Amber and Blood

by Margaret Weis

  “Did you hear that?” Nightshade asked suddenly. “It sounded like a yell.”

  Rhys hadn’t heard anything except roaring thunder and howling wind and crashing waves. The kender had sharp senses, however, and Rhys had learned not to discount them. He was further convinced by the fact that Atta also heard something. Her head was up, her ears pricked. The dog stared intently out into storm.

  “Wait here,” said Rhys.

  He walked out of the grotto and the wind smote him with such force that even standing upright was difficult.

  The wind blew his long dark hair back from his face, whipped his orange robes around his thin body. The salt spray stung his eyes, the sand tore at his flesh. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered about. The lightning flashes were almost constant. He saw the black waves with their white, foaming tops and the seaweed being blow along the empty beach and that was all. He was about to return to the shelter of the grotto when he heard a cry, this time sounding behind him.

  A gust of wind caught hold of Nightshade, sending him staggering backward for a few feet, then knocking him flat.

  Rhys braced himself against the gale and, reaching down his hand, grabbed hold of Nightshade and hoisted the kender to his feet.

  “I told you to wait inside!” Rhys shouted.

  “I thought you were talking to Atta!” Nightshade yelled back. The kender turned around to the dog, whose ears were flat against her head from the force of the wind. He shook his finger at her. “Atta, stay inside!”

  Rhys was hanging on to Nightshade, who was trying to stand against the wind and not having much luck, when he heard the cry.

  “There it is again!” shouted Nightshade.

  “Yes, but where?” Rhys returned.

  He looked at Atta. She was standing at alert, her ears forward, her tail motionless. She was staring out to sea.

  The cry came again, shrill and clear, cutting through the howling wind. Squinting his eyes against the spray and sand, Rhys again peered into the night.

  “Blessed Majere!” he gasped. “Wait here!” he ordered Nightshade, who didn’t have much choice in the matter, since every time he stood up the wind knocked him down again.

  In the last flash of lightning, Rhys had seen a child, a little girl, to judge by the two long braids whipping out in front of her, floundering waist-deep in the wind-tossed sea. He lost her momentarily in the darkness and prayed for another lightning strike. A sheet of white-purple light flared across the sky and there was the girl, waving her arms and crying out for help. She was desperately trying to make it to shore, fighting the vicious rip current trying to drag her back out to sea.

  Rhys fought against the wind, wiping his eyes free of the spray, keeping his gaze fixed on the child, who continued to struggle toward the shore. She was almost there when a foaming wave crashed over the girl’s head and she vanished. Rhys stared at the boiling froth, praying for the child to emerge, but he saw nothing.

  He tried to increase his speed, but the wind was blowing off the sea, driving him backward a step for every two he took forward. He struggled on, continuing to search for the child as he fought his way toward the water. He saw no one, and he began to fear the sea had claimed its victim, when suddenly he saw the girl’s body, black in the silver moonlight, lying on the shore. The child lay face down in the shallow water, her long braids floating around her.

  The wind ceased to blow so suddenly that Rhys, pushing against it, overbalanced and pitched forward onto the wet sand. He looked about in wonder. The lightning had flickered and gone out. The thunder had fallen silent. The storm clouds had vanished, as though sucked in by a giant breath. The red light of dawn glimmered on the horizon. In the dark sky above him, the two moons, Lunitari and Solinari, still kept watch.

  He didn’t like this sudden calm. It was like being in the eye of the hurricane. Though this storm had abated and blue sky could be seen above, it was as if the gods were waiting for the back end of the storm to slam into him.

  Recovering from his fall, Rhys ran along the wet shore toward the child, who lay unmoving in the surf.

  He rolled her over onto her back. Her eyes were closed. She was not breathing. Rhys remembered with vivid clarity the time he’d nearly drowned after jumping off the cliffs of Storm’s Keep. Zeboim had saved him then, and he used her technique now to try to save the child. He pumped the little girl’s arms, all the while praying to Majere. The child gave a cough and a gasp. Spewing sea water out of her mouth, she sat up, still coughing.

