Amber and Iron

by Margaret Weis

“Open to the first page.”

  Nuitari did so.

  Mina began to recite. “ ‘Scholars have long held that because draconians were created by evil magicks, born of the perverted eggs of good dragons, draconians are evil and will forever remain so, capable of possessing no redeeming qualities. However, a study of a group of draconians who are currently settled in the city of Teyr reveals’—” She stopped. “Do I quote correctly?”

  “Word for word,” said Nuitari, and he snapped shut the book.

  “I read a lot when I was a child at the Citadel,” Mina said, and then she frowned, “or I think I must have. I can’t really remember reading. All I remember is sunshine, and the waves rushing around my feet, and Goldmoon brushing my hair.… Yet I think I must have spent a great deal of time reading, for whenever I pick up a book, I discover I have already read it.”

  “I’ll wager you have not read this one.” Nuitari caused a volume to materialize in his hand. “Spells of Conjuration for the White Robe, Advanced Levels.”

  Mina shrugged. “Why would I want to read it? I have no interest in magic.”

  “Indulge me,” said Nuitari. “Read the first chapter. If you do this for me, I will grant you permission to leave your room for an hour each day. You may walk the halls and corridors of the Tower. Under guard, of course.” For your own safety.

  Mina eyed him, as though wondering what game he was playing. She reached out her hand.

  Nuitari wasn’t certain what he expected to gain from this experiment—perhaps nothing more than the pleasure of humbling this young mortal, who was altogether too arrogant and bold for his liking.

  “I should warn you,” he said, as he handed her the book, “this has a spell on it.…”

  “What kind of spell?” Mina asked. She took the book from his hands and opened it.

  “A spell of warding,” said Nuitari, watching in wonder.

  He recalled when Caele had picked up this book. The author, a White Robed wizard, had placed a warding enchantment on it, so that only those of the White Robes could use the spells. Caele of the Black Robes had dropped the book with a curse, then spent the next few moments wringing his burned fingers and swearing. He’d sulked for a day and a half over the incident and refused to go back to help Basalt with the unpacking.

  A disciple of Chemosh would certainly not be able to handle this book without punishment.

  Mina ran her hands over the soft leather binding. She traced with her fingers the title stamped in gold on the cover.

  Nuitari wondered if the warding spell had worn off.

  Mina opened the book, studied the first page.

  “You want me to read this?” she asked, skeptical.

  “If you please,” said Nuitari.

  Shrugging, Mina began to read.

  Nuitari was astonished, and he could not remember the last time a mortal had astonished him. She was reading the words of the language of magic, a feat only a trained wizard should be able to do.

  Her pronunciation of the words of the spell was flawless. Even after hours of study, White Robed wizards would have stumbled through this spell, and here was Mina, a disciple of Chemosh, with not an ounce of moon-magic in her bones, reading it perfectly the first time. The spidery words should have clogged her mouth, stuck in her throat, burned her tongue. As he listened to her rattle them off in a bored monotone, he regarded her with amazement.

  Nuitari might have concluded that Mina was a wizardess in disguise, except for one thing.

  She read the spell flawlessly yet without understanding.

  So might a human scholar of the elven language read aloud an elven love poem. The human might know and understand and be able to pronounce the words, but only an elf could give the words the delicate shades of meaning the elven author intended. Only a wizard could give these words the life required to cast the spell. Mina knew what she was saying. She just didn’t care. Reciting the spell was an exercise to her, nothing more.

  Had his mother, Takhisis, taught Mina magic?

  Nuitari thought this over and rejected it.

  Takhisis detested magic, distrusted it. She would have been well pleased with a world that had no magic in it, for she viewed magic as a threat to her own powers. Takhisis had not taught Mina magic, and she certainly would not have learned to read the language of magic from the mystics of the Citadel of Light. Nor yet from Chemosh.

  Strange. Very strange.

  Mina halted mid-sentence, looking up at him. “Do you want me to go on? The rest is just more of the same.”

  “No, that will do,” Nuitari said. He took the book from her hands.

  “I won the wager. I have an hour of freedom.” Mina started toward the door.

