Amber and Iron

by Margaret Weis

  “I have my orders,” Krell said, gloating. “You are to remain in your chamber. If you need to occupy your time, I suggest you start packing for your journey. You might want to pack everything you own. You won’t be coming back.”

  Mina regarded him with cold fury.

  “You know that the man in the cave is not my lover.”

  “I know no such thing,” Krell returned.

  “A maiden does not usually chain her lover to a wall and threaten him with death,” Mina said caustically. “What of the kender? Is he my lover, too?”

  “People have their little quirks,” Krell stated magnanimously. “When I was alive, I liked my women to put up a struggle, squeal a bit. I am not one to sit in judgment.”

  “My lord is no fool. When he goes to that cave this night and finds an emaciated monk and a sniveling little kender chained to a wall, he will know you lied to him.”

  “Maybe,” said Krell stolidly. “Maybe not.”

  Mina clenched her fists in frustration. “Are you as stupid as you look, Krell? When Chemosh finds out you lied to him about me, he will be furious with you. He might well hand you over to Zeboim. But you can still save yourself. Go to Chemosh and tell him that you have thought this over and you were mistaken.…”

  Krell was not stupid. He had thought it over. He knew just what he had to do to protect himself.

  “My lord Chemosh has given orders he is not to be disturbed,” said Krell, and he gave Mina a shove that propelled her backward into the room.

  He slammed the door shut, bolted it from the outside, and resumed his stance before it.

  Mina went back to the window. She knew what Krell plotted. All he had to do was go to the cave, dispose of the kender and the dog, kill the monk and remove his chains, and leave the body for Chemosh to find, along with evidence to prove the grotto had been her love nest.

  Perhaps Krell had already done this. That would certainly account for his smugness. Mina didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. Hours, at least. The castle faced east and its shadow lay dark on the blood-red waves. The sun was already sinking toward the end of day.

  Mina stood at the window. I have to win back my lord’s trust and affection. There must be a way to prove my love. If I could give him a gift. Something he yearns to possess.

  But what is there a god cannot have if he wants it?

  One thing. One thing Chemosh wanted and he could not get.

  Nuitari’s Tower.

  “If I could give him that, I would do it,” Mina said softly, “though it cost me my life.…”

  She closed her eyes, and she found herself beneath the sea. The Tower of High Sorcery stood before her. Its crystalline walls reflected the clear blue water, the red coral, and the green sea plants and multi-colored sea creatures—a constant panorama of sea life glided across its faceted surface.

  She was inside the Tower, in her prison, talking with Nuitari. She was in the water of the globe, speaking with the dragon. She was in the Solio Febalas, overcome by awe and wonder, surrounded by the sublime miracle that was the gods.

  Mina held out her hands. Her longing intensified, welled up inside her. Her heart pounded, her muscles stiffened. She sank to her knees with a moan, and still she held out her hands to the Tower that was everywhere inside her.

  The longing took control of her and swept her up. She could not stop. She did not want to stop. She gave herself to the longing, and it seemed her heart would tear itself apart. She gasped for breath. She tasted blood in her mouth. She shuddered and moaned again, and suddenly something snapped within her.

  The longing, the desire, flowed out of her outstretched hands and she was calm and at peace.…

  Krell had figured a way out of his predicament, though not the way Mina had guessed. Her plan required that he leave the castle and he was terrified to do so, for fear Chemosh would return at any moment. Krell might have the brains of a rodent, but he had twice the low cunning to make up for it. His plan was simple, and it was direct.

  He didn’t have to kill the kender, the monk, or the dog. All he had to do was kill Mina.

  Once Mina was dead, end of story. Chemosh would have no reason to go to the cave to confront her lover, and Krell’s problem would be solved.

  Krell detested Mina, and he would have murdered her long ago, but he feared that Chemosh would have murdered him—not an easy thing to do, since Krell was already dead, but Krell was fairly certain the Lord of Death would find a way and it would not be pleasant.

  Krell deemed it safe to kill Mina now. Chemosh despised her. He loathed her. He couldn’t stand the sight of her.

