Amber and Blood

by Margaret Weis

  “We care nothing about Mina,” stated Lunitari.

  “She has naught to do with magic. Leave us out of this,” added Solinari.

  “Oh, but she does have something you want,” said Morgion, God of Disease, speaking in his soft, sickly voice. “Mina has in her possession a Tower of High Sorcery. And she has locked you out!”

  “Is that true?” asked Gilean, frowning.

  “It is true,” Solinari admitted. “Yet even if we are forced to take this oath, we deem it only fair that we be allowed to try to reclaim the tower, which is rightly ours and which she has basely stolen.”

  “Losers weepers,” said Hiddukel with a chuckle.

  “I have as much right to that tower as they do,” stated Zeboim. “After all, it is standing in my ocean.”

  “I built it,” cried Nuitari, seething. “I raised it up from charred ruins! And you should all of you know,” he added with a baleful glance at Chemosh, “that inside that tower, in its depths, is the Solio Febalas, the Hall of Sacrilege. Inside that Hall are many holy artifacts and relics thought to have been lost during the Cataclysm. Your holy artifacts and relics.”

  The gods were no longer smiling. They stared at Nuitari in amazement.

  “You should have told us that the Hall had been found,” said Mishakal, blazing with white flame.

  “And you should have told us about Mina,” Nuitari returned. He clasped his hands over his black robes. “I say that makes us even.”

  “Are our blessed objects safe?” Kiri-Jolith demanded.

  “I cannot say,” Nuitari returned with a shrug. “They were, while the tower under my control. I don’t vouch for them now. Especially as the tower was currently being overrun by the Beloved.”

  The gods turned their gazes onto Chemosh.

  “That was not my fault!” he cried. “Those ghoulish fiends are her creations!”

  “Enough!” said Gilean. “The only thing this proves is that it is more important now than ever that all of us take this oath. Or will each of you risk taking the chance that another might succeed where you fail?”

  The gods grumbled, but, in the end, they agreed. They had no choice. Each was forced to take the oath if for no other reason than to make sure the others took it, though each was perhaps privately thinking how he or she might twist it, or at least bend it a little.

  “Place your hands on the Book,” said Gilean, calling the sacred volume into being, “and swear by your love for the High God who brought us into being, and your fear of Chaos, who would destroy us, that you will neither threaten, cajole, seduce, plead, or bargain with the goddess known as Mina in order to try to influence her decision.”

  The Gods of Light each placed a hand upon the Book, as did the Gods of Neutrality. When it came the turn of the Gods of Darkness, Sargonnas thumped down his hand, as did Morgion. Zeboim hesitated.

  “I’m sure my only concern,” she said, dabbing a salt tear from her eye, “is for that poor, unhappy girl. She’s like a daughter to me.”

  “Just swear, damn it,” growled Sargonnas.

  Zeboim sniffed and put her hand on the Book.

  After her, last of all, came Chemosh.

  “I so swear,” he said.

  eath had been good to Ausric Krell, and he wanted it back.

  Krell had once been a powerful death knight. Cursed by the Sea Goddess, Zeboim, he had known immortality. He could kill with a single word. He was so fearsome and horrible to look upon, in his black armor with the ram’s head skull helm, that some poor wretches had dropped down dead of terror at the mere sight of his awful visage.

  No longer. When he looked in the mirror, he did not see reflected back the red-glowing eyes of undeath. He saw the squinty pig-eyes of a middle-aged human male with heavy jowls and a sullen brutish face, spindly limbs, flabby flesh, and a paunch. Krell, the death knight, had once reigned supreme on Storm’s Keep, a mighty fortress in the north of Ansalon. (At least, that was how he remembered it. In truth, he’d been a prisoner there, and he’d hated it, but not so much as he hated what he was now.)

  Of all the undead who walk Krynn, a death knight is one of the most fearsome. Cursed by the gods, a death knight is forced to exist in a world of the living, hating them, even as he fiercely envies them. A death knight is unable to sleep or find rest. He is a prisoner of his own immortality, forced to reflect constantly on his crimes and the wayward passions that brought him to this unhappy state, until he comes to repent and his soul can move onto the next stage of its journey.

  That, at least, was the gods’ plan.