  “All in good time,” Nuitari said, halting her. “I have no one to serve as your escort. Basalt is scrubbing up spilt blood and, as I said, you would find Caele a dangerous companion. I fear you must bear with me a while longer.”

  Nuitari decided to try another experiment on Mina—an oddity his Black Robes had observed about her. He secretly cast a spell on her. The spell was a simple sleep spell, one of the first learned by the novice mage. Nuitari could have cast it in an eye blink, but he did not want her to have any suspicion that he was working magic on her. Strand by strand, he plied the threads of magic back and forth, back and forth, weaving the spell over her and around her, the magic covering her like a warm blanket. All the while, he kept her engaged in idle conversation, so that she would not notice what he was doing.

  “You know nothing of your childhood,” he said to her, as he worked his magic. “According to what Basalt wrote, you were found on board an abandoned ship at the age of eight, washed up on the shore of Schallsea Isle near the Citadel of Light. You remember nothing—not your name, not your parents, nor what happened to the ship—”

  “That is true,” said Mina, frowning. She added impatiently, “I don’t see what this has to do with anything.”

  “Humor me, my dear. You were adopted by Goldmoon, a former follower of Mishakal, who had been the first to bring the worship of the true gods back to the world after the Cataclysm. She was the one who brought the power of the heart into this world during the Fifth Age. Goldmoon was a good woman, a devout woman. She took an interest in you, loved you like a daughter.”

  He finished his sleep spell and cast it on Mina. Nuitari watched and waited.

  Mina tapped her foot on the floor and looked meaningfully at the locked door. “You promised me an hour of freedom,” she said.

  “All in good time. As a child, you were curious about many things,” Nuitari said softly, his wonder and mystification growing. “You were known for asking questions. You were particularly curious about the gods. Why had they left? Where had they gone? Goldmoon mourned the absence of the gods, and because you loved her, you wanted to please her. You told her you would go seeking the gods and bring them back to her—Do you feel at all sleepy?”

  She glared at him accusingly. “I cannot sleep, not in this cage. I walk like this half the night trying to wear myself out—”

  “You should have told me sooner that you suffered from insomnia,” said Nuitari. “I can help.”

  He reached into the magic, snatching some rose petals from the ethers. As a god, he didn’t need spell components to work this magic, but mortals were impressed by them. “I will cast a sleep spell upon you. You should lie down, lest you fall and hurt yourself.”

  “Don’t you dare work your foul magic on me!” Mina cried angrily, striding toward him. “I won’t—”

  Nuitari tossed the rose petals into the air. They fell down around Mina as he recited the words of the magical sleep spell, the same spell he’d cast on her earlier.

  This time, the spell worked. Mina’s eyes closed. She swayed where she stood, then collapsed onto the floor. She would have bruised knees and elbows and a bump on her head when she awoke, but then, he’d warned her to lie down.

  He knelt beside her, studied her.

  She was, to all appe
arances, fast asleep, wrapped in the spell’s enchantment.

  He pinched her arm, hard, to see if she was shamming.

  She did not awaken.

  Nuitari rose to his feet. He cast one more look at Mina, then walked out of the room. He went over again in his mind Basalt’s report.

  The subject, Mina, is magic-resistant, Basalt had written, but with this qualification: she is resistant to the magic only if she does not know that magic is being cast upon her! Basalt had underlined this twice. If a spell is cast upon her without her knowledge, the magic—even the most powerful—has no effect upon her. However, if she is told in advance a spell is going to be cast upon her, she falls victim to it immediately, without even an attempt to defend herself.

  Basalt concluded by writing, In several hundred years of practicing magic, I have never before seen a subject behave like this, nor has my fellow wizard.

  Nuitari stood outside Caele’s room. Peering through the walls, the god could see Caele lying sprawled on his bed, indulging himself in an afternoon nap. Nuitari knocked on the door and called out the half-elf’s name in a peremptory voice. He watched, amused, to see Caele jolt to wakefulness.

