Chemosh halted, staring. “Do you see that?”
“I see it, my lord,” said Mina, “but I am not sure I believe it.”
Deep inside the Tower, lights winked on. First one. Then another. Small globules of white-blue light appeared in different levels of the Tower—some far above them, near the top; others down below. Some of the lights seemed to be shining from deep within the Tower’s interior, others closer to the crystal walls.
“It is as I remember,” said Chemosh. “Stars held captive.”
The lights were like starlight, cold and sharp-edged. They illuminated nothing, gave off no warmth, no radiance. Mina watched one closely. “Look there, my lord,” she said, pointing.
“What is it?” Chemosh demanded.
“One of the lights went out and then came back,” said Mina. “As if something or someone had walked in front of it.”
“Where? Which light?”
“Up there, about two levels. My lord,” Mina added, “you can enter the Tower. You are a god. These walls, no matter if they are solid or illusion, cannot stop you.”
“Yes,” he said, “but you cannot.”
“You must go in, my lord,” said Mina. “I will wait for you outside. When you find an entrance, you will come for me.”
“I don’t like to leave you alone,” he said, yet he was tempted.
“I will call you if I have need.”
“And I will come, though I am at the ends of the universe. Wait for me here. I won’t be long.”
He swam toward the crystal wall, swam through the crystal wall. The darkness, warm and smothering, pressed down on her.
Mina kept watch on the star-like lights, focusing on them and not on her thirst, which was becoming acute. She counted eight lights scattered all over the tower, with no two on the same level, if there were levels. None of them blinked on or off but burned steadily.
She missed Chemosh, missed his voice. The silence was thick and heavy as the darkness. Suddenly, quite near her, a ninth light flared.
This light was different from the others. It was yellow in color and seemed warmer, brighter.
“I can stay here, thinking of nothing except the unbearable silence and the taste of cool water on my tongue, or I can go discover the source of this light.”
Mina pushed herself through the water, half-swimming, half-crawling, moving slowly and stealthily toward the strange light.
As she drew near, she saw that it was not a single point of light, as she had first supposed, but multiple lights, like a cluster of candles. She realized that the lights looked different—warmer, brighter—because they were outside the walls. She could see the light mirrored on the crystal surface. She drew nearer, curious.
The series of lights hung in the water as though strung together, like small lanterns hung on a rope. The lights were lined up in a row, jagged and irregular, which bobbed and drifted and gently swayed with the underwater currents.
“Strange,” said Mina to herself. “It looks like some sort of net—”
Her danger flashed before her in that instant. She tried to flee, but movement beneath the water was agonizingly slow and sluggish. The lights started to spin rapidly, dazzling her, so that she was blinded and confused. A net of heavy rope whipped out from the center of the whirling lights and, before she could escape it, settled over her.
She fought desperately to free herself from the entangling folds of heavy rope that fell over her head and shoulders, wrapped around her arms and hands and thrashing legs. She tried to lift the folds of the net, put it aside, shove it off her, but the lights were so bright that she could not see what she was doing.
The net drew in around her, tighter and tighter, until her arms were squeezed up against her chest, her feet and legs trussed up so that she could not move.
She could see and feel the net being dragged through the water with her inside, moving rapidly toward the crystal wall. The net did not stop when it reached the wall and it seemed that she must smash into the crystal. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the shattering impact.
A sensation of numbing cold, as if she’d fallen into bone-chilling water, was all that happened. Gasping from the shock, she opened her eyes to see that she had passed through a kind of porthole that had swirled opened to admit her and was now spiraling shut behind her.
The net’s movement ceased. Mina hung suspended in the water. Still entangled in the net, she could not easily turn her head and she had only a limited view of her surroundings. From what she could see, she was in some type of small, well-lighted chamber filled with sea water.
Two faces peered at her through a crystal pane.
“Fishermen,” Mina realized suddenly, recalling how the fishermen on Schallsea Isle would use lights at night to lure fish to their nets. “And I am their catch.”
