blood.

Midori would have refused, but Caele groveled so well and flattered her so lavishly, and he was obviously so frightened of her, that she found she actually enjoyed his visits. She would emerge from her lair and toy with him for a time, long enough for him to utterly debase himself, and then she would snarlingly grant his request, snapping at him as he collected her blood just for the pleasure of seeing him leap about in panic.

No one else came to disturb the dragon’s rest and ruminations. Nuitari built a lair specially designed for her—a large crystal-walled globe flooded with seawater located at the base of the Tower. Inside the enormous globe, the dragon could swim at her ease, coming and going as she desired by swimming through a magical portal placed in the crystal wall.

In the center of the globe was the Hall of Sacrilege—not really a hall, but more of a small castle, where the artifacts were stored. Any mortal trying to gain access to the artifacts would not only have to be able to swim, they would have to find a way to avoid the sea dragon, and the other denizens of the deep. The dragon couldn’t abide commotion, so she admitted into her globe only those creatures who were quiet and kept to themselves, such as jellyfish and stingrays. Sharks were stupid and uncouth, but they made a tasty snack, and they entertained her by fighting her giant squids. Sea urchins, with their constant chatter, were banned.

All in all, a pleasant way to pass one’s twilight years.

Midori was dozing, her head half-in and half-out of her shell, lulled into a tranquil state by the undulating motions of the jellyfish, when she heard the door leading to the underwater chamber open. A person entered.

Thinking it was the half-elf after more blood, Midori decided she didn’t want to be bothered with him now. She was about to tell him to go drain his own blood or she would do it for him, when she realized, suddenly, that this was not the half-elf. This was an intruder.

Midori withdrew into her shell and held very still. She was, to all appearances, a vast coral formation. Fish swam, undisturbed, around her. Sea plants, growing on her back, swayed back and forth with the currents that swirled around the globe. Only an acute observer, looking very closely, would have seen the dragon’s yellow eyes gleaming from out of the shadowy depths of her shell.

What Midori saw amazed her more than anything else had amazed her in several millennia.

She came out to investigate further.

Mina watched the dragon in a terror that seemed to paralyze her. The dragon’s jaws gaped. Fangs glistened in the eerie green sunlight, as the dragon sucked in a breath that sent hundreds of helpless fish disappearing into the beast’s gullet.

The dragon’s jaws snapped shut. Two huge flipper-like legs thrust the ponderous shell up from the seaweed-covered floor. The dragon’s tail lashed the water, stirring up clouds of silt. The flipper legs propelled the beast through the water. Head and neck outthrust, the dragon lunged straight at Mina.

Mina feared the dragon meant to crash through the crystal wall. She ran back to the door and pushed on it frantically.

The door would not open. Mina looked over her shoulder. The dragon was almost on her. The eyes were enormous—slits of black surrounded by green-gold flame. It seemed the eyes alone could swallow her. The dragon’s jaws opened.

Mina pressed her back against the door, a prayer to Chemosh on her lips.

The dragon reached the crystal wall, made a sudden turn, following the curve of the globe, and hung there, floating. The dragon spoke, words and fish gushing from her mouth.

“Where did you come from?”

Mina had expected violent death, not an inane question. She couldn’t find breath enough to answer.

“Well?” the dragon demanded impatiently.

“I came from . . . the Tower. . . .” Mina indicated with a feeble gesture the door behind her.

“I don’t mean that,” snapped the dragon, irate. “I mean where did you come from? Where have you been?”

Mina had heard that some dragons liked to play games with their victims, asking them riddles and toying with them before the kill. This dragon didn’t sound as if she were playing, however. This dragon appeared to be quite serious.

I am obviously not a wizard, yet I am here in this Tower. The guardian must think I am here at Nuitari’s invitation. That is why she hasn’t killed me. This may work to my advantage.

“I am a friend of the god’s,” Mina replied. This, at least, was true. She just didn’t mention which god had befriended her. “When those tremors shook the Tower, he sent me to see that the artifacts are safe.”

The dragon’s slit eyes narrowed. She was displeased. “Do you refuse to answer my questions?”

