Amber and Iron

by Margaret Weis

  Krell would have sacrificed far more in order to be able to knock Mina off that high perch on which she stood, sneering down at him.

  Mina had never made any secret of the fact that she despised him for his betrayal of Lord Ariakan. Not only that, she had bested him in combat, and she had humiliated him in front of the Lord of Death. The Beloved had no respect for Krell, not even when he was hacking them to bits, but Mina had only to quirk her little finger and they fawned over her and cried out her name.

  Krell could have killed her outright, but he knew he would never get away with it. Chemosh might glower at her and curse her, but he still jumped into her bed every night. Then there was Zeboim, his archenemy, lavishing gifts on her. Zeboim might take offense if Krell murdered her darling and thus the death knight had to restrain himself, act subtly. A difficult task, but hatred can move mountains.

  Now all Krell had to do was catch Mina in an act of betrayal. He knew from sad experience what happened when you angered a god, and Krell entertained himself, as he sneaked after her, by picturing in vivid detail the torment Mina was going endure. It is amazing how long someone can live after being disemboweled.

  As Krell watched Mina enter the grotto, he leaped to the conclusion that she was going to meet a lover. Slipping close, Krell was immensely pleased to hear a man’s deep voice. He was somewhat disconcerted to hear what sounded suspiciously like the shrill voice of a kender as well, but Krell was open-minded. Whatever takes your fancy had always been his motto.

  Rubbing his gloved hands in glee, he sidled near the entrance, hoping to hear more clearly. He found, to his disappointment, that the sounds emanating from the grotto were muffled and indistinct. Krell was not worried. It didn’t matter what was truly going on in there. He could always make something up. The jealous Chemosh would be quick to believe the worst. Krell hunkered down outside the grotto and waited for Mina to emerge.

  hys lost all sense of time aboard the minotaur ship. The journey through the lashing waves of night, tossed on the storms of magic, seemed endless. Winds wailed in the rigging, sails billowed. The ship heeled precariously. The captain roared, and the crew cheered and shouted defiance into the wind.

  As for him, he spent the dark night in prayer. Rhys had quit the god, but his god had refused to quit him. He knelt on the deck, his head bowed in shame and contrition, his cheeks wet with tears, as he asked humbly for the god’s forgiveness. Though the night and the ghostly voyage were terrible, he was at peace.

  Day dawned. The ship sailed out of the sea of magic and settled down on calm water. The minotaur captain hauled the quivering kender and the limp dog out of their crates and handed them over to his crew. He looked down at Rhys, who still knelt on the deck.

  “You’ve been praying, I suppose,” said the captain with an approving nod. “Well, Brother, your prayers are answered. You made it safely through the night.”

  “I did indeed, sir,” said Rhys quietly, and he rose to his feet.

  The minotaurs manhandled them into the shore boat, then rowed them onto an unknown landing. Rhys stared down into seawater that was the color of blood. He looked into a sun rising up out of the sea, and realization smote him. During the tumultuous night, their ship had sailed through time and space. They were now on the other side of the continent.

  Rhys saw a fortress castle silhouetted against the fading stars, but that was all he saw before the minotaurs lifted him from the boat and dragged him over a wet beach and across sand dunes to the side of a cliff.

  Arriving at the site of a rockslide, the minotaurs dumped Rhys and the kender and the dog onto the ground and began to lift up gigantic boulders and hurl them aside. He did not understand their language, but he heard the words “grotto” and “Zeboim” and he had the impression, from their hushed and reverent attitude, that behind the rockslide was some sort of shrine to the sea goddess.

  At last, the minotaurs cleared the slide and entered the grotto, leaving Rhys outside with a guard. He heard banging and hammering and the clanking of iron. The minotaurs returned and picked up Rhys and hauled him inside, along with Atta and Nightshade.

  Chains dangled from iron rings that had been newly driven into the stone walls. Working by the dim light that managed to straggle inside, the minotaurs chained Rhys and Nightshade to the iron rings, tossed down a small sack of food and a bucket of water, then departed without a word, refusing to answer any of Rhys’s questions.

