Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [90]
I am keeping secrets from my lord, Mina admitted to herself, consumed with guilt. Not the secrets of which he accuses me. Still, does it matter? Perhaps I should tell him the truth, tell him why I cannot go back to the Tower. Tell him it is the dragon who frightens me. The dragon and her terrible riddles.
Terrible—because Mina could not answer them.
But the monk could.
Chemosh would not understand. He would mock her or, worse, he would not believe her. Mina, who had slain the powerful Dragon Overlord, Malys, afraid of an elderly, practically toothless sea dragon? Yet Mina was afraid. Her stomach shriveled whenever she heard that reptile voice ask, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
Chemosh emerged into the great hall to find Krell just entering. Several of the Beloved milled about aimlessly, some calling for ale, others demanding food. A few glanced up at the Lord of Death, but they looked away without interest. They paid no attention at all to Krell, who cursed them and shook his mailed fist at them. They paid no attention to each other, and that was strangest of all.
“You might as well field a regiment of gully dwarves, my lord,” Krell growled. “These numbskulls you have created—”
“Shut up,” Chemosh ordered, for, at the moment, Mina was walking down the stairs. She was very pale and had obviously been crying, for her eyes were red and there were traces of tears on her cheeks. Chemosh felt a stab of remorse. He knew he was being unfair to her. He didn’t truly believe she had stolen artifacts and was keeping them from him. He’d said that to hurt her. He needed to lash out, hurt someone.
Nothing was going right for him. None of his grand schemes were turning out as he’d expected. Nuitari laughed at him. Zeboim mocked him. Sargonnas, who was currently the most powerful god in the Dark Pantheon, lorded it over him. The White Lady, Mishakal, had recently come at him in a blaze of blue-white fury, demanding that he destroy his Beloved or face the consequences. He’d spurned her, of course. She’d left him with a warning that her clerics were declaring open war on his followers and it was her intent to wipe all his disciples off the face of Krynn.
She could not easily destroy his Beloved; he’d seen to that, but Chemosh did not have all that many living followers, and he was starting to realize their value.
He was brooding on this and his other troubles, when Krell suddenly nudged him.
“My lord,” the death knight said softly. “Look at that!”
The Beloved had, only moments before, been roaming aimlessly about the hall. Some had even bumped into the Lord of Death and never noticed. Now, however, the Beloved were still. They were silent. Their attention was fixed.
“Mina!”
Some spoke her name in reverence.
“Mina!”
Others cried it in agony.
“Mina …”
No matter whether spoken in admiration or in supplication or in dread, her name was on the dead lips of all the Beloved.
Her name. Not the name of their god, their lord. Not the name of Chemosh.
Mina stared in astonishment at the throng of Beloved that pressed around the staircase and lifted their hands to her and called out her name.
“No,” Mina said to them in confusion. “Do not come to me. I am not your lord.…”
She felt Chemosh’s presence, felt it pierce her like a thrown spear. She raised her head, stricken, to meet his gaze.
Hot blood flooded her face. The hot blood of guilt.
“Mina, Mina …” The Beloved began chanting her name. “Kiss me again!” cried some, and “Destroy me!” wailed others.
Chemosh stood there, watching, amazed.
“My lord!” Mina’s despairing voice rose over the growing tumult. She ran down the stairs, tried to approach him, but the Beloved surged around her, desperate to touch her, plead with her, curse her.
Chemosh recalled a conversation