Mina was perplexed. “It’s just... I didn’t think you’d be interested. I have no objection to answering. As to who I am, my name is Mina. As to where I came from, I do not know. I am an orphan with no memory of my childhood. As to where I have been, I have been in almost every part of Ansalon. To tell you my tale would take too long. I am supposed to check the artifacts—”

“You waste my time. Come inside and check the artifacts then. No one’s stopping you,” the dragon snarled irascibly.

Mina realized that the dragon must think Nuitari had revealed the secret of how to enter the globe.

What a fool I was to mention that, Mina thought in irritation. Now what do I say? That I forgot what the god told me? Not even a gully dwarf would believe that!

The dragon glared at her. “Well, what are you waiting for? As for that rigmarole you told me about being an orphan—”

The dragon paused. Her eyes flared open. Her head thrust forward and banged against the crystal.

“By my teeth and tonsils,” exclaimed the dragon. “By my lungs and liver. By my heart and stomach, tooth and toenail! You don’t know!”

Mina couldn’t understand what this was all about. “What don’t I know?” she asked the dragon.

But the creature was muttering to herself and no longer paying attention.

Mina caught a few words of the dragon’s ranting: “...bastard . . . liar... we’ll see about that!”

Mina could make no sense of any of it.

“What is it I don’t know?” Mina asked again. Something twisted inside her. She had the feeling that this was desperately important.

“You don’t know”—the dragon paused—“how to get inside. Do you?

That hadn’t been what the dragon meant. The dragon was now teasing, taunting. Her slit eyes glinted. Her green lip curled. “There’s no trick to it, really. Just walk right through the crystal wall. As to breathing under water, you won’t have any trouble. It’s all part of the magic, isn’t it?”

The beast is trying to lure me inside, Mina reasoned. I could stay here and remain safe from the dragon, but that would mean failing my lord.

“Chemosh, be with me.” Mina prayed and walked up to the crystal wall.

She placed both her hands on the glass. Her fingers traced the sharp edges of the runes engraved on the surface. She focused on her destination—the sand castle in the center of the globe and, keeping her gaze fixed on that and away from the dragon, Mina drew in a deep breath, shut her eyes, and walked forward.

The crystal melted like ice at her touch and she found herself inside the globe.

Mina experienced a strange sensation. She was not floundering, drowning, gasping for breath. It was as though her body had lost its solidity. She did not breathe the water so much as she was one with the water. She was water, no longer flesh. The sensation was marvelous, liberating, and frightening all at once. She could not take time to try to understand what had happened. Tensing, Mina turned to face the dragon, certain that now the creature must attack.

The dragon’s lips drew back from the yellowed fangs in a grin. To Mina’s astonishment, the dragon flipped herself around ponderously in the water and swam down to the floor of the globe, where she settled herself on the bottom.

“You will excuse me,” said the dragon. “I am old and all this excitement has worn me out. Please don’t let me deter you from your task.”

Sharks circled Mina. Jellyfish floated uncomfortably close. The squid’s eyes opened. The sea creatures watched her. None of them came near her.

Mina began to swim through the water, heading toward the sand castle, keeping her enemies in sight.

Moving in lazy circles, the sharks accompanied her. The squid propelled itself through the water, but kept its distance.

Puzzled beyond measure, Mina continued to swim. The sea creatures followed her, watching her. The dragon watched her, gold-green eyes gleaming with what might have been amusement.

Of course, there will be traps.

Arriving at the structure, Mina swam around to the front and floated there, swaying gently with the currents, to gaze at it in perplexity. The water had not been playing tricks on her eyes. The Solio Febalas was a child’s play castle made of sand, which looked as though it would crumble at a touch.

She would have to get down on her hands and knees to crawl through the doorway, and even with her slender build, it would be a tight fit.

There are no artifacts! This is a hoax perpetrated by Nuitari, but why? Why go to all this trouble? Certainly, Mina reflected, the ways of the gods are beyond man’s comprehension. My lord will be exceedingly disappointed.

Mina glanced back at the dragon, who appeared to be enjoying her discomfiture. Mina wondered if she should continue to investigate or give up and swim back.