  Stifling a yawn, Caele opened the door. “Master,” he said. “I was just studying my spells—”

  “Then you must have them inscribed on the backs of your eyelids,” said Nuitari. “Here, make yourself useful. Take this book back to the library for me.”

  He tossed the white-bound spellbook of the White Robed wizard at Caele.

  Instinctively, Caele caught it.

  Blue and yellow sparks leapt off the white binding. Caele yelped and dropped the spell book to the floor. He thrust his burnt fingers into his mouth.

  Nuitari grunted. Turning on his heel, he walked off.

  This was all very strange.

  hemosh stood on the battlements of his cliff-top castle, gazing moodily out at the Blood Sea and thinking of various ways to avenge himself on Nuitari, rescue Mina, steal the Tower, and obtain the valuable artifacts stashed inside. He conceived and then discarded several plans, and after considerable thought, he was forced to admit that the prospect of achieving all of these goals was likely impossible. Nuitari was clever, curse him. In the eternal khas game waged between the gods, Nuitari had anticipated and thwarted Chemosh’s every move.

  Chemosh watched the waves break on the rock-bound coast. Below those waves Mina languished, trapped inside Nuitari’s prison. Chemosh burned with a fierce desire to descend to the ocean floor and march inside and seize her. He avoided the temptation. Chemosh would not give Nuitari the satisfaction of mocking him. He would make Nuitari pay and he would get Mina back. He had yet to figure out how he was going to do this. Nuitari was in complete control of the win.

  Almost. There was one piece on the board over which no one had any control. One piece that might give Chemosh the game.

  Chemosh was thinking of this plan and that when he noted a wave, larger than the rest, rise up and move rapidly toward shore.

  “Krell,” he said to the death knight, who was skulking about in obsequious attendance upon his lord, “Zeboim is coming to pay me a visit.”

  Krell leapt a foot in the air. If steel could have lost color, his helm would have gone white.

  Chemosh pointed. “Look at that wave.”

  Zeboim stood poised gracefully atop the mammoth wave. The water curled underneath her bare feet. Her hair streamed behind her. Sea foam clothed her. She held the wind in her hands and cast it forth as she came. Gusts started to buffet the castle.

  “You might try hiding in the wine cellar,” suggested Chemosh, “or the treasure vault, or under the bed, if you can fit. I’ll keep her occupied. You had best hurry …”

  Krell needed no urging. He was already running for the stairs, his armor clanking and rattling.

  The wave broke over the battlements of Castle Beloved. The torrent of green water, tinged with red, would have drenched the god who stood there, if he had permitted the water to touch him. As it was, the sea swirled about his boots and cascaded down the stairs. He heard a roar and a clatter. Krell had been swept off his feet by the flood.

  Zeboim calmly stepped onto the battlements. With a wave of her hand, she banished the sea, sent it back to fling itself in endless fury at the base of the cliff on which he had built his castle.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Chemosh asked blandly.

  “You have my son’s soul in your possession!” said Zeboim, her aqua eyes blazing. “Free him—now!”

  “I will do so, but I want something in return. Give me Mina,” returned Chemosh coolly.

  “Do you think I carry your precious mortal around in my pocket?” Zeboim demanded. “I have no idea where your little trollop has gone. Nor do I care.”

  “You should,” Chemosh said. “Your brother is holding Mina against her will. Return Mina to me and I will free your son—if he’ll go.”

  “He will leave,” said Zeboim. “He and I had a little talk. He’s ready to move on.” She thought the deal over. “Give me that wretch Krell”—she ground his name between her teeth—“and we’ll call it a bargain.”

  Chemosh shook his head. “Only if you will give me that annoying monk of Majere. First things first, though. You must restore Mina to me. Your brother has her locked in the Tower of High Sorcery beneath the Blood Sea.”

  “Rhys Mason is not a monk of Majere,” cried Zeboim, offended. “He is my monk and he is passionately devoted to me. He adores me. He would do anything for me. If it hadn’t been for him and his loyal dedication to me, my son would still be a prisoner of that—”

  Zeboim paused. Chemosh’s last words had just hit her. “What do you mean—Tower of High Sorcery in the Blood Sea?” she blazed. “Since when?”