  Rhys pounded her on the back. More sea water came up. The girl caught her breath.

  “Thanks, mister,” she gasped, then she fainted.

  “Rhys!” Nightshade was yelling, running across the sand, with Atta racing ahead of him. “Did you save her? Is she dead? I hope not. Wasn’t that funny the way the storm stopped—”

  Nightshade came dashing up to Rhys’s side, just as the sun cleared the horizon and shone full on the little girl’s face. The kender gave a strangled gasp and skidded to a halt. He stood, staring.

  “Rhys, do you know who—” he began.

  “No time for talking, Nightshade!” Rhys said sharply.

  The girl’s lips were blue. Her breathing was ragged. She was wearing nothing except a plain cotton shift, no shoes or stockings. Rhys had to find some means to warm her or she would die of exposure. He rose to his feet, the limp child in his arms.

  “I’ll take her back to the cave. I need to build a fire to warm her. You might find some dry wood behind the dunes—”

  “But, Rhys, listen—”

  “I will in a minute,” Rhys said, striving to be patient. “Right now, you need to find dry wood. I have to warm her—”

  “Rhys, look at her!” Nightshade said, floundering along behind him. “Don’t you recognize her? It’s her! Mina!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous—”

  “I’m not,” Nightshade said solemnly. “Believe me, I wish I was. I know this must sound crazy, since the last time we saw Mina she was a grown-up and now she’s grown down, but I’m pretty sure it’s her. I know because I feel the same way when I look at this little girl that I felt when I first saw Mina. I feel sad.”

  “Nightshade,” said Rhys wearily, “firewood.”

  “If you don’t believe me,” Nightshade added, “look at Atta. She knows her, too.”

  Rhys had to admit that Atta was acting strangely. Ordinarily, the dog would have come leaping to him, eager to help, ready to lick the child’s cold cheek or nudge her limp hand—healing remedies known and trusted by all dogs. But Atta was keeping her distance. She stood braced on stiff legs, her hackles raised, her upper lip curled back over her teeth. Her brown eyes, fixed on the girl, were not friendly. She growled, low in her throat.

  “Atta! Stop that!” Rhys reprimanded.

  Atta quit growling, but she did not relax her defensive stance. She gazed at Rhys with a hurt and exasperated expression; hurt that he didn’t trust her and exasperated, as though she’d like to nip some sense into him.

  Rhys looked down at the child he held in his arms, took a good, long look at her. She was a girl of about six years of age. A pretty child with long red braids that dangled down over his arm. Her face was pale, and she had a light smattering of freckles over her nose. Thus far, he had no reason to think either the dog or the kender were right. And then she stirred and moaned in his arms. Her eyes, which had been closed, partially opened, and he could see, beneath the half-closed lids, glints of amber.

  A cold qualm shook Rhys, and he gasped softly.

  “Told you so,” Nightshade said. “Didn’t we, Atta?”

  The dog growled again.

  “If want my advice, you’ll dump her back into the ocean,” Nightshade said. “Only last night she was going to torture you because you wouldn’t tell her who she was when you told her you didn’t know the answer and she was going to make me and Atta die in torment. Remember?”

  Rhys recovered from his initial shock. “I’m not going to
dump her in the ocean. A lot of people have red hair.”

  He continued toward the grotto.

  Nightshade sighed. “I didn’t think he’d listen. I’ll go find firewood. C’mon, Atta.”

  The kender set off, not very enthusiastically. Atta cast a worried glance at Rhys, then trotted along after the kender.

  Rhys carried the child inside the grotto, which wasn’t very comfortable and certainly not very dry; the rock-strewn floor was still wet, and there were puddles here and there. But at least they were out of the wind. A blazing fire would soon warm the chill cavern.

  The girl stirred and moaned again. Rhys chaffed her cold hands and smoothed back her wet, auburn hair.

  “Child,” he said gently. “Don’t be frightened. You are safe.”

  The girl opened her eyes, amber eyes, clear amber, like honey, golden and pure. The same eyes as Mina’s, except no trapped souls, as he had seen in Mina’s eyes.