  The chains were attached to heavy manacles at the ankles and wrists and were long enough to allow Rhys and Nightshade limited movement. Each of them could lie down on the stone floor or stand up and walk about five paces.

  Traumatized by the events aboard ship, Atta was too shaken to stand. She rolled over onto her side and lay panting on the cavern floor. Rhys, exhausted, took the terrified dog in his arms and did his best to try to soothe her. Nightshade’s clothes were soaked, and the grotto was cold. He sat huddled in a miserable heap, trying to warm himself by slapping himself on the arms.

  “Those minotaurs weren’t ghosts, Rhys,” Nightshade said. “I thought at first they might be, but they weren’t. They were extremely real. Too real, if you ask me.” He rubbed his shoulder where one of the minotaurs had pinched him. “I’ll be black and blue for a month.”

  There was no answer, and Nightshade saw that Rhys had fallen asleep sitting up, with his back against the rock wall.

  “I guess there’s nothing else to do except sleep,” Nightshade said to himself. He closed his eyes and hoped that when he woke up, this would prove a dream, and he would find himself in the Inn of the Last Home on chicken dumpling day.…

  Rhys woke suddenly, jolted out of sleep by a bright shaft of sunlight falling on his face. The light illuminated the grotto, and he could see, at the far end, a few feet from him, an altar carved out of stone. The altar was covered with dust and had seemingly been long abandoned. Frescoes adorned the cavern walls. They were so faded he could not make out what they had been. A large conch shell adorned the altar.

  Nightshade lay on the floor beside him. Atta was curled around his legs. And there was his staff propped up against a wall some distance away. On orders of their captain, the minotaurs had brought the staff wrapped up in a large piece of leather. They had left it for him, though out of his reach.

  The grotto in which they were imprisoned was circular in shape, about twenty paces across in any direction. The ceiling was high enough that the minotaurs had been able to stand without stooping, though Rhys remembered the large beasts had experienced considerable difficulty making their way inside and down the narrow corridor that opened into this chamber.

  Fresh air flowed into the grotto from the shaft. Rhys did not remember seeing any other passages, but he was the first to admit he’d been too drained and exhausted to pay much attention.

  Atta woke refreshed from her nap. Jumping to her feet, she regarded Rhys expectantly, tail wagging, ready for him to say they were going to leave this place and head out for the road. Rhys rose stiffly to his feet, chains clanking. The sound frightened Atta. She jumped back away from him, as the chains dragged across the stone floor. Then, warily, she crept forward to give the chains a sniff and watched in puzzled wonderment as Rhys, grimacing from the stiffness in his back and neck, hobbled across the floor to the water bucket.

  The minotaurs had left a tin cup for dipping and drinking. Rhys gave Atta water and then drank himself. The water was brackish but slaked his thirst. He glanced at the food sack, but the smell was rank and he decided he wasn’t that hungry. He hobbled back to his place against the wall and sat down.

  Atta stood over him, staring at him. She nudged him with her nose.

  “Sorry, girl,” Rhys said, reaching out to fondle her ears. He showed her his manacled wrists, though he knew she couldn’t understand. “I’m afraid—”

  Nightshade woke with a terrified yelp. He sat bolt upright, staring around wildly. “We’re sinking!” he cried. “We’re all going to drown!”

  “Nig
htshade,” said Rhys firmly. “You’re safe. We’re not on the ship anymore.”

  It took Nightshade a while for this to penetrate. He peered about the grotto in perplexity, then looked down at his hands. He felt the weight of the manacles and heard the clank of the chains, and he let out a glad sigh.

  “Whew! Prison! That’s a relief!”

  Rhys could not help but smile. “Why is prison a relief?”

  “It’s secure and it’s on solid ground,” said Nightshade, and he gave the stone floor a grateful pat. “Where are we?”

  Rhys paused a moment, wondering how to put this, then decided the best way was just to be blunt. “I think we’re on the coast of the Blood Sea.”

  Nightshade gaped at him. “The Blood Sea.”

  “I think so,” said Rhys. “I can’t be sure, of course.”