  Unfortunately, with Krell the plan hadn’t worked. In life, Krell had been a traitor, a murderer, a thief. He had duped, deceived, destroyed, and betrayed all who had ever trusted him. Possessed of no great intellect, Krell had relied on low cunning, small-minded trickery, a complete lack of conscience, and brute strength to batter his way through life. Krell was a bully and, as with all bullies, he had lived every day in secret terror and died a screaming, craven coward at the hands of the Sea Goddess, Zeboim, who could never forgive him for having slain her beloved son.

  Deeming that his torment had been too brief, Zeboim had cursed Krell, transforming him into a death knight, intending he should suffer for eternity. Instead, to her ire, Krell had actually enjoyed undeath. He wielded lethal power with cruel delight. He became the consummate bully, finding pleasure in tormenting and terrorizing and ultimately slaying those mortals who were either foolish or brave enough to encounter him. And he could inflict his punishment without the constant fear that someone bigger and stronger would do the same to him.

  True, Zeboim had continued to be a thorn in his skeletal side, but Krell had finally solved that problem. He had sworn to serve Chemosh, Lord of Death, and in return, Chemosh had offered him protection from the Sea Goddess.

  And now all that was gone. Death had been snatched from him by that cursed bitch, Mina. He still couldn’t understand what had happened. He’d been going to snap her neck. It had all seemed so easy. She had fought him with bestial fury and somehow (he wasn’t clear on just how it had happened) she had cursed him by giving him back his life.

  Krell was not only alive, he was a prisoner inside his room in Chemosh’s castle, fearful of leaving because of the Beloved who roamed the castle and who were thirsting to kill him in a most unpleasant manner. Krell could hear outside his window the rumbling voices of the gods, but he was far too absorbed in bemoaning his own fate to pay much attention to their clamor.

  Krell was strong and brutal enough to hold his own against most humans, but he could not fight the Beloved—those heinous undead beings now roaming the castle wailing for Mina. No weapon could kill the Beloved, at least no weapon that Krell had ever found. He had tried to hack them apart with his sword. He had battered them with his fists and even used his formidable magical power on them to no avail. Hacked apart, they put themselves back together and they shook off magic like a duck shakes off water. And now, the Beloved were capable of killing him. Indeed, they seemed to bear him some sort of personal grudge. He’d been forced to throttle a couple of them on his way here, barely managing to escape with his life. Now they lurked about outside his door, keeping him a prisoner in his own bedroom. All this while, outside his window, the gods raged.

  Something about Mina being a god … Krell snorted, thought it over. True she had done this to him, taken away his power, but he was certain Zeboim was behind it. The two females were in this together. It was a conspiracy against him. He’d get back at the Sea Goddess, and that Mina-bitch, as well.

  Such were Krell’s brooding thoughts, as he sat in the room, wrapped in a blanket for warmth, for his wonderful, shining, magical armor had vanished. He was thinking with cruel pleasure what he would do to Mina when he finally managed to lay his hands on her when a voice interrupted his blood-drenched day dreams.

  “Who’s there?” Krell snarled.

  “Your master, you dolt,” said Chemosh.

  “My lord,” said Krell, but h
e said it with a sneer. Once he would have groveled, but he was in no mood to play the toady. Let Chemosh polish his own boots. What had the god done for him? Nothing. Perhaps the Lord of Death had even been in on the plot to destroy him.

  “Stop sitting there feeling sorry for yourself,” Chemosh said coldly. “You must find Mina.”

  No one wanted to find Mina more than Ausric Krell. He almost jumped at the chance, but then he checked himself. The Krell of low cunning was back. He could hear in his master’s voice an underlying hint of urgency, perhaps even of desperation. Krell could take advantage of the situation to do a little bargaining. He was in a position of power, after all. He had nothing left to lose.

  “They say this Mina is now a god, my lord,” Krell pointed out. “And I am a poor, weak mortal.” He gnashed his teeth as he spoke.

  “Do this for me and I will make you one of my clerics, Krell. I will give you holy powers—”

  “Cleric!” Krell snorted in disgust. “I don’t want to be one of your sniveling clerics, running about in a black dress and a fright mask.”

