Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [129]
“I spoke to Majere in what you might call a sharp tone,” Nightshade said remorsefully. “I was pretty blunt, and I might have hurt his feelings. Would you tell him I’m sorry?”
“Majere knows that you spoke out of love for your friend,” said the monk. “He is not angry. He honors you for your loyalty.”
“Does he?” Nightshade flushed with pleasure. Then he felt overcome with guilt. “He helped me pick the lock. He blessed me. I suppose I ought to worship him, but I can’t. It just doesn’t feel right.”
“What we believe is not important,” said the monk gently. “That we believe is.”
The monk bowed to Nightshade, who was considerably flustered by this show of respect. He made an awkward bow in turn, bending at the waist, which caused several valuable objects he hadn’t remembered he had to tumble out of his shirt pocket. He dropped down to fish about for them in the water, and it was only after he had either retrieved them or admitted they were gone for good, that he realized the monk and the torch had departed.
By this time, though, Nightshade didn’t need the light. He was enveloped in the strange amber glow he’d noticed earlier.
He walked out of the grotto, thinking he’d never in his life been so glad to leave anywhere and vowing he would never set foot in another cave so long as he lived. He looked around, hoping to talk to the monk again, for he didn’t quite understand that stuff about believing.
There were no monks.
But there was Rhys, sitting on a hillock, trying to calm Atta, who was licking his face and his hands and climbing on top of him, nearly bowling him over with her frantic attentions.
Nightshade gave a glad cry and ran up the hill.
Rhys embraced him and held him fast.
“Thank you, my friend,” he said, and his voice was choked.
Nightshade felt a snuffle coming on himself, and he might have let it get the better of him, but at that moment Atta jumped on him and knocked him down, and the snuffle was washed away in dog slobber.
When Nightshade could at last shove the excited dog off him, he saw Rhys stand, staring out to sea, an expression of wonder on his face.
Solinari’s silver light shone coldly on an island in the middle of the sea. Lunatari’s red light illuminated a tower, black against the stars, pointing, like a dark accusation, toward the heavens.
“Was that there before?” asked Nightshade, scratching his head and pulling off another beetle.
“No,” said Rhys.
“Whoa, boy!” exclaimed Nightshade, awed. “I wonder who put it there?”
And, though he didn’t know it, he was echoing the gods.
he first thing Chemosh saw on entering his palace was Ausric Krell, alive and well and naked as the day he’d come (ass-first) into this world. The formidable death knight sat huddled in a corner of the grand hall, bemoaning his fate and shivering.
On hearing the entrance of the Lord of Death, Krell jumped to his feet and cried in fury, “Look what she did to me, Lord!” His voice rose to a screech. “Look!”
Chemosh looked and wished he hadn’t. The sight of the flabby, paunchy, fish-belly pale, hairy middle-aged man’s naked body was enough to turn even a god’s stomach. He glared at Krell in disgust mingled with anger.
“So Zeboim caught up with you,” Chemosh said coldly. “Where is she?”
“Zeboim! It was not Zeboim!” Krell clawed the air with his hands in his rage, as though he were clawing someone’s flesh. “Mina did this! Mina!”
“Don’t lie to me, slug,” said Chemosh, but even as he refuted Krell’s claim, the Lord of Death felt a terrible doubt darken his mind. “Where is Mina? Still locked up?”
Krell began to laugh. His face twisted with loathing and fear. “Locked up!” he repeated, mirth gurgling in his throat as though this were the funniest thing in the world.
“The wretch has gone mad,” Chemosh muttered, and he left the raving Krell to search for Mina.
The night was lit with an amber glow that blazed through the windows and shone through cracks in