At least, I should look inside, she determined. My lord will be outraged enough as it is. I should be able to provide him with all the details.

Mina approached the sand castle with caution, mindful of traps and half-afraid she would bring down the entire structure if she bumped into it. The top of the walls came to her shoulders.

Mina reached out her hand to gingerly touch the wall. The structure was made of sand that had been fused together and was hard as marble. Nothing happened when she touched the wall. She glanced back again at the dragon and then outside the crystal globe, fearing Nuitari must come at any moment.

No one was there and the dragon hadn’t stirred.

Mina swam around to the front of the sand castle and found the entrance—a door, about three feet in height, made of thousands of pearls that shimmered with a pinkish-purple luster. A single rune carved out of a large emerald was embedded in the center. Mina brushed the tips of her fingers across the emerald.

The rune flashed a blinding green. The pearl door flew open with explosive force. Too late, Mina understood the trap. The building was air tight, sealed against the water. When the door opened, the seal broke. The water rushed inside, carrying Mina with it.The rush of the water ceased. The door shut and sealed, leaving the castle once again airtight.

Leaving Mina, once again, a prisoner.

Small wonder the dragon had looked amused.

The force of the water had swept Mina off her feet and tumbled her about. She lay on her stomach in water that was up to her chin. The water level was sinking fast, however. There must be a drain in the floor. She could hear the water gurgle as it swirled away.

Mina could not see a thing in the pitch darkness. She raised herself up slowly off the floor, fearful of hitting her head against the low ceiling. She felt nothing. She reached up her hand, still felt nothing. She tried straightening to her full height.

She did not hit her head. She stood perfectly still, afraid to move when she could not see. Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The room was not as dark as she’d first thought. There were no lights, but some objects around the room gave off a soft glow, so she was able to make out her surroundings.

Mina looked about her. She looked up, and she looked down. Her breath caught in her throat. Tears burned her eyes, causing the lights to blur together.

She was in an immense chamber. One hundred paces would not have carried her halfway across it. The ceiling on which she was afraid she might hit her head was so far above her that she could barely see it.

And, all around her, were the gods.

Each god had an alcove carved out of the wall, and in each alcove was an altar. Artifacts, sacred to each god, stood on the altar or on the floor before the altar.

Some of the artifacts shone with a radiant light. Some flickered, some glimmered. Some of the artifacts were dark, and some seemed to suck the light from the others.

Mina fell, trembling, to her knees.

The holy power of the gods seemed to crush her.

“Gods forgive me!” she whispered. “What have I done? What have I done?”

12

Nuitari arrived back at his Tower to find it under siege. His sister, Zeboim, goddess of the Deep, was apparently intent upon shaking it to bits.

Although they were siblings, born to Takhisis and her consort, the god of Vengeance, Sargonnas, Nuitari and Zeboim were as different as foaming waves and black moonlight. Zeboim had inherited her mother’s volatile nature and fierce ambition but lacked her mother’s discipline. Nuitari, by contrast, was born with his mother’s cold and calculating cunning, tempered by his passion for magic. Zeboim was close to their father, Sargonnas, and often worked with him to further the cause of his beloved minotaurs, who were among the sea goddess’s chief worshippers. Nuitari despised their father and made no secret of it. He didn’t think much of minotaurs either, one reason there were few minotaur mages.

Nuitari had known his sister was going to be upset over the fact he’d raised up the old Tower of High Sorcery in her sea without first seeking her permission. Knowing her, he knew she was capable of refusing him out of sheer caprice. Also fearing this would put ideas into her head, Nuitari had felt it was wiser to build his Tower first and ask his sister’s pardon later.

He was attempting to do just that, but Zeboim refused to listen.

“I swear to you, Brother,” Zeboim fumed, “not one of your Black Robes will dare set foot on water or face my wrath! If a wizard should try to take a hot bath, I will push him under! Any ship that transports a wizard will capsize. Rafts carrying wizards across rivers will sink. If a wizard puts his toe in a stream, I will swell it to a raging river. A wizard who so much as drinks a glass of water will choke on it—”

She continued like this, ranting and raging and stamping her feet. With every stamp, the ocean floor trembled. Her fury rocked the Tower on its foundations. Nuitari could only guess at the havoc the tremors were wreaking inside. He’d lost contact with his two wizards, and that worried him.

