“Then I do pray to you, Mistress—”
“I think you should call me Majesty,” said Zeboim, languidly toying with a curl of her long tangled hair, watching the lightning dance on the mast. “Since Mommy is no longer with us, I am the Queen now. Queen of Sea and Storm.”
“As you will, Majesty,” said Mina, and she reverently lowered her head, a gesture that pleased Zeboim and allowed Mina to hide her eyes, keep her secrets.
“What is it you want of me, Mina? If it is to ask me to help you destroy the Betrayer, I don’t believe I shall. I take a great deal of pleasure in watching that bastard fret and fume upon his rock.”
“All I ask,” said Mina humbly, “is that you bring me safely to Storm’s Keep. It will be my honor and my privilege to destroy him.”
“I do love a good fight,” Zeboim said with a sigh. She twisted her hair around her finger, gazed into the storm that raged all around her, never touching her.
“Very well,” she said languidly. “If you destroy him, I can always bring him back again. And if he destroys you, which I think quite likely”—Zeboim cast a cold, blue-gray glance at Mina—“then I will have avenged myself upon Mommy’s little darling, which is the next best thing to avenging myself upon Mommy.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” said Mina.
There was no answer, only the sound of wind singing in the rigging, a mocking sound.
Mina raised her head cautiously and found she was alone. The goddess was gone as if she had never been, and for a moment Mina wondered if she had been dreaming. She put her hand to her aching jaw, her stinging lip, and drew back fingers smeared with blood.
As if to give her further proof, the wind ceased abruptly to howl around her. The storm clouds frayed, torn apart by an immortal hand. The waves calmed, and soon Mina’s boat was rocking on swells gentle enough to lull a baby to sleep. The sea breeze freshened, blowing from the south, a breeze that would carry her swiftly to her destination.
“All honor and glory to you, Zeboim, Majesty of the Seas!” Mina cried.
The sun broke through the clouds, glinted gold on the water. She had been going to raise the sail, but it was not needed. The boat leaped forward, skimmed atop the waves. Mina gripped the tiller and drank in the rushing, salt-tinged air, one step nearer her heart’s desire.
6
The isle of Storm’s Keep had once teemed with life. Fortress and garrison of the Dark Knights of Takhisis, Storm’s Keep had housed knights, men-at-arms, servants, cooks, squires, pages, trainers, slaves. Clerics dedicated to Takhisis had been on Storm’s Keep. Wizards dedicated to her service had worked there. Blue dragons had taken off from the cliff, gone soaring over the sea, carrying their dragon riders on their backs. All of them had one abiding goal—to conquer Ansalon and from there the world.
They had almost won.
But then had come Chaos. Then had come treachery.
Storm’s Keep was now the prison of death, with one lone prisoner. He had the mighty fortress, the towers and parade grounds, the stables and treasure vaults, the storerooms and warehouses, all to himself. He loathed it. Every sea-soaked inch of it.
In a large room at the top of the Tower of the Skull, the tallest tower of the fortress known as Storm’s Keep, Lord Ausric Krell placed his hands—covered in leather gauntlets to hide their fleshless state—on the table and leveraged himself to a standing position. He had been a short, heavy brute of a man in life, and he was a short, heavy brute of an ambulating corpse in death.
That corpse was accoutered in the black armor in which he had died, burned onto him by the curse that kept him chained to this existence.
Before him, mounted on a stand, was a sphere fashioned out of black opal. Krell peered into it, fiend’s eyes glowing red in the eye sockets of his helm. The sphere held in its fiery depths the image of a sailboat, small upon a vast ocean. In the sailboat, smaller still, was a knight wearing the armor Krell had disgraced.
Leaving the sphere, Krell strode over to the aperture in the stone walls that looked out over the raging seas. His armor rattled and clanked as he walked. He stared out the window and rubbed his gauntleted hands together in satisfaction, muttering, “It has been a long time since anyone came to play.”
He had to get ready.
Krell clumped ponderously down the spiral stairs that led to the tower room where he was accustomed to spending most of his time staring, angry and frustrated, into the black opal scrying ball known as the Flames of the Storms. The magical ball gave Krell his only view of the world beyond his keep—a world he was convinced that he could rule if only he could escape this accursed rock. Krell had witnessed much of the history of the Age of Mortals in that scrying ball—a gift from Zeboim to her beloved son, Lord Ariakan.
Krell had discovered the powerful artifact shortly after his death and imprisonment, and he’d gloated over it, thinking that Zeboim had left it behind by mistake. Soon, however, he came to realize that this was just part of her cruel torture. She provided him with the means to witness the world, then took away his ability to be part of it. He could see, but he could not touch.
He found it so tormenting that there were times when he caught up the opal ball in his hands, ready to hurl it out the window onto the rocks below. He always thought better of his rash impulse, however, and would carefully replace it back upon its serpent stand. Someday he would find a way to escape and when he did, he would need to be informed.
Krell had watched the War of Souls take place inside the opal ball. He’d viewed the rise of Mina with glee, thinking that if anyone could rescue him, it would be her and her One God. Krell had no idea who the One God was, and so long as it could battle Zeboim—whom Krell was still half convinced was lurking about somewhere—he didn’t care.
Krell could see within the magical sphere the trapped and hapless souls wallowing in the River of Souls quite clearly. He even tried to communicate with them, hoping to send a message to this Mina, telling her to come rescue him. Then Krell, watching from his opal ball, saw what she did to his counterpart—Lord Soth. After that, Krell did not send any more messages.
About this time, he found out the true identity of the One God, and while Takhisis wasn’t as bad as her daughter, Krell thought it quite likely that the Dark Queen might hold the same grudge, for she’d been rather fond of Ariakan herself. He took to lurking about in the shadows of his Keep, never daring to show his metal face outdoors.
Then came the death of Takhisis and—cruelest blow of all—Krell discovered that Zeboim had been absent all this time and that he could have left this blasted pile of crumbling stone whenever he wanted with no god to stop him. His fury over this news was such that he battered down a small and insignificant tower.
Krell had never been a religious man. He had never really believed in the gods, right up to the terrifying moment when he found out that the clerics were right after all—the gods did exist and they took a keen interest in the lives of mortals.
Having found religion the minute Zeboim ripped open his belly, Krell now witnessed the gods’ return and the demise of Takhisis and Paladine with keen interest. The death of a leader creates a vacuum at the top. Krell foresaw a struggle to fill the void. The thought came to him that he could offer his services to a rival of Zeboim’s in exchange for release from his prison.
Krell had never said a prayer in his life, but on the night that he made this determination, he got down, clanking, on his armored knees. Kneeling-on the cold floor of his prison, he invoked the name of the only god who might have it in his heart to help him.