Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [103]
She studied the piece intently and suddenly her eyes widened. She was the queen, standing upon a conch shell, her sea green dress foaming around her ankles, her face carved in delicate detail.
Zeboim’s heart melted. Her son had obviously had this carved in tribute to her. She clasped the piece fondly, loathe to set it down.
“Now that you have picked up the piece, Madame, you must move it,” said Krell. “You might place it on this hex over here. That way, I will not be able to threaten your son.”
Zeboim was still at a loss to know what was going on. “I will play along with your silly game for only so long, Krell,” she warned.
As she started to place the piece where he had indicated, his words suddenly smote her.
That way, I will not be able to threaten your son.
Zeboim dropped the queen. It rolled around on the khas board, knocking over a pawn or two, and finally came to rest at the feet of the black king. The goddess snatched up the knight on the blue dragon. She saw immediately the likeness to Ariakan.
The storm winds dropped. The storm clouds lowered. The ocean waters swirled, lapped ominously upon the rocks of Storm’s Keep. She turned the khas piece of her son in her hand.
“A fine likeness,” she said diffidently.
“Indeed it is,” said Krell in mock serious tones. “I think the sculptor captured Lord Ariakan perfectly. The face is so expressive, especially about the eyes. You can look into them and see his very soul …”
The clouds of Zeboim’s confusion parted, shredded by a chill wind of terror. She had loved Ariakan, adored him, doted on him. His death left a void that all creation could not fill. She looked at the eyes of the khas piece and the eyes of the piece looked back at her, raging, furious, helpless …
Zeboim gave a hollow cry. “Chemosh!” She stared wildly about the room. “Chemosh!” she repeated, her voice rising to a howl of fury and fear and dismay. “Free my son! Free him! Now! This moment! Or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” said Krell.
Reaching out his hand, he plucked the figure of Lord Ariakan from Zeboim’s shaking fingers. “Threaten all you want, Madame. Bluster and blaze. You can do nothing.”
He placed the piece back onto the khas board. The figure of the goddess lay at the feet of the black king, and now she could see that the king was done in the likeness of the Lord of Death. Zeboim stared at it, her throat closing, so that she could barely speak.
“What does Chemosh want of me?” she asked in low, tight tones.
“He wants the seas calm. The winds dead. The waves flat. He wants a certain monk to stop making a pest of himself. Beyond that, no matter what happens anywhere in the world—or beneath it—you will take no action. You will, in short, do nothing, because there is nothing you can do, not without endangering your dear son.”
“What is Chemosh plotting?” Zeboim demanded in smothered tones.
Krell shrugged his shoulders. Picking up the figure of the queen, he moved her off the board and set her to one side, away from the battle. Then he picked up the figure of the knight. He held the knight in his hand, the head pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
“Do you agree, Madame?”
Zeboim cast the figure a tormented glance. “Chemosh must promise to free my son.”
“Oh, yes,” Krell replied. “He promises. On the day of his triumph, King Chemosh will set free the soul of Lord Ariakan. You have his word.”
“King Chemosh!” Zeboim gave a bitter laugh. “That will never happen!”
“For the sake of your son, Madame, you should pray that it does,” said Krell. “Do you agree?” His gloved fist engulfed the khas piece, hiding it from her sight.
“I agree!” Zeboim cried, unable to think of anything except the tormented eyes of her son. “I agree.”
“Good,” said Krell. He placed the knight back on the board, stood it in front of the black king. “And now I want to get back to my game. You have leave to go, Madame.”
Zeboim’s fury pulsed in her temples, throbbed