  “She tried to escape, my lord,” Krell said, rehearsing his speech. “I didn’t mean to kill her. I just don’t know my own strength.”

  Having made up his mind to slay Mina, Krell had only to decide when. In this regard, he dithered. Chemosh had said he was going to the Hall of Souls Passing, but did he mean it? Had the god departed, or was he still lurking about the castle?

  Every time Krell started to put his hand on the handle of the door, he had a vision of Chemosh entering the room in time to witness the death knight slitting his mistress’s throat. Chemosh might well despise her, but such a gruesome sight could still come as a shock.

  Krell dared not leave his post in order to go find out. At last, he snagged a passing spectral minion and ordered it to make inquiries. The minion was gone for some time, during which Krell paced the corridor and pictured his revenge on Mina, growing more and more excited at the thought.

  The minion brought welcome news. Chemosh was in the Hall of the Souls Passing and apparently in no hurry to return.

  Perfect. Chemosh would be there to witness Mina’s soul arrive. He would have no reason to go to the cave. No reason at all.

  Krell started to reach for the door handle then stopped. Amber light began to glow around the door frame. As he watched, frowning, the glowing light grew stronger and stronger.

  Then Krell smiled. This was better than he’d hoped for. Mina had apparently set the place on fire.

  He struck the door with his fist, drew his sword, and strode inside.

  he grotto was redolent with the smell of salt pork. Atta licked her chops and stared longingly at Nightshade, who was dutifully, if dolefully, scrubbing the insides of his boots with a hunk of greasy meat. Rhys had reasoned it would be easier for the kender to slide his feet out of the boots rather than try to slide the boots out of the manacles.

  “There, I’ve finished!” Nightshade announced. He fed what was left of the mangled pork to Atta, who swallowed it in a gulp and then began to sniff hungrily at his boots.

  “Atta, leave it,” Rhys ordered, and the dog obediently trotted over to lie down at his side.

  Nightshade gave his right foot a wriggle and a grunt. “Nope,” he said, after a moment’s exertion. “It won’t budge. I’m sorry, Rhys. It was worth a try—”

  “You have to actually move your foot, Nightshade,” Rhys said with a smile.

  “I did move it,” Nightshade protested. “The boots are on there good and tight. They were always a little small for me. That’s why my toes broke out there at the tip. Now let’s talk about how we’re both going to escape.”

  “We’ll talk about that after you’re free,” Rhys countered.

  “Promise?” Nightshade eyed Rhys suspiciously.

  “Promise,” said Rhys.

  Nightshade grabbed hold of the iron band that was clamped around his ankle and began to push on the band and the boot.

  “Bend your foot,” said Rhys patiently.

  “What do you think I am?” Nightshade demanded. “One of those circus guys who can tie both his legs in a knot behind his neck and walk on his hands? I know I can’t do that, because I tried it once. My father had to unknot me—”

  “Nightshade,” said Rhys, “we’re running out of time.”

  The daylight outside was fading. The grotto was growing darker.

  Nightshade heaved a deep sigh. Squinchi
ng up his face, he pushed and pulled. His right foot slipped neatly out of the boot. The left foot followed. He removed his boots from the manacles and eyed them ruefully.

  “Every dog from six shires will be chasing after me,” the kender said grumpily. He pulled on his greasy boots and, grabbing another hunk of salt pork, bent down next to Rhys. “Your turn.”

  “Nightshade, look.” Rhys pointed to the manacles that fit close around his bony ankles. He held up the manacles that were clamped tightly over his wrists, so tightly they had rubbed the skin raw.

  Nightshade looked. His lower lip quivered. “It’s my fault.”

  “No, of course, it isn’t your fault, Nightshade,” said Rhys, shocked. “What makes you think that?”

  “If I were a proper kender, you wouldn’t be stuck here to die!” Nightshade cried. “I would have lock-pick tools, you see, and I could pick these locks like that.” He snapped his fingers, or tried to. Due to the grease, the snap didn’t come off very well. “My father gave me my set of lock-pick tools when I was twelve, and he tried to teach me how to use them. I wasn’t very good. Once I dropped the pick and it went ‘bang!’ and woke up the whole house. Another time the pick went right through the lock—I’m still not sure how—and ended up on the wrong side of the door, and I lost that one.…”

  Nightshade crossed his arms over his chest. “I won’t go! You can’t make me!”