  “Since your brother restored the Tower of High Sorcery that was formerly at Istar. His newly built Tower is now at the bottom of the Blood Sea.”

  Zeboim scoffed. “A Tower in the Blood Sea? My sea? Without my permission? You take me for a fool, my lord.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” Chemosh feigned surprise. “Brother and sister, so loving and close. He must tell you everything. I assure you, Lady, that your brother, Nuitari, has raised up the Tower that once stood in Istar. He is restoring it to its former glory and he plans to bring Black Robe wizards beneath the ocean to populate it.”

  Zeboim was struck dumb. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. She glared at Chemosh, convinced he was lying, yet she glanced back uncertainly at the sea that seemed to quiver with her outrage.

  “The Tower is not far from here,” Chemosh added, gesturing. “A stone’s throw. Look to the east. Do you recall where the Maelstrom used to be? About one hundred miles from shore. You can see it from where we stand—”

  Zeboim looked beneath the water. Now that it had been pointed out to her, the god was right. She could see a tower.

  “How dare he?” Zeboim flared.

  Thunder shook the castle walls, causing Krell, cowering at the bottom of a well, to quake in his boots. The impetuous goddess prepared to leap headlong from the battlements.

  “We’ll see about this!”

  “Wait!” Chemosh shouted against the crashing roar of her ire. “What of our bargain?”

  “That is true.” Zeboim reflected more calmly. “We have business to finish before I shred my brother’s eyeballs and feed them to the cat. You will free my son.”

  “If you free Mina.”

  “You will give me Krell.”

  “If you give me the monk.”

  “And you,” said Zeboim haughtily, “you must put an end to these so-called Beloved.”

  “Am I to be denied disciples?” Chemosh demanded, aggrieved. “I might as well ask you to stop soliciting sailors.”

  “I do not solicit sailors,” Zeboim flared. “They choose to worship me.”

  The two stood eyeing each other, both of them thinking how to gain what he or she wanted.

  Mina will at last be in
my grasp, Zeboim reflected. I’ll have to turn her over to Chemosh eventually, but for a little while, I can use her to my own advantage.

  Should I trust the Sea Witch with Mina? Chemosh asked himself, then thought, reassured, Zeboim does not dare harm her. I will keep her son’s soul hostage until we make the trade.

  As for Krell, tormenting him has grown to be a bore, Zeboim realized. My monk is far more valuable to me—not to mention entertaining. I will keep him.

  Majere is a distinct threat, Chemosh was thinking. Zeboim is a minor irritant. If, as she claims, this meddlesome monk has switched his loyalties from the Mantis God to the Sea Witch, then Rhys Mason no longer poses a threat to me. I know how Zeboim treats her faithful. The poor man will be lucky to survive. And having Krell available to me instead of constantly hiding under the bed will be of considerable advantage.

  As for this Tower … Zeboim moved on to the next irritant. I’m not surprised at anything that moon-faced little brother of mine would do. He’ll pay for his impudence, of course. I’ll shake his Tower to ruins! But why is the Lord of Death interested in a Tower of High Sorcery? Why should Chemosh care one way or the other? There’s something more here than meets the eye. I must find out what.

  So Zeboim didn’t know about the Tower. Chemosh considered that interesting. I feared brother and sister were in league. Apparently not. What will she do? What can she do? Nuitari is not someone for even a sister to cross.

  The sea rolled, and waves came and went as the two gods viewed this deal from every angle.

  Finally, Zeboim said graciously, “I promise Mina will be restored to you. I know how to deal with my brother. Provided, of course, that you free my son’s soul in return.”

  Chemosh was likewise gracious. “I could agree to that. I want Krell for myself. In return, I give you the monk.”

  Chemosh is up to something. He is giving in too easily, Zeboim thought, eyeing him.

  She is giving in too easily. Zeboim is up to something, Chemosh thought, eyeing her.

  Still, thought both, I’m getting the best of this bargain.

  Zeboim held out her hand.

  Chemosh took her hand and they concluded the deal.