  “The Blood Sea,” repeated the kender. “The one on the other side of the continent?” He laid emphasis on this.

  “Are there two Blood Seas?” Rhys asked.

  “There might be,” said Nightshade. “You never know. Red water, the color of blood, and—”

  “—the sun rising up out of it,” Rhys concluded. “All of which leads me to believe we are on the eastern coastline of Ansalon.”

  “Well, I’ll be a dirty yellow dog,” breathed Nightshade. “No offense,” he added, patting Atta. He spent a few moments letting this sink in, then, sniffing the air, he saw the sack and brightened. “At least, they’re not going to starve us. Let’s see what’s for breakfast.”

  He stood up, and very quickly and inadvertently sat back down. “Heavy!” he grumbled, meaning the manacles.

  He tried again, standing up carefully and then sliding his feet forward, jerking at his arms to drag the iron chains along with him. He managed to reach the sack, but the effort cost him, and he had to stop to rest once he got there. Opening the sack, he peered inside.

  “Salt pork.” He grimaced, adding sadly, “I hope that’s not my neighbor—the pig in the next crate. She and Atta and I got kind of friendly.” He started to reach in his hand. “Still, bacon is a pig’s destiny, I guess. Are you hungry, Rhys?”

  Before he could respond, Atta began to bark.

  “Someone’s out there,” warned Rhys. “Perhaps you should sit back down.”

  “But they left us food to eat,” Nightshade argued. “They might be hurt if we didn’t.”

  “Nightshade, please …”

  “Oh, all right.” The kender shuffled his way back to his place by the wall and squatted down.

  “Atta, quiet!” Rhys ordered. “To me!”

  The dog swallowed her barks and came back to lie down beside him. She remained alert, her ears pricked, her body tensed to spring.

  Mina entered the cave.

  Rhys didn’t know what he had expected—Zeboim, the minotaur captain, one of the Beloved. Anything but this. He stared at her in astonishment.

  She, in turn, stared at him. The light inside the small chamber had grown increasingly brighter with the rising of the sun, but still it took a while for her eyes to adjust to the grotto’s shadowy interior.

  After a few moments, Mina walked over and stood gazing down at Rhys. Amber eyes regarded him intently, and she frowned.

  “You are different,” she said accusingly.

  Rhys shook his head. His brain was numb with exhaustion, his thought process as stumbling as the chained-up kender.

  “I am afraid I do not know what you mean, Mistress—”

  “Yes, you do!” Mina was angry. “Your robes are different! You were wearing orange robes decorated with roses when I saw you at that tavern, and now your robes are a dirty green. And your eyes are different.”

  “My eyes are my eyes, Mistress,” said Rhys, baffled. He wondered where she’d dredged up that image of him as he had been, not as he was. “I cannot very well change them. And my robes are the robes I was wearing when we met—”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Mina slapped him across the face.

  “Atta, no!” Rhys seized hold of the furious dog by the ruff and dragged her bodily back from the attack.

  “Do something with that mutt,” said Mina coldly, “or I’ll break its neck.”

  Rhys’s cheek stung. His cheekbone ached. He held fast to the outraged dog. “Atta, go to Nightshade.”

  Atta looked at him to make certain he meant it, then, her head down and her tail drooping, she slunk off to lie down beside the kender.

  “I am telling you the truth, Mistress,” Rhys said quietly. “I do not lie.”

  “Of course you lie,” Mina said scornfully. “Everyone lies. Gods lie. Men lie. We lie to ourselves, if there is no one else to lie to. The last time I saw you, you were wearing orange robes and you recognized me. You looked at me and I could see in your eyes that you knew all about me.”

  “Mistress,” said Rhys helplessly, “that was the first time I ever saw you in my life.”

  “That look isn’t in your eyes now, but it was there when we met before.” Mina’s fist clenched, her nails dug into her palms. “Tell me what you know about me!”

  “All I know is you took my brother’s life and made him one of your slaves—”

  “Not my slave!” Mina cried with unexpected vehemence. She glanced around guiltily, as though fearing someone might be listening. “He is not my slave. None of them are my slaves. They are followers of my lord Chemosh. Stop that blubbering, kender! What’s wrong with you? You were sniveling like that the last time I saw you!”

