Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

  “Well enough,” said Rhys.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  death knight,” said Nightshade.

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

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

  Rhys nodded his head in silent confirmation.

  “Have you been drinking?” Nightshade asked seriously.

  “No,” said Rhys, smiling.

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

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

  “Whoo-boy!” Nightshade exclaimed with a whistle.

  “But here is the proof.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I think you should.”

  “ ‘Live’ being the optimal word.” Nightshade stressed this point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes,” said Rhys quietly, “she will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Rhys and Nightshade exchanged glances.

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

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

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

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

  “A lot he knows,” Nightshade said gloomily.

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

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

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

  She drew back her cowl. Sea green eyes glittered.

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

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

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

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

  “The usual. Five minutes.”

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

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

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

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

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

  No monk. No kender.

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

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

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

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

  The cell door slammed shut with a bang.

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

  “Let the kender loose,” he called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “My lord, forgive me—”

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

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

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