It seemed that Zeboim had made a propitious start. The shrine of the Sea Goddess was the first place Mina went upon landing to give thanks for a safe voyage. Mina’s prayer was polite and properly respectful, and although Zeboim would have preferred more groveling and maybe even a few heartfelt tears, she was satisfied. She wrapped herself in storm clouds, and having nothing more interesting to do, she went back to Storm’s Keep to drag Krell’s soul from whatever immortal plane it was on (perhaps he was fondly imagining he could hide from her), and return him to his prison.
A gust of wind and a flash of lightning heralded her arrival in the Tower of the Lily. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared down at the empty armor with a malicious smile.
“No doubt your miserable soul is running about in circles, trying to find your way out of this accursed existence, Krell. Perhaps you think you’ll escape me this time. You are not be so lucky. My reach is long.” Zeboim suited her action to her words. Extending her arm, she reached inside the armor.
“I have but to grab you by the short hairs and drag you back—”
Zeboim withdrew her hand, peered down it, expecting to see Krell’s soul, cringing and whimpering, writhing in her grasp. Her hand was empty.
Zeboim stared into the immortal plane, searching for Krell’s soul.
The plane was empty.
Zeboim smote the metal armor with her hand. It disintegrated into fragments of metal no larger than a dust mote. Feverishly she stirred the fragments.
The armor was empty. Nothing lurking inside trying to hide from her wrath.
Swift as hurricane winds, Zeboim whirled through the Keep, searching every crack and crevice. She was tempted to tear the fortress apart, stone by stone, but she would only be wasting her time. She realized the truth. She knew it the moment she touched that empty armor. She was loathe to admit it.
Krell was gone. He had escaped her.
Zeboim saw Mina kneeling, heard her words.
My loyalty and my faith are with the dead.
“Ah, you clever little bitch.” Zeboim swore savagely. “You conniving, thieving, clever little bitch. ‘My faith is with the dead.’ You did not mean my mother. You meant Chemosh!”
She spoke the name in a blast of rage that caused the seas to seethe and boil and froth. Storm winds raged, rivers overflowed their banks. Zeboim’s rage shook the very foundations of the Abyss, where Chemosh felt her fury and smiled.
9
Chemosh paced the world, waiting for Mina to return to him. He tried to interest himself in what was transpiring in the world, for events were unfolding that would have an effect. on his plans and ambitions. He watched the build-up of the minotaur forces in Silvanesti with concern. Sargonnas was setting himself up to take over the leadership of the pantheon of Darkness and there did not appear to be much that could stop him now. Chemosh had some ideas in regard to that, but he was not yet ready to put those into motion. Patience. That was the key. Haste makes waste.
He dropped by for a glimpse of Mishakal, for he had recently added her to his list of gods who threatened his ambition. He would not have believed it, but the goddess who had once been known for her gentle, unassuming ways had lately become quite militant. She was starting to seriously annoy Chemosh, for her clerics were not limiting themselves to sitting beside sick-beds but were harassing his clerics, pulling down his temples, and slaying his zombies. True, Chemosh didn’t much like zombies, but they were his and killing them was an affront to himself. He would soon take care of that as well. He would present Mishakal and her do-gooder clerics with a dark mystery they would be hard-pressed to solve, provided Mina turned out to be all that he believed and hoped her to be.
The other gods were not much of a threat. Kiri-Jolith was focused on re-establishing his worship among the Solamnic Knights and other war-minded individuals. Chislev danced with the unicorns in her forests, rejoicing in having her trees back. Majere watched a lady-bug crawl up the stem of a dandelion and marveled at the perfection of both bug and weed. The gods of magic were embroiled in their own politics and in bickering over what to do about the scourge of sorcery that had reared its playful head in their well-ordered world. The gods of neutrality were going about being firmly neutral and uncommitted to anything, for fear that so much as a sneeze would tip the delicate balance in favor of one side or another.
Something was going to tip it and it wouldn’t be a sneeze. Mina was the golden weight in the hand of the Lord of Death, the golden weight that would drop onto the scales of balance and completely overturn them.
Chemosh had not been at all certain that Mina would succeed at the task he had set for her. He knew that she was an extraordinary mortal, but she was mortal and she was human into the bargain—an often unsatisfactory combination. He was pleasantly surprised when she stepped out of the small sail boat, carrying the bundle with the helm in her arms. More than surprised, he was admiring. Eons had passed since he had last viewed a mortal with anything akin to admiration.
Their appointed meeting place was in ancient temple dedicated to his worship off the coast of Solamnia. He had been waiting for her there, careful to keep out of sight, for Zeboim would be watching Mina for as long as she sailed upon the sea and perhaps even after she landed. Thus he had directed Mina to keep Zeboim off-guard by paying a visit to her shrine.
The temple in which he met her had once been a mausoleum, designed and built by a grieving noble lady for her noble husband.
The family name, emblazoned across the front of the mausoleum, had eroded, as had the coat of arms. The hall had fallen into ruin. Nothing was left of it except the foundation, for the materials used in its construction had been hauled off by the local residents to use in rebuilding homes damaged in the First Cataclysm. The mausoleum remained intact, however, and in relatively good condition. None dare touch it, for legend had it that one could still hear the grief-stricken wail of the bereaved widow and see her ghostly figure weeping on the marble stairs.
Built of black marble, the mausoleum was almost a small hall. Four ornately carved spires stood at each corner of a sharply pointed roof, surrounded by delicate wrought iron filigree. A columned portico at the top of the famed marble stairs sheltered an immense bronze door. Inside the mausoleum, two rows of slender columns stood like sentinels on either side of the enormous marble tomb bearing the family coat of arms and replete with the outstanding moments of the man’s life carved in raised relief all around the base.
The noble lady had built an altar at the far end of the mausoleum and dedicated it to Chemosh. Here she had come to pray daily to the God of Death, swearing never to leave this place until he restored her husband to her. Since the husband’s soul had already gone on, Chemosh was unable to answer her prayer. He did, however, see to it that she kept her vow. Chemosh had returned to the world to find her ghost still there, still weeping on the stairs. He’d forgotten how annoying he found her blubbering and he freed her at last, sending her off to join her husband.
He wondered if he wasn’t becoming a bit of a romantic.
He entered the temple, looked around. The mausoleum was well-constructed. The roof did not leak; the building was dry and neither musty nor dank. There was only one body inside and he had remained decently interred. No stray shin bones or skulls cluttering up the place. Chemosh’s followers, undeterred by the ghost, had moved into the mausoleum during the War of the Lance and had remained here up until the theft of the world deprived them of their god. He was pleased to note that they had been an unusually tidy lot, cleaning up after their rites, so there was no melted candle wax upon the altar cloth, no blood stains on the floor, no fragments of bone left on the dais.