She could not get a good look at her captors, for the net began to revolve and she was losing sight of them. The two were apparently as shocked to see her as she had been to see them. They began speaking to each other—she was able to see their mouths move, though she could not hear what they were saying.
It was then she noticed the surface of the water over her head ripple, as though air were being blown into the chamber. Looking up, she saw that the water level was starting to sink. The fishermen were pumping the water out of the room, replacing it with air.
The water is as air to you … the air will be as water.
Mina recalled Chemosh’s warning about the spell he had cast over her, a warning she had not taken very seriously at the time, for she had not imagined that the two of them would be separated.
The water level was falling rapidly.
Mina pushed at the net with her hands and kicked her feet, trying frantically to free herself. Her efforts were futile, only caused the net to spin wildly.
She tried to draw attention to her plight, doing her best to shake her head, pointing upward.
The faces in the window watched her struggles with avid interest. Either they did not understand or they did not care.
Mina had not forgotten Chemosh’s admonition to call him if she were in trouble. She had been too startled to do so when she first was caught in the net, and then too busy trying to free herself. After that, she had been too proud. He was constantly reminding her that she was weak as all mortals are weak. She wanted to prove herself to him, as she had proven herself at Storm’s Keep. Common sense dictated that she seek his help now.
Mina would not yell out his name in a panic, however. Though she died in this moment, her pride would not allow to beg him.
“Chemosh,” Mina said softly, to herself, to the memory of his dark eyes and his burning touch, “Chemosh, I am in need. The inhabitants of this Tower have caught me in some sort of net.”
The top of her head broke through the surface of the water. She could feel the air on her scalp. Soon she would be exposed to the air.
“Chemosh,” she prayed swiftly, as the water level continued to drop, “if you do not come to me soon, I will die, for they are depriving me of the water I need to breathe.”
Silence. If the god heard her, he did not answer.
The water level fell to her shoulders. She dared not draw in a breath. She held the water in her lungs as long as she could, until her lungs burned and ached. When the pain became too great, she opened her mouth. Water spewed down her chin. She tried to breathe, but she was like a landed fish. She gasped for life, her mouth opening and closing.
“Chemosh,” she said, as the light began to fade, “I come to you. I am not afraid. I embrace death. For now I will no longer be mortal …”
The net and its captive hit the floor. Eagerly, the two wizards turned the handle to the door of the air lock and hastened inside, the skirts of their black robes sloshing through the ankle-deep water. The two leaned down for a better look at their catch.
The woman lay on her back, enmeshed in the net, her eyes wide open, mouth gasping, her lips blue. Her hands and feet twitched spasmodica
lly.
“You were right,” said one wizard to the other, his tone one of academic interest. “She is drowning in air.”
liding through the crystalline Tower walls, Chemosh found himself in a room intended for use as a library in some future point of time. The room was in disarray, but shelves, lining the walls, were undoubtedly meant to hold books. Scroll cases stood empty in the center of the room, along with several writing desks, an assortment of wooden stools and numerous high-backed leather chairs, all jumbled together. A few books stood on the shelves, but most remained in boxes and wooden crates.
“I seemed to have arrived on moving day,” Chemosh commented.
Walking over to a shelf, he picked up one of the dusty volumes that had toppled over on its side. The book was bound in black leather with no writing on the cover. A series of glyphs inscribed on the spine bore the book’s title, or so Chemosh supposed. He could not read them, was not interested in reading them. He recognized them for what they were—words of the language of magic. “So …” he murmured. “As I suspected.”
Dropping the book onto the floor, he looked about for something on which to wipe his hands.
Chemosh continued to poke around, peering into crates, lifting the lids on boxes. He found nothing of any interest to him, however, and he left the library by way of a door at the far end. He entered a narrow corridor that curved off to his left and right. He looked down one way and then down the other, saw nothing that aroused his curiosity. He strolled off to his right, glancing into open doors as he passed. He found empty rooms, destined to be living quarters or school rooms. Again, nothing of interest, unless you counted it as interesting that someone was obviously preparing for a crowd.