“I am sorry, dear sister, if I have upset you,” he said contritely. “Truly, it was unintentional.”

“Raising up this Tower without my knowledge was unintentional?” Zeboim howled.

“I thought you knew!” Nuitari protested, all innocence. “I thought you knew everything that went on in your ocean! If you didn’t, if this comes as such a surprise to you, is it my fault?”

Seething, Zeboim glared at him. She flopped and floundered but could see no way out of the net that had so neatly trapped her. If she claimed she had known he was building the Tower, then why hadn’t she stopped him if it so offended her? To admit she hadn’t known was to admit she didn’t know what was happening in her own realm.

“I have been preoccupied with other, more important matters,” she said loftily. “But now that I know, you must make reparations.”

“What do you want?” Nuitari asked smoothly. “I will be only too happy to accede to your demands, dear sister. Provided they are reasonable, of course.”

He assumed that she’d found out not only about the Tower but also about the Hall of Sacrilege. He figured she would ask for her holy artifacts to be returned to her in exchange for her permission to keep his Tower.

Nuitari was prepared to hand over one artifact or maybe even two, if she persisted in her threats against his wizards. Her response was completely unexpected.

“I want Mina,” declared Zeboim.

“Mina?” Nuitari repeated, amazed. First Takhisis. Then Chemosh. Now Zeboim. Did every god in the universe want this girl?

“You are holding her prisoner. You will bring her to me. In return, you may keep your Tower,” Zeboim offered magnanimously. “I won’t make you tear it down.”

“How kind of you, sister,” Nuitari said in honeyed, poisonous tones. “What do you want with this human female, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Zeboim looked up at the sunlit surface of the ocean.

“Just how many of your Black Robes do you think are currently sailing the high seas, Brother?” she asked. “I know of six right now.”

She lifted her hands and the seawater began to bubble and boil around her. The sunlight vanished, overrun by storm clouds. Nuitari had visions of his wizards pitching off rolling decks.

“Very well! You will have her!” he said angrily. “Though I don’t know why you want her. She belongs to Chemosh, body and soul.”

Zeboim smiled a knowing smile, and Nuitari guessed immediately that she and Chemosh had made some sort of bargain.

“That’s why the god did not come to claim his trollop,” Nuitari muttered. “He has made a deal with Zeboim. I wonder what for. Not my Tower, I trust.”

He eyed his sister. She eyed him back.

“I’ll go fetch her,” said Nuitari.

“You do that,” said Zeboim. “And don’t be long about it. I grow bored so easily.”

She gave his Tower a little shake for good measure.

-^s^Kr^^^v^v

Upon entering the Blood Sea Tower, Nuitari summoned his wizards.

They did not respond.

He thought this ominous. Caele was usually always on hand, falling over himself to be the first to gush over the return of the Master, and Basalt, solid and reliable, would be waiting to launch into grievances against Caele.

Neither appeared in response to their master’s summons.

Nuitari called again, his tone dire.

No answer.

Nuitari went to the laboratory, thinking they might be there. He found it an ungodly mess—the floor awash in spilled potions and broken glass, a small fire burning in a corner, several escaped imps wandering about freely. Nuitari put out the fire with an irritated breath, trapped the imps and locked them back inside their cages, then continued his search for the missing wizards. He had a feeling he knew where to look.

Arriving at Mina’s chambers, he found the door standing wide open. Nuitari entered.

Two stone coffins and no sign of Mina.

Nuitari pried the stone slabs off the sarcophagi. Caele, gasping for air, clutched at the sides of the coffin and pulled himself up. The half-elf looked half-dead. He tried to stand, but his legs were too wobbly. He sat in the coffin and shivered. Dwarves being accustomed to living in dark places, Basalt had taken his confinement in stride. He was far more worried about facing his irate god, and he kept his head down, his hood lowered, trying desperately to avoid Nuitari’s baleful gaze.

