Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [13]
He put his mouth close to her lips. “Serve me, Mina,” he said so softly that she did not hear the words but felt them burn her skin. “Give yourself to me. Give me your faith. Your loyalty. Your love.”
Mina trembled at her own daring, afraid he would be angry, yet she was thinking of what he said about the power of mortals in this Age of Mortals. She saw in her mind the golden scales that Gilean held, balanced so precariously that a single grain of sand could cause them to wobble.
“And if I give my love to you, what will you give me in return?” Mina asked.
Chemosh was not angered by her question. On the contrary, he seemed pleased.
“Life unending, Mina,” he said to her. “Youth eternal. Beauty unspoiled. As you are now, so you will be five hundred years from now.”
“That is all very well, my lord, but—” she paused.
“But you don’t care about any of that, do you?”
Mina flushed. “I am sorry, lord. I hope you are not offended—”
“No, no. Do not apologize. You want from me what Takhisis was unwilling to grant. Very well. I will give you what you do care about—power. Power over life. Power over death.”
Mina smiled, relaxed in his grasp. “And you will love me?”
“As I love you now,” he promised.
“Then I give myself to you, my lord,” she said and she closed her eyes and lifted up her lips for his kiss.
But he was not quite ready to take her for his own. Not yet. He kissed her on her eyelids, first one, then the other.
“Sleep now, Mina. Sleep deep and sleep dreamless. When you wake, you will wake to a new life, a life such as you have never known.”
“Will you be with me?” she murmured.
“Always,” promised Chemosh.
he elves, driven from both their ancient homelands, roam the world, exiles. Some have gone to the cities—Palanthas, Sanction, Flotsam, Solace—where they crowd together in dismal dwellings, working at whatever they can to buy food for their children, lost in dreams of past glory. Other elves live in the Plains of Dust, where every day they watch the sun set on their homeland that is far away, almost as far as the sun, or so it seems. They do not dream of the past, but dream blood-spattered dreams of a future of retribution and revenge.
The minotaur sail their ships on the foaming seas and fight their battles among each other, yet always the sun shines bright on the swords that vanquish the ancient enemy and on the axe that cuts down the green forest.
The humans celebrate the deaths of the dragon overlords and worry about the minotaur who have, at long last, established a presence upon Ansalon. The humans do not worry much, however, for they have other problems more pressing—political strife and turmoil in Solamnia, outlaws threatening Abanasinia, goblins rising to power in southern Qualinesti, refugees everywhere.
The dragons emerge from their caves into a world that was once theirs, was lost, and is now theirs again. But they are watchful, wary, even the best of them suspicious and distrustful, just now starting to realize that what was lost is lost for good.
The gods return to an Age of Mortals and know that it is truly named, for it is mortals who will determine whether or not the gods will have any influence over their creation. Thus the gods cannot sit at their ease in the heavens or in the Abyss or on any of the immortal planes, but walk the world, seeking faith, love, prayers. Making promises.
And while all this is happening, a shepherd stands upon a hill, watching his dog bring the sheep to the fold.
A kender plays games with the ghost of a dead child in a graveyard.
A young cleric of Kiri-Jolith welcomes a new convert.
A death knight seethes with rage in his prison and looks for a way out.
Mina woke from a strange dream that she could not remember to darkness so deep that the lights of the candles did little to