  She rounded on Nightshade, who crouched on the floor, his eyes brimming with tears that trickled down his cheeks. He was trying to be quiet. His lips were clamped shut, but every so often a whimper would escape him.

  “I can’t help it, ma’am.” Nightshade wiped his sleeve across his nose. “It’s so sad.”

  “What’s so sad? If you don’t quit that, I will give you something to cry about.”

  “You already have,” said Nightshade. “It’s you. You’re so sad.”

  Mina laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous! I am not sad. I have everything I want. I have my lord’s love and trust, and I have power …”

  She fell silent. Her laughter died away, and she clutched the shawl more closely around her. The air in the grotto was chill, after being out in the warmth of the sunshine. “I am not sad.”

  “I don’t mean you are sad,” Nightshade faltered. He glanced at Rhys, seeking his help.

  Rhys had none to give. He had no idea what the kender was talking about.

  “When I look at you, I feel sad.”

  “You should,” Mina said ominously. She turned back to Rhys. “Tell me, monk. Tell me the answer to the riddle.”

  “What is the riddle, Mistress?” Rhys asked wearily.

  Mina thought back. “The dragon seemed surprised to see me. She was not angry or furious. She was surprised. She said, ‘Who are you? Where did you come from?’ ”

  Mina knelt down in front of Rhys to meet him at eye level. “That is the riddle. I cannot answer it, but you can. You know who I am.”

  Rhys tried his best to explain. “Mistress, the dragon asked you the eternal riddle—the riddle all mankind asks and which none can answer. ‘Who am I? Where do I come from?’ We strive throughout our lives to understand—”

  Mina’s gaze grew abstracted. She stared at him, but she did not see him. She was seeing the dragon.

  “No,” she said softly. “That is not right. That is not how she said it. The inflection is wrong.”

  “Inflection?” Rhys shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean, Mistress.”

  “The dragon did not say, ‘Who are you?’ The dragon said, ‘Who are you? Where did you come from?’ ”

  Mina’s amber eyes focused again on him. “Do you hear the difference?”

  Rhys shrugged. “I don’t know the answer. It is the dragon to whom you should be talking, not to me.”

  “The dragon grew angry. She thought I mocked her, and she would have nothing more to do with me. I truly d
o not know what she meant, but you do, and you will tell me.”

  Mina caught hold of his chin and slammed his head against the jagged stone wall. The blow sent splinters of fiery pain through his skull. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he was afraid he would pass out. He tasted blood in his mouth from biting the inside of his cheek. His head throbbed.

  “I cannot tell you what I do not know,” Rhys said, spitting out blood.

  “Will not tell me, you mean.”

  Mina glared at him. “I have heard you monks are trained to withstand pain, but that’s only when you are alive.”

  She leaned over him, put her hands on the stone floor on either side of him. Her amber eyes, up close, seemed to swallow him. “One of the Beloved would tell me whatever I wanted him to tell me. The Beloved would not lie to me. You could taste Mina’s kiss, monk.”

  Her lips brushed his cheek.

  Rhys’s stomach clenched. His heart shriveled. He thought of Lleu, a monster burning with pain who could find ease only in murder.

  Rhys drew in a breath and said, as calmly as he could manage, “I must swear an oath to Chemosh, and that I will never do.”

  Mina smiled in disdain. “Do not pretend to be so righteous, monk. You are sworn to Zeboim. She told me as much. If I ask her, she will sell your soul to Chemosh—”

  “I am sworn to Majere,” said Rhys quietly.

  Mina sat back on her heels. Her lip curled. “Liar! You abandoned Majere. Zeboim told me as much.”

  “Thanks to a kender’s wisdom and my god’s refusal to abandon me, I have learned my lesson,” Rhys said. “I asked Majere’s forgiveness and he granted me his blessing.”

  Mina laughed again and gestured to Rhys. “Here you are, chained to a wall in a grotto far from anywhere. You are completely at my mercy. This is a strange way for a god to show his love.”