“Uh, if you’ll pardon me, Master, I will just go attend to the cleaning up....” Basalt tried to sidle out of the room.

“Where is Mina?” Nuitari demanded.

Basalt glanced about furtively, as if hoping he she might be hiding under the couch. Not finding her, he looked back at the Master and almost immediately looked away again.

“It was Caele’s fault,” Basalt said, mumbling into his beard. “He tried to kill her, but he bungled it as usual, and she took his knife—”

“You snake!” Caele hissed. Crawling weakly out of the coffin, he raised a feeble hand against the dwarf.

“Stop it, both of you!” Nuitari commanded. “Where is Mina?”

“Everything happened at once, Master.” Caele whined. “Zeboim started shaking the Tower, and the next thing I knew Mina had my knife and was threatening to kill me—”

“That is true, Master,” said Basalt. “Mina threatened to kill poor Caele if I tried to stop her, and of course, I feared for his life, and then Chemosh came and forced us inside these coffins—”

“You lie,” Nuitari said calmly. “The Lord of Death may not enter my Tower. Not anymore.”

“I heard his voice, Master,” gasped Basalt, flinching. “His voice was everywhere. He spoke to Mina. He said the Tower was hers. Except for the guardian . . .”

“The guardian,” repeated Nuitari, and he knew where Mina had gone—the Hall of Sacrilege. He relaxed. “Midori will deal with her, which means there won’t be much left. I must come up with something to placate my sister. I will put Mina’s remains in a pretty box. Zeboim can trade that to Chemosh for whatever it is he has promised her—a promise he probably doesn’t mean to keep anyway.”

He looked back at his two wizards, who stood cringing before him. “Start cleaning up this mess.” He glanced at the coffins. “Don’t get rid of those. They might come in useful in the future if you dare disobey me again.”

“No, Master,” Basalt mumbled.

“Yes, Master,” Caele gulped.

Satisfied, Nuitari departed to retrieve Mina’s corpse.

Nuitari expected to find the sea globe in an uproar—blood in the water, the dragon looking satiated, sharks fighting over the scraps.

Instead, jellyfish undulated about the globe in maddening calm and the dragon was asleep on the sandy bottom.

Apparently he’d been worried over nothing. Mina had not come here after all. Nuitari sent an urgent message to his wizards to search the Tower for her and was starting to leave to assist them when the dragon spoke.

“If you’re looking for the human, she’s inside your sand castle.”

Nuitari stood aghast for a moment, then surged through the crystal wall to confront the dragon.

Midori watched him from deep within the black depths of her shell.

“You allowed her to enter?” Nuitari raged. “What kind of guardian are you?”

“She told me you had sent her,” replied the dragon. The shell shifted slightly. “She said you wanted her to make certain the holy artifacts had not been damaged by the quakes.”

“And you believed her lies?” Nuitari was aghast.

“No,” said Midori, green-gold eyes glittering. “Not any more than I believe your lies.”

“My lies?” Nuitari could not make sense of this. He’d never lied to the dragon, not about anything important. “What— Never mind that! Why did you let her pass?”

“Next time, do your own dirty work,” Midori snarled, drawing her head back into her shell. She closed her eyes and feigned sleep.

Nuitari didn’t have time to puzzle out what was bothering the dragon. He had to stop Mina from walking off with his artifacts. Unseen and unheard, the god materialized inside the Solio Febalas.

There was Mina. She was not ransacking the place, as he expected. She was on her knees, her head bowed, her hands clasped.

“Gods of Darkness and Gods of Light and those Gods who love the twilight in between, forgive my desecration of this holy place,” Mina was praying softly. “Forgive the ignorance of mortals, forgive the arrogance and fear that led them to commit this crime against you. Though the souls of those who stole these sacred objects are long since passed, the weakness in men remains. Few bow down before you. Few honor you. Many deny your existence or claim man has outgrown his need of you. If they could but see this blessed sight as I see it and feel your presence as I feel it, all mankind would fall to your feet and worship.”

Nuitari had intended to grab her by the scruff of her neck and twist her body in his bare hands until her bones cracked and her blood ran red. Like his wizards, he did not believe in using magic for frivolous purposes.