  “Do not push me, Krell—”

  “Or you’ll do what to me?” Krell roared angrily. “You came to me for help, my lord. If you want my help, change me back into a death knight.”

  “I can’t just ‘change’ you into a death knight,” Chemosh said testily. “It’s not like changing one’s clothes. It’s far more complicated, involves a curse—”

  “Then go find Mina yourself,” Krell said sullenly.

  Hunched in his blanket, he stumped over to his bed and sat down.

  “I cannot change you into a death knight, but I will grant you the powers of a Bone Acolyte,” Chemosh offered.

  “A bony what?” Krell asked suspiciously.

  “I don’t have time to explain! I’m rather busy at the moment. I’m being forced to take a godly oath. But you will be powerful. I promise.”

  Krell thought this over. Chemosh would have to be true to his word if he wanted Krell to succeed.

  “Very well,” said Krell grudgingly. “Make me into this Bony Acolyte. Where do I find Mina?”

  “I have no idea. She jumped off the battlements into the sea.”

  “Then you want me to recover her body, my lord?” Krell was disappointed.

  “She’s a god, you idiot! She can’t die! By the Skull, I think I would be better off giving orders to the bed post! I have to leave now—”

  “Then where should I start my search, my lord?” Krell demanded, but he received no answer.

  Krell had an idea, however. Mina’s monk, the one he’d found inside the grotto. Krell had first thought the monk was her lover. Now he wasn’t so sure. Still, she seemed to have taken an unusual interest in him. She’d sneaked out of Chemosh’s castle to meet up with him in secret in a grotto. Perhaps she’d gone back to find him. The last Krell had seen of the monk, he’d been chained to a wall in the grotto. Not likely he would be going anywhere.

  Krell stood up, then realized that he couldn’t very well confront Mina wrapped in a blanket.

  “My lord!” Krell shouted. “A Bone Acolyte! Remember?”

  Chemosh did remember. He granted Krell the powers of a Bone Acolyte and, though he wasn’t quite as formidable as he had been when he was death knight, Krell was pleased with the results.

  ightshade entered the grotto staggering beneath a load of driftwood. He dumped it down on the floor and then stood staring at the girl, who lay unmoving on the cold stones as Rhys chafed her chill hands, trying to warm them. Atta trotted inside, sniffed at the girl, growled, and retreated to a far corner.

  “We need tinder to start the fire,” said Rhys. “Perhaps some seaweed. If you could hurry …”

  Muttering under his breath, Nightshade summoned Atta and the two went back out. Rhys hoped he would be quick about his task. The girl’s skin was cold and clammy to the touch, her heartbeat slow and sluggish, her lips and fingernails blue. He would have wrapped her in his own robes, but they were as wet as her cotton smock.

  He glanced around the grotto that had once been a shrine to Zeboim. An altar to the goddess stood at the far end. He had paid it scant attention when the minotaur had first brought him here. He’d had far more urgent matters to think about, such as being chained to a wall and threatened with torture and death. Now, hoping he might find something of use, he left the child and went back to look at it more closely.

  The altar was crudely carved out of a single piece of red-and-black striped granite. A conch shell had been placed reverently on the altar that was adorned with a frayed, sea-green piece of silk. Breathing a prayer of thanks to Majere and another prayer asking forgiveness of Zeboim for defiling her altar, Rhys lifted up the shell, removed the cloth, then carefully put the shell back.

  Rhys took off the child’s sopping-wet smock, rubbed her dry with the silk cloth, and wrapped her up in it, winding it around her much like the cocoon from which the fabric had been spun. The girl ceased to shiver. Some color came to her pallid cheeks, the blue faded from her lips.

  “Thank you, Zeboim,” said Rhys softly.

  “You’re not very welcome,” said the Sea Goddess, sharply. “Just make certain you scrub my cloth and put it back when you’ve finished.”

  Zeboim entered the grotto quietly, subdued—for her—with a only a moderate breeze stirring the blue-green dress that frothed about her bare feet. She cast a bored glance at the girl on the floor.

  “Where did you dredge up the kid?”

  “I found her washed up on the shore during the storm,” Rhys replied, watching the goddess closely.

  “Who is she?” Zeboim asked, though she didn’t seem to much care.