  “Nightshade,” said Rhys firmly. “You have to.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “It’s the only way to save me,” Rhys said in solemn tones.

  Nightshade looked up.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Rhys continued. “We’re on the Blood Sea. We must be somewhere close to Flotsam. There is a temple of Majere in Flotsam—”

  “There is? That’s wonderful!” Nightshade cried, excited. “I can run to Flotsam and find the temple, round up the monks, bring them back, and they’ll kick butt and we’ll all rescue you!”

  “That’s an excellent plan,” said Rhys.

  Nightshade scrambled to his feet. “I’ll leave right now!”

  “You must take Atta with you,” Rhys said. “For protection. Flotsam is a lawless town, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Right! C’mon, Atta!” Nightshade whistled.

  Atta rose to her feet but didn’t follow. She looked at Rhys. She sensed something wasn’t right.

  “Atta, guard,” he said and pointed at the kender.

  He often had her “guard” something, which meant she was to watch over an object, not let anyone near it. He’d left her to guard sick sheep while he went to go seek help. He’d often told her to guard Nightshade.

  In this case, however, Rhys wasn’t leaving. He was staying, and the object she was supposed to guard was leaving. He didn’t know if she would understand and obey. She was accustomed to watching over the kender, however, and Rhys hoped she would go along with this now as she had done in the past. He had thought of trying to form a leash for her, but she had never known what it was to be tied up. He guessed that she would fight a leash and he didn’t have time for that. Night was coming very fast.

  “Atta, here.”

  The dog came to him. He put his hands over her head and looked into her brown eyes.

  “Go with Nightshade,” he said. “Watch him. Guard him.”

  Rhys drew her near and kissed her gently on the forehead. Then he let her go.

  “Call her again.”

  “Atta, come,” said Nightshade.

  Atta looked at Rhys. He gestured toward the kender.

  “Walk away now,” Rhys ordered Nightshade. “Quickly.”

  Nightshade obeyed, walking toward the grotto’s entrance. Atta cast one more look at Rhys, then she obediently followed the kender. Rhys breathed a soft sigh.

  Nightshade paused. “We’ll be back soon, Rhys. Don’t—don’t go anywhere.”

  “Be safe, my friend,” Rhys replied. “You and Atta take care of each other.”

  “We will.” Nightshade hesitated, then turned and bolted out of the cave. Atta dashed after the kender, just as she’d done many times before.

  Rhys sank back against the rock wall. Tears came to his eyes, but he smiled through them.

  “Forgive me the lie, Master,” he said quietly.

  In all the long history of the monks of Majere, they had never built a temple in Flotsam.

  Chemosh was always in the Hall of the Souls Passing and he went there very little—a contradiction that can be explained by the fact that one of the aspects of the Lord of Death was always present in the Hall, seated on his dark throne, reviewing all those souls who had left their mortal flesh behind and were about to embark on the next stage of the eternal journey.

  Chemosh rarely returned to this aspect of himself. This place was too isolated, too far removed from the world of gods and men. The other gods were prohibited from coming to the Hall, lest they exert undue interference on the souls undergoing judgment.

  The Lord of Death was permitted his final chance to try to sway souls to his evil cause, to prevent them from traveling on, to seize them and keep them. Souls who had learned life’s lessons were easily able to avoid his snares, as were innocent souls, such as those of infants.

  One of the gods of Light or Neutrality could intercede on behalf of a soul, but only by casting a blessing on that soul before it entered the Hall. One such soul was standing before the onyx and silver throne now—a soul that was blackened yet shot through with blue light. The man had committed foul deeds, yet he had sacrificed his life to save children trapped in a fire. His soul’s journey would not be easy, for he still had much to learn, but Mishakal blessed him, and he managed to escape the bony, grasping hand of the Lord of Death. When Chemosh snagged a soul, he would seize it and fling it into the Abyss or send it back to inhabit the dead body that would now become its dreadful prison.

