Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [109]
“First, I am to stop you,” said Zeboim. “Chemosh finds you annoying.”
“I don’t know why,” Rhys said bitterly. “I’m not a threat to him or likely to be one, the way things are going.”
“Further, I am not to interfere with any of Chemosh’s plots and schemes. I have no idea what those may be,” the goddess added, “but I’m not to do anything to thwart him.”
“So Chemosh is plotting something …” Rhys murmured.
“Oh, yes,” said Zeboim with a vicious snap. “He is plotting something grand, of that you may certain. And whatever it is, he fears me. He fears that I will stop him, which I would!”
“And he fears me, it seems,” Rhys added.
“You?” Zeboim laughed, then said grudgingly, “Well, yes, I suppose he does. I am to rid myself of you and the kender, but that is not what is important. My son is important. I can do nothing to help him. If a drop of rain so much as falls on his helm, Krell will destroy my son’s soul. But you, monk …”
Zeboim sidled closer. Taking hold of Rhys’s hands, she stroked, carressed him. “You could go to Storm’s Keep. Krell wouldn’t suspect you.”
“Majesty,” protested Rhys, taken aback, “I can hardly get in the middle of a battle between two gods—”
“You are already in the middle,” Zeboim retorted angrily, shoving him away. “Chemosh commands that I get rid of you. Do you think he means that I am to send you back to your monastery with a pat on the ass and orders to be a good little boy?”
Rhys stood in the prison cell, his gaze fixed on the goddess.
Zeboim settled her robes around her, smoothed her disheveled hair. “You will go to Storm’s Keep. I will transport you through the ethers, don’t worry about that. You will need to make up some excuse for your presence there so that Krell won’t be suspicious. He has less brains than a mollusk, so that won’t be hard. Perhaps you will say you are sent by me to negotiate. Yes, Krell will like that. He’s easily bored and he enjoys tormenting his victims. It is too bad you are not more charming, entertaining. He likes to be entertained.”
“And how do you propose I rescue your son, Majesty, if I am to be tortured and killed?” Rhys asked. “You say this Krell is a death knight. That means that his power is only slightly less than that of a god—”
Zeboim waved that consideration away. “You serve me. I will grant you all the power you need.”
“You haven’t thus far,” Rhys stated coolly.
She cast him an angry glance. “I will. Don’t worry. As to how you save my son”—she shrugged—“that is up to you. You are clever, for a human. You will think of a way.”
Rhys sank down on the bed, tried to organize his scattered thoughts. That was proving difficult, since he could not believe that he was having this conversation.
“Where is Krell holding your son? I assume there are dungeons …”
“He is not being held in a dungeon,” said Zeboim, her hands twisting together. “His spirit is imprisoned inside”—she drew in a seething breath, barely able to speak for her rage—“inside a khas piece!”
“A khas piece,” Rhys repeated, stunned. “Are you certain?”
“Of course I am certain! I saw it! Krell flaunted it before me, bragged that he played with it nightly.”
“Which piece is it?”
“One of the two black knights.”
“Is there any way you can tell them apart?”
“Yes,” she said in scathing tones, “one is my son. It looks just like him.”
“Having never had the honor of meeting your son,” Rhys said carefully, “I do not know what he looks like. If you could give me something more to go on—”
“He is riding a blue dragon. But then, the other was also riding a blue dragon. I don’t know!” Zeboim tore at her hair with her hands. “I can’t think! Leave me alone. Just take yourself off and rescue him—Wait a moment. The pieces are real. Real corpses. Shrunken. Except for the one that was me, of course. And the king. That was Chemosh.”
Rhys rubbed his forehead. This was devolving into a strange and terrible dream.
“It is Chemosh’s idea of a jest,” Zeboim said by way of explanation. “He means to humiliate me. See here, monk, is this really