  “I’m cold,” the girl complained, shivering.

  “My friend has gone to get wood for a fire. You’ll soon be warm.”

  The girl stared at him, at his orange robes. “You’re a monk.” She frowned, as though trying to remember something. “Monks go around helping people, don’t they? Will you help me?”

  “Gladly, child,” Rhys said. “What do you want of me?”

  The girl’s face grew pinched. She was now fully awake and shivering so that her teeth chattered. Her grip on his hand tightened.

  “I’m lost,” she said. Her lower lip quivered. Her eyes filled with tears. “I ran away from home and now I can’t find my way back.”

  Rhys was relieved. Nightshade was wrong. The girl was likely some fisherman’s child who’d been caught out in the storm, been swept out to sea. She could not have walked far. Her village must close by. He pitied her parents. They must be frantic with worry.

  “Once you are warm, I will take you, child,” Rhys promised. “Where do you live?”

  The girl curled up in a shivering ball. Her eyes closed and she yawned. “You’ve probably never heard of it,” she said sleepily. “It’s a place called …”

  Rhys had to lean close to her hear her drowsy whisper.

  “Godshome.”

  he gods had watched in astonishment and alarm as a mortal, Mina, reached down to the bottom of the Blood Sea, seized hold of the newly restored Tower of High Sorcery, and dragged it up from beneath the waves to present as a gift to her lover, Chemosh.

  Obviously, Mina was not mortal. The most powerful wizards who had ever lived could not have accomplished such a feat, nor could the most powerful clerics. Only a god could have done that, and now all the gods were thrown into turmoil and consternation, trying to determine what was going on.

  “Who is this new god?” the other gods clamored. “Where does she come from?”

  Their fear was, of course, that she was some alien god, some interloper who, striding across the heavens, had come upon their world.

  Their fears were allayed. She was one of theirs.

  Majere held the answers.

  “How long have you known?” Gilean demanded of the Monk God.

  Gilean was the leader of the Gods of Gray, the neutral gods, who moderated between light and darkness. The neutral gods were strongest now, their numbers increased due to the self-imposed exile of Paladine, leader of the Gods of Light, and the banishment of Queen Takhisis, leader of the Gods of Darkness. Gilean wore the aspect of a scholarly sage, a middle-aged man of keen intellect and cool, discompassionate eyes.

  “Many, many eons, God of the Book,” Majere replied.

  The God of Wisdom, Majere wore orange robes and carried no weapon. His aspect was generally mild and serene, though now it was fraught with sorrow and regret.

  “Why keep this secret?” Gilean asked.

  “It was not mine to reveal,” Majere replied. “I gave my solemn oath.”

  “To whom?”

  “To one who is no longer among us.”

  The gods were silent.

  “I assume you mean Paladine,” Gilean stated. “But there is another god who is no longer with us. Does this have something to do with her?”

  “Takhisis?” Majere spoke sharply. His voice hardened. “Yes, she was responsible for this.”

  Chemosh spoke. “Takhisis’s last words, before the High God came to take her, were these: ‘You are making a mistake! What I have done cannot be undone. The curse is among you. Destroy me and you destroy yourselves.’ ”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this?” Gilean asked, glowering at the Lord of Bones.

  Chemosh was a vain and handsome god, with long flowing black hair and dark eyes, empty and cold as the graves of the accursed dead over which he presided.

  “The Dark Queen was always making threats.” Chemosh shrugged. “Why was this one any different?”

  Gilean had no answer. He fell silent and the other gods were also silent, waiting.

  “The fault is mine,” Majere said at last. “I acted for the best. Or so I believed.”

  Mina lay so cold and still on the battlements. Chemosh wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he dared not. Not with all of them watching him. He said to Majere, “Is she dead?”

  “She is not dead, because she cannot die.” Majere looked at each of them, each and every one. “We have been blind. But now you see the truth.”

  “We see, but we do not understand.”

  “You do,” said Majere. He folded his hands and gazed out into the firmament. “You don’t want to.”

