Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [6]
“Water!” Zeboim flared. “You swallowed half my ocean as it is! Oh, very well,” she added huffily, as Rhys’s eyes closed and he fell back limply in the sand. “Here. Don’t drink too much. You’ll throw up again. Just rinse out your mouth.”
Her hand propped him up as she held a cup of cool water to his lips. The goddess’s touch could be gentle when she wanted. He sipped the cool liquid gratefully. The goddess brushed moist fingertips across his lips and eyelids, wiping away the salt.
“There,” Zeboim said soothingly. “You’ve had your water.” Her voice hardened. “Now stop stalling. I want my son.”
As Rhys started to reach into the bosom of his robes where he’d stuffed the leather scrip, pain shot through him and he gasped. He lifted his hands. His fingers were purple and swollen and bent at odd angles. He couldn’t move them.
Zeboim regarded him with a sniff.
“I am not the goddess of healing, if that’s what you’re thinking!” she said coldly.
“I did not ask you to heal me, Your Majesty,” Rhys returned through clenched teeth.
He slowly thrust his injured hand inside his robes and sighed in relief at the feel of wet leather. He had been afraid that he might have lost the scrip in his dive off the cliff. He fumbled at the bag, but his broken fingers would not work well enough for him to open it.
The goddess seized hold of his fingers and, one by one, yanked the bones back into place. The pain was excruciating. Rhys feared for a moment he was going to pass out. When she was finished, however, his broken bones were mended. The bruising faded. The swelling started to recede. Zeboim had her own healing touch, it seemed.
Rhys lay in the sand, bathed in sweat, waiting for the nausea to pass.
“I warned you,” Zeboim said serenely. “I’m not Mishakal.”
“No, Your Majesty.” Rhys murmured. “Thank you anyway.”
His healed hands reached into his robe and drew forth the leather bag. Opening the drawstring, he upended the bag. Two khas pieces fell out onto the sand—a dark knight mounted on a blue dragon and a kender.
Zeboim snatched up the dark knight piece. Holding it in her hand, she lovingly caressed the figure and crooned to it. “My son! My dearest son! Your soul will be freed. We’ll go to Chemosh immediately.”
There was a pause, as though she were listening, then she said, her voice altering, “Don’t argue with me, Ariakan. Mother knows what is best!”
Cradling the khas piece in her hands, Zeboim stood up. Storm clouds darkened the heavens. The wind lifted, blowing stinging sand into Rhys’s face.
“Don’t leave yet, Your Majesty!” he cried desperately. “Remove the spell from the kender!”
“What kender?” Zeboim asked carelessly. Wisps of cloud coiled around her, ready to carry her off.
Rhys jumped to his feet. He snatched up the kender piece and held it before her.
“The kender risked his life for you,” said Rhys, “as did I. Ask yourself this question, Majesty. Why should Chemosh free your son’s soul?”
“Why? Because I command it, that’s why!” Zeboim returned, though not with her usual spirit. She looked uncertain.
“Chemosh did this for a reason, Majesty,” Rhys said. “He did it because he fears you.”
“Of course, he does,” Zeboim returned, shrugging. “Everyone fears me.”
She hesitated, then said, “But I don’t mind hearing what you have to say on the subject. Why do you think Chemosh fears me?”
“Because you have learned too much about the Beloved, these terrible undead that he has created. You have learned too much about the woman, Mina, who is their leader.”
“You’re right. That chit, Mina. I had forgotten all about her.” Zeboim cast Rhys a glance of grudging acknowledgement. “You are also right in that the Lord of Death will not free my son’s soul, not without coercion. I need something to force his hand. I need Mina. You have to find her and bring her to me. A task, I recall, that I gave you in the first place.”
Zeboim glowered at him. “So why haven’t you done it?”
“I was saving your son, Your Majesty,” Rhys said.