But he did not kill her. Looking around the chamber, he saw what she saw—not artifacts to be bartered like pigs on market day. He saw the sacred altars. He saw the divine light. He saw the awful power of the gods. He felt what she felt—a holy presence. Nuitari drew back his hand.

“You are the most irritating human,” he said, exasperated. “I do not understand you.”

Mina lifted her head and turned to look at him. Her face was stained with tears. She reminded him of a lost child.

“I do not understand myself, Lord,” she said. She bowed her head. “Take my life as punishment for my transgression into this holy place. I deserve to die.”

“You do deserve to die,” Nuitari told her grimly. “But today you are lucky. I have promised you to my sister who has, in turn, promised you to Chemosh.”

He might have been talking of someone else. Mina remained where she was, crouched on the floor, crushed, ground down by the weight of heaven.

“Didn’t you hear me? You are free to go,” he said. “Though I must warn you that if you have, by some mischance, tucked a blessed ring or a vial of life-restoring potion up your sleeve, you should divest yourself of it before you depart. Otherwise, you will find your luck has run out.”

“I have touched nothing, Lord,” she said.

Rising to her feet, she walked toward the door. She moved slowly,

156

as though reluctant to leave. Her eyes lingered on the holy relics of the gods.

“I don’t suppose it would do me any good to ask how you managed to circumvent my magical safeguards?” Nuitari asked. “How you broke into a door that was magically sealed and trapped, and then made your way through rune-encrusted crystal walls, and how you came to breathe seawater as easily as air. I suppose Chemosh aided you in all this.”

“I prayed to my lord, yes,” Mina replied absently.

Nuitari waited for details, but she did not elaborate.

“I would like to know, though,” Nuitari continued, “how you managed to slip past the dragon. She said you told her some far-fetched story that I had sent you. I think, in truth, she must have been asleep and is afraid to admit it to me.”

Mina smiled a half-smile at this. “I believe I did say something of the sort, Lord. The dragon was wide awake. She saw me, spoke to me, and posed riddles for me to answer. After that, the dragon permitted me to enter the globe.”

“Riddles?” Nuitari was skeptical. “What riddles?”

Mina thought back. “There were two: ‘Where did you come from?’ the dragon asked me, and ‘Where have you been?’ ”

“Not much in the way of riddles,” Nuitari stated dryly.

Mina nodded. “I agree, Lord. However, the dragon grew angry when she thought I was evading the questions. That is what made me think they were riddles meant to trick me.”

The sea floor heaved and lurched. The Tower shook on its foundations, and a voice called out in warning, “Make haste, Brother! I grow weary of waiting!”

Nuitari removed the seal from the door and gestured to Mina.

“I will spare your life this time,” he said. “I will not be so generous the next, so let there be no next time.”

He ushered her through the door, which was the last trap. It would not be tripped by the thief, but by the artifact the thief was trying to carry out of the Hall. Mina had said she did not have anything in her possession and Nuitari believed her. He was not surprised to see her pass through the door without harm. He sealed the door swiftly, making a mental note to strengthen the spells he’d cast upon it. He’d had no idea that Chemosh—even at a distance—would prove so adept at breaking through magical barriers.

A whisk of his hand and Mina was gone, transported through water, crystal globe, and Tower walls to the sea beyond, where Zeboim was waiting for her.

Not exactly trusting his sister, Nuitari kept an eye on her, wanting to make certain his sister would keep her word and cease her attacks on the Tower. The moment she had Mina, Zeboim clasped the young woman in a fond embrace and the two disappeared.

Nuitari returned to the globe to question the dragon, only to find Midori gone.

Such absences were not unusual. The dragon occasionally went on hunting trips. He had the feeling, though, that this time she’d left without any plans to come back. She’d been exceedingly angry with him.

Nuitari stood inside the sea globe, staring at the Solio Febalas. He thought back over everything that had anything to do with Mina.

She was, he decided, nothing but trouble.

“Good riddance,” he muttered. He went off, with a grim sigh, to see if he could find and placate the dragon.