  He did not see the stars. He saw the stars’ first light.

  “It began at the beginning of time,” he said. “And it began in joy.” He sighed deeply. “And now, because I did not speak, it could end in bitter sorrow.”

  “Explain yourself, Majere!” growled Reorx, smoothing his long beard. The God of the Forge, whose aspect was that of a dwarf, in honor of his favorite race, was not known for his patience. “We have no time for your blathering!”

  Majere shifted his gaze from the time’s beginning to the present. He looked down at Mina.

  “She is a god who does not know she is a god. She is a god who was duped into thinking she is human.”

  Majere paused, as if to gain control of himself. When he spoke, his voice soft with anger, “She is a god of Light, tricked by Takhisis into serving Darkness.”

  Majere fell silent. The other gods shouted questions, demanded answers. All the while, Mina lay unconscious on the battlements of Chemosh’s castle as the storm of anger and bafflement, accusations and recriminations raged around her. Such was the turmoil that when Mina woke, no one noticed. She stared at the beautiful, radiant, dark and awful beings stalking the heavens, flinging bolts of lightning and shaking the ground with their fury. She heard them shouting her name, but all she understood was that this was her fault.

  A memory, a dim memory, from a time long, long passed, stirred in Mina and brought one terrible understanding.

  I was never meant to wake.

  Mina leapt to her feet and before any one could stop her, she jumped from the battlement and plunged silently, without a cry, into the crashing sea.

  Zeboim screamed and ran to the edge of the wall to look into the waves. Storm winds tore at the sea-foam hair of the sea goddess and swirled her green gown about her. She watched the foaming water, but saw no sign of Mina. Turning, she cast a scathing glance and pointed an accusing finger at Chemosh.

  “She’s dead and it is your fault!” She gestured into the storm-lashed water. “You rejected her love. Men are such beasts!”

  “Spare us the drama, Sea Witch,” Chemosh muttered. “Mina’s not dead. She can’t die. She’s a god.”

  “She may not be able to die. But she can still be wounded,” said Mishakal softly.

  The storm winds ceased. The lightning bolts sizzled and went out. The thunder rolled over the waves and was silenced.

  Mishakal, Goddess of Healing, the White Lady, as she was now known on Krynn, for her pure white gown
and long white hair, walked over to Majere. She extended her hands to him. Majere took hold of her hands and gazed sorrowfully into her eyes.

  “I know you keep your vow to protect one who is now gone,” said Mishakal. “You have my permission to speak.”

  “I knew it!” Sargonnas snarled. The God of Vengeance and Leader of the Darkness strode forward. His aspect had the head of a bull and the body of a man after the minotaur, his chosen race. “This is a conspiracy among the Do-Gooders! We will have the truth and have it now!”

  “Sargonnas is right. The time for silence is ended,” said Gilean.

  “I will speak,” said Majere, “since Mishakal has given me leave.”

  Yet he did not say anything, not immediately. He stood gazing down at the water that had closed over Mina’s head. Sargonnas growled impatiently, but Gilean silenced him.

  “You said: ‘She is a god who does not know she is a god. She is a god who was tricked into thinking she is human.’ ”

  “That is true,” Majere answered.

  “And you said also, ‘She is a god of Light, tricked by Takhisis into serving Darkness.’ ”

  “And that is also true.” Majere looked at Mishakal, and he smiled a rare smile.

  “Mina’s story begins in the Age of Starbirth with the creation of the world. At that time—the first and last and only time in the history of the world—all of us came together to use our power to create a wonder and a marvel—this world.”

  The other gods were silent, remembering.

  “In that one single moment of creation, we watched Reorx take hold of Chaos and forge out of it a great globe, separating the light from the darkness, the land from the sea, the heavens from the earth and in that moment we were one. We all of us knew joy. That moment of creation gave birth to a being—a child of light.”

  “We knew nothing of this!” Sargonnas growled, astonished and angered.

  “Only three of us knew,” said Majere. “Paladine, his consort, Mishakal, and myself. The girl appeared in our midst, a radiant being, more beautiful than the stars.”