Chemosh had never before walked the halls of one of the Towers of High Sorcery. The provinces of the gods of magic, the Towers are home to wizards and their laboratories, their spellbooks and artifacts, all of which are jealously guarded, off-limits to all outsiders. That includes gods.
Especially gods.
Prior to the rise of Istar, Chemosh had never felt any inclination to enter one of the Towers. Let the wizards keep their little secrets. So long as they didn’t interfere with his clerics, his clerics did not interfere with wizards. Then came the Kingpriest and suddenly the world—and heaven—changed.
When the Kingpriest tossed the wizards of Istar out on their ears and then filled up the Tower with holy artifacts, stolen from the ruins of demolished temples, the gods were incensed. Several of the more militant, including Chemosh, proposed storming the Tower of Istar and removing their artifacts by force. The proposal was debated in heaven and eventually discarded; the idea being that this would take away the free will of the creatures they had created. Mankind must deal with mankind. The gods would not intervene, not unless it became clear to them that the foundation of the universe itself was threatened. Chemosh wanted his artifacts returned to him, but he wanted the destruction of the Kingpriest and Istar more, and so he went along with the others. He agreed to wait and see.
Mankind dropped the ball. They went along with the Kingpriest, supported him. The universe gave a dangerous lurch. The gods had to act.
They rained down destruction on the world. Clerics vanished. The Age of Despair began. The gods kept apart, remained aloof, waiting for the people to return to them. Chemosh might have secured his artifacts then, but he was hip-deep in a dark and secret conspiracy meant to return Queen Takhisis to the world. He dared not do anything that might draw attention to their plot. When the War of the Lance started and the other gods were preoccupied, Chemosh entered the Blood Sea to search for the Tower. It was gone, buried deep beneath the shifting sands of the ocean floor.
Now the Tower had been rebuilt and he had no doubt that his artifacts and those of the other gods must be somewhere inside. They had not been destroyed. He could sense his own power emanating from those he had blessed and in some instances forged. His essence was quite faint, not strong enough to help him locate his holy relicts, but it was there—a whiff of death amidst the roses.
Chemosh irritably rubbed a smudge of dust off the sleeve of his coat. He was thinking over what to do, whether it would be worth his while to institute a search.
A quiet voice, soft with threat and malice, broke the silence. “What are you doing in my Tower, Lord of Death?”
A gibbous head, pale as corpse light, hung disembodied in the darkness. Lidless eyes were darker than the dark; thick full lips pushed in and out.
“Nuitari,” said Chemosh. “I guessed I might find you hanging about here somewhere. I haven’t seen much of you lately. Now I know why. You’ve been busy.”
Nuitari glided silently forward. His pallid hands slipped from out the folds of the sleeves of his velvet black robes. The long, delicate fingers were in constant motion, rippling, grasping like the tentacles of a jelly fish.
“I asked a question—what are you doing here, Lord of Death?” Nuitari repeated.
“I was out for a stroll—”
“At the bottom of the Blood Sea?”
“—and I happened to pass by. I couldn’t help but notice the improvements you’ve made to the neighborhood.” Chemosh glanced languidly about. “Nice place you’ve got here. Mind if I take a look around?”
“Yes, I mind,” said Nuitari. The lidless eyes never blinked. “I think you had better leave.”
“I will,” said Chemosh, pleasantly, “as soon as you return my artifacts.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Then let me refresh your memory. I am here to recover the artifacts that were stolen from me by the Kingpriest and secreted in this Tower.”
“Ah, those artifacts. I fear that you must go home empty-handed. They were all most regrettably destroyed, burned to ashes in the fire that consumed the Tower.”
