Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [121]
“I am Chemosh, Lord of Death, and who,” the god added, glowering, “are you?”
Rhys rose to his feet, his chains rattling around him, and bowed reverently. He might loathe Chemosh for the evil he brought into the world, yet he was a god and before this god all mankind must one day come to stand.
“I am called Rhys Mason, my lord.”
“I don’t give a damn what you are called!” Chemosh said perversely. “You are Mina’s lover! That’s who you are!”
Rhys regarded the god in amazement so profound he could not think of a reply to this astonishing accusation.
Chemosh himself seemed to be having second thoughts. The Lord of Death looked about the bleak grotto, taking in the chains and the greasy remnants of salt pork, the fetid water and the foul stench, for there had been nowhere Rhys could go to relieve himself except in the cave.
“This is not exactly what I would call a love nest,” Chemosh remarked. “Nor”—he eyed Rhys with distaste—“do you strike me as a lover.”
“I am a monk of Majere, my lord,” said Rhys.
“I can see that,” said Chemosh, his lip curling as he cast a glance at Rhys’s tattered robes that had taken on an orange cast in the eerie light. “The question then becomes—if you are not Mina’s lover, what are you to her? She brought you here—a spindly, flea-bitten monk.” Chemosh drew closer. “Why?”
“You must ask her, my lord,” Rhys said.
He spoke steadily, though that took an effort. Holding fast to the splinter of wood from his staff, Rhys silently asked Majere to give him courage. His spirit might accept the inevitability of death, but his mortal flesh shivered and his stomach clenched.
“Why should you be loyal to her?” Chemosh demanded, irate. “Why is everybody loyal to her? I swear by the High God who created us and Chaos who would destroy us that I do not understand!”
His fury blasted the cavern like a hot wind. Sweating, Rhys dug the splinter’s sharp point into his palm, using pain to keep himself from collapsing.
“She chains you to a wall and torments you—I see the mark of her anger on your cheek. She has either left you here to starve to death or …”
Chemosh paused, regarded Rhys intently. “She plans to come back. To torture you. Why? You have something she wants. That is the reason. What is it, Rhys Mason? It must be of great worth.…”
Rhys could have given the explanation, but it went against all his convictions. A man’s soul is his own, Majere taught. Its mysteries are for each to reveal or not, as he chooses. Mina had, for whatever reason, chosen to keep her secret. She had not told Chemosh. Though her soul might be black with her crimes, that soul was her own. Her secret was hers, not his, to reveal.
Rhys kept silent. Blood trickled down his palm and between his clenched fingers.
“Your flesh can defy me,” Chemosh said, his breath chill as air flowing from the tomb. “But your spirit cannot. The dead cannot lie to me. When your soul stands before me in the Hall of Souls Passing, you will tell me all you know.”
Then you will be in for a sad disappointment, my lord, Rhys thought ruefully. For, in truth, I know nothing.
Chemosh drew near, his hand outstretched. “I will kill you swiftly. You will not suffer, as you would have done at Mina’s hands.”
Rhys gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. His heart beat fast; his mouth was dry. He could no longer speak. He drew in a breath, undoubtedly his last, and braced himself. Closing his eyes, to blot out the terror of the awful god, he commended his spirit to Majere.
He felt the god’s blessing flow through him, and with his blessing came an exalted serenity and a bark.
A dog’s bark. Right outside the cave. And with Atta’s bark came Nightshade’s shrill voice.
“Rhys! We’re back! Hey, I met your god! He gave me his blessing—”
Rhys’s eyes opened. Serenity drained out of him.
Chemosh half-turned, looked toward the grotto’s entrance. “What is this?