  The gods of Dark might claim souls as well. Souls already promised to Morgion or cursed by Zeboim would enter the Hall bound in chains to be handed over by the Lord of Death to those gods they had sworn to serve.

  Chemosh in his “mortal” aspect came to the Hall only during those times when he was deeply troubled. He enjoyed being reminded of his power. No matter what god a mortal worshipped in life, when that life ended, every soul stood before him. Even those who denied the existence of the gods found themselves here—a bit of a shock for most. They were judged on how they had lived their lives, not by whether or not they had professed a belief in a god during that life. A sorceress who had helped people throughout her life was sent on her way, while the grasping, covetous soul who had regularly cheated customers, yet never missed a prayer service, fell victim to the blandishments of the Lord of Death and ended up in the Abyss.

  Some souls could have departed but chose not to. A mother was reluctant to leave her little children; a husband did not want to leave his wife. These remained bound to those they loved until they could be persuaded that it was right for them to continue on, that the living had to go on with their lives and the dead should move forward as well.

  Chemosh stood in the Hall watching the line of souls form, a line that was meant to be eternal, and he recalled the terrible time when the line had come to an abrupt and unexpected end. The time when the last soul had appeared before him, and he had looked about in an astonishment that knew no bounds. The Lord of Death had risen from his throne for the first time since he’d taken his place there at the start of creation, and he had stormed out of the Hall in a rage only to find that Takhisis had stolen away the world and taken the souls with her.

  Chemosh had then learned the truth of a mortal adage: One never appreciated what one had until it was lost.

  One also vowed that one would never lose it again.

  Chemosh watched the souls come before him, and he listened to their stories, and wheeled and dealed and passed his judgment, and seized a few and let go a few, and waited to feel the warm glow of satisfaction.

  It did not come this day. He felt distin
ctly dissatisfied. What was supposed to go right was going all wrong. He’d lost control, and he had no idea how it had slipped away. It was as if he were cursed.…

  With that word, he realized suddenly why he had been drawn here, realized what it was he sought.

  He stood in the Hall of Souls Passing, and he saw again the first soul that had come before him when the world was returned—the mortal soul of Takhisis. All the gods had been present at her passing. He heard again her words—part desperate plea and part defiant snarl.

  “You are making a mistake!” Takhisis had said to them. “What I have done cannot be undone. The curse is among you. Destroy me, and you destroy yourselves.”

  Chemosh could not judge her. None of the gods could do that. She had been one of them, after all. The High God had come to claim the soul of his lost child, and the reign of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, was ended, and time and the universe continued on.

  Chemosh had thought nothing of her prediction then. Rants, ravings, threats—Takhisis had spewed such venom for eons. He could not help but think of it now, think of it and wonder uneasily just what the late and unlamented Queen had meant.

  There was one person who might know, one person who’d been closer to the Takhisis than anyone else in history. The one person he’d banished from his sight.

  Mina.

  ightshade left the grotto with a heavy heart—a heart that was too heavy to stay properly in his chest but sank down to his stomach, where it took offense to the salt pork and gave him a bellyache. From there, his heart sank still further, adding its weight to his feet so they moved slower and slower, until it was an effort to make them move at all. His heart grew heavier the farther he went.

  Nightshade’s brain kept telling him he was on an Urgent Mission to save Rhys. The problem was his heart didn’t believe it, so that not only was his heart down around his shoes, flummoxing his feet, his heart was in an argument with his head, not to mention the salt pork.

  Nightshade ignored his heart and obeyed his head. The head was Logic, and humans were impressed with Logic and were always stressing how important it was to behave logically. Logic dictated Nightshade would stand a better chance of rescuing Rhys if he brought back help in the form of monks of Majere than if he—a mere kender—stayed with Rhys in the grotto. It was the Logic of Rhys’s argument that had persuaded Nightshade to leave, and this same Logic kept him moving ahead when his heart urged him to turn around and run back.