“Why is it I don’t believe you?” Chemosh asked. “Perhaps because you are a consummate liar.”
“Those artifacts were destroyed,” repeated Nuitari. He slid his restless hands inside the sleeves of his robes.
“I wonder”—Chemosh eyed Nuitari intently—“do your cousins, Solinari and Lunitari, know about this little construction project of yours? Two Towers of High Sorcery remain in the world—the Tower at Wayreth and the Tower of Palanthas that is hidden in Nightlund. The three of you share custody of those Towers. My guess is you’re not sharing custody of this one. Taking advantage of the confusion when we returned to the world, you decided to strike out on your own. Your cousins will find out eventually, but only after you’ve moved in your Black Robes and all their spellbooks and paraphernalia so that it would be difficult for anyone to dislodge you. I doubt your cousins will be very happy.”
Nuitari remained silent, the lidless eyes dark and impassive.
“And what about the other gods?” Chemosh continued, expanding on his subject. “Kiri-Jolith? Gilean? Mishakal? And your father, Sargonnas? Now, there’s a god who will be very interested in hearing about your new Tower—especially since it’s located underneath the sea route his ships take to Ansalon. Why, I’ll bet the horned god sleeps easier at night, secure in the knowledge that a bunch of Black-Robe wizards who have always despised him are working their dark arts beneath the keels of his ships. Then there’s Zeboim, your dear sister? Should I go on?”
Nuitari’s thick, full lips curled in a sneer. Although Zeboim and Nuitari were twins, sister and brother despised each other as they despised the parent gods who had given them life.
“None of the other gods knows, do they?” Chemosh concluded. “You’ve kept this a secret from us all.”
“I do not see that it is any of your business,” Nuitari responded, the lidless eyes narrowing.
Chemosh shrugged. “Personally, I don’t care what you do, Nuitari. Build Towers to your heart’s content. Build them in every ocean from here to Taladas. Build them on the dark moon, if you’ve a mind. Oops, bad joke.” He grinned. “I won’t say a word to anyone if you give me back my artifacts.
&nb
sp; “After all,” Chemosh added with a deprecating gesture, “they are holy artifacts, sacred relicts, blessed by my touch. They’re of no use to you or your wizards. They could, in fact, be quite deadly if any of your Black Robes was so foolish as to try to mess with them. You might as well hand them over.”
“Ah, but they are useful to me,” Nuitari said coolly. “Their purchasing power alone is worth something, as you have just proven by making an offer for them.”
Nuitari raised a thin, pale finger, emphasizing a point. “Always provided that such artifacts exist, which, so far as I know, they do not.”
“So far as you know?” It was Chemosh’s turn to sneer and Nuitari’s turn to shrug.
“I have been extremely busy. I haven’t time to look about. Now, my lord, much as I’ve enjoyed our conversation, you really should leave.”
“Oh, I intend to,” said Chemosh. “My first stop will be heaven, where the other gods will be fascinated to hear about what a busy boy you’ve been. First, though, since I’ve come all this way, I’ll have a look around.”
“Some other time, perhaps,” Nuitari returned, “when I am at leisure to entertain you.”
“No need to put yourself out, God of the Dark Moon.” Chemosh made a graceful gesture. “I’ll just stroll around on my own. Who knows? I might happen to stumble across my holy relics. If so, I’ll just take them along with me. Get them out of your way.”
“You waste your time,” said Nuitari.
He motioned to a large wooden chest that stood on the floor. The chest was oblong, about as long as a human is tall, and made of roughhewn oak planks. The chest had two silver handles, one on either end, and a golden latch in front to facilitate raising the lid. No lock, no key. Runes were burned into the wood on the sides.
“Try to open it,” suggested Nuitari.
Chemosh, playing along, put his hand to the handle in front. The chest began to glow with a faint reddish radiance. The lid would not budge. Nuitari flicked his pallid hand at one of the closed doors. It, too, began to give off the same reddish glow.
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