Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

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

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

  She raised her hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Might I suggest a move, Madame?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “A fine likeness,” she said diffidently.

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

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

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

  “You’ll what?” said Krell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Do you agree, Madame?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Those that arrived at all …

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Rhys cast the kender a questioning glance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How do you know that?” Nightshade asked.

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

  “Someone,” Nightshade corrected darkly.

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

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

  “Are we going after him?”

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

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

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

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

  “That’
s right,” said Rhys.

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

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

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

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

  “I am,” Rhys replied.

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

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

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

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

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

  The guardsman hesitated a moment, watched to make certain that they were on their way, then galloped back to report.

  “What do you suppose the sheriff wants,” Nightshade asked, “since it’s not me?”

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

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

  “Perhaps he has found out somehow.”

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

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

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

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