  “I have no idea,” Rhys replied. He paused, then said quietly, “Do you know her, Majesty?”

  “Me? No, why should I?”

  “No reason, Majesty,” said Rhys, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Nightshade must have been mistaken.

  Stepping over the girl, Zeboim came to Rhys and knelt down before him. She reached out with her hand, caressed his cheek.

  “My own dear monk!” she said in dulcet tones. “I am so glad to see you safe and sound! I’ve been consumed with worry for you.”

  “I thank you for your concern, Majesty,” said Rhys warily. “How may I serve you?”

  “Serve me?” Zeboim was dismayed. “No, no. I came merely to inquire about your health. Where is your friend, the … um … dear little kender. And that mutt. Dog. I mean, dog. Sweet dog. Oh, my dear monk, you’re so cold and wet. Let me warm you.”

  Zeboim fussed about him. Drying his robes with a touch of her hand, she lit the pile of driftwood with a flick of her finger. All the while, Rhys waited in silence, not fooled by her blandishments. The last he’d seen of the Sea Goddess, she had told him she would watch in glee as Mina put him to death.

  “There, isn’t that better?” Zeboim asked solicitously.

  “Thank you, Majesty,” Rhys said.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you—”

  “Perhaps tell me why you’ve come,” Rhys suggested.

  Zeboim looked annoyed, then said abruptly, “Oh, very well. If you must know, I’m looking for Mina. It occurred to me she may have come to you, seeing that she found you interesting. I’m sure I don’t know why. I think you’re as dull as dishwater. But Mina couldn’t stop talking about you, and I thought she might be here.”

  She glanced about the grotto, and shrugged. “It seems I was mistaken. If you see her, you will let me know. For all the grand times we had together—”

  As she started to leave, her gaze fell again on the child wrapped in the altar cloth. Zeboim halted, staring.

  The girl lay on her side, curled up in a ball. Her face was hidden by the cloth, but her tangled red braids were clearly visible in the firelight. The goddess looked at the girl, then she looked at Rhys.

  Zeboim gasped. Swooping down on the girl, the Sea Goddess grasped hold of the altar cloth and dragged it from the child’s face. Zeboim gras
ped the girl’s chin and wrenched her face to the firelight. The girl woke with a cry.

  “Stop it!” said Rhys sharply, intervening. “You’re hurting her.”

  Zeboim laughed wildly. “Hurt her? I couldn’t hurt her if I drove a stake through her heart! Did Majere do this? Does he think he can hide her from me with this stupid disguise—”

  “Majesty—” Rhys began.

  “Ouch!” Zeboim cried, snatching back her hand. She glared down at the child in shock. “She bit me!”

  “Come near me and I’ll bite you again!” the girl cried. “I don’t like you! Go away.”

  She wrapped herself more snugly in the altar cloth, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes.

  Zeboim sucked her bleeding hand and regarded her intently.

  “Don’t you know me, child?” she asked. “I’m Zeboim. We’re friends, you and I.”

  “I never saw you before,” said the girl.

  “Majesty,” said Rhys uneasily, “who is this girl? You seem to know her.”

  “Don’t play games with me, monk,” said Zeboim.

  “I am not playing a game, Majesty,” said Rhys earnestly.

  Zeboim shifted her gaze to him. “You’re telling the truth. You truly don’t know.” She gestured at the slumbering child. “She is Mina. Or rather, she was Mina. I have no idea who she thinks she is now.”

  “I do not understand, Majesty,” said Rhys.

  “You’re not alone,” the goddess said grimly. “Where did you find her?”

  “She was in the sea during the storm. She nearly drowned—”

  “In the sea?” Zeboim repeated, and she added in a murmur. “Of course! She jumped from the wall into the sea. And she came to you, the monk who knew her …”

  “Majesty,” said Rhys, “you need to tell me what is going on.”

  Zeboim eyed him. “My poor monk. It would be immense fun to walk out and leave you floundering in ignorance, but not even I am that cruel. I don’t have time to go into details, but I will tell you this much. This girl, this child, this Mina is a god. She is a god who does not know she is a god, a god who was tricked by Takhisis into thinking she was human. What’s more, she is a god of light who was duped into serving darkness. Are you keeping up with me so far?”