The kender’s face was a white glimmer in Solinari’s light.
“How many?” Rhys asked, despairing.
“Two. Both of them young women. Pretty, too. But dead. Dead as dead can be.” Nightshade shook his head sadly. “I would have told you before, except I didn’t know what I was seeing. Not until I saw your brother in the tavern. Then I knew. Those women were just like him—no spirit light shining from them, yet they were walking about as happy as you please, talking, laughing …”
Rhys thought back to the miller’s daughter, who had taken up with Lleu, then run away from her home. How many more young women had Lleu seduced, murdered, and given their souls to Chemosh? Rhys saw again the terrible hunger in Lucy’s eyes. How many young men would these women seduce in their turn? Seduce and murder. The Beloved of Chemosh.
“No one knows what they are about, because no one knows they are dead,” he said to himself, as the awful perfection of the god’s scheme struck him.
Rhys knew the truth of the matter, but as he had told the kender, who would believe him? How could he convince anyone? Nightshade could always tell what he saw, but kender were not known for their veracity. Rhys might seize hold of Lucy, truss her up and drag her before the magistrates, demand that they look into her eyes. Rhys could envision their reaction. He would be the one arrested, locked up as a raving lunatic.
Death had a new face and that face was young and beautiful; Death’s body whole and strong.
Rhys could shout this to the world.
And no one would believe him.
Book 3
Beloved of Chemosh
1
Mina ran her fingers through the man’s fair hair. He had soft, fine hair, like that of a child. The bangs were cut short and fell over his forehead, and she brushed it out of the way to see his eyes. She could not recall his name. She never remembered their names. She remembered the eyes, however, remembered the seeking, the yearning, and wondering. Pain, sometimes, unhappiness, anger, frustration. Adoration, of course. They all adored her. The young man seized her hand and kissed her fingers.
During the War of Souls, her soldiers had adored her. They adored her as she led them to death. Adored her as she knelt over them and prayed for them, sent their souls into the vast river of the lost. She saw the fear in their eyes, fear of the unknown.
So much fear. The fear of life, of living. She had the power to take away the fear. Take away the unknown. At her kiss, the spirit left the body, tottered a short distance, arms extended to Chemosh, as a babe totters to its mother. Chemosh sent the spirit back to the body, bathed, cleansed, stripped of all uncomfortable feeling. No love, no guilt, no anguish, no jealousy…
“You will be beloved of Chemosh,” she said to the young man, his lips warm on her open palm. “You will have unending life. An end to pain. You will never know cold or hunger.”
“One god’s the same as another, I suppose,” said the young man, and his breath was hot on her neck. “They promise and never deliver, at least from what I hear.”
“Chemosh will give you all that I have promised,” Mina said, brushing back the fair hair. “Will you take him for your god?”
“If you come with him,” said the young man, and he laughed.
“She comes with him,” said a voice. “She brings him.”
Her lover sprang to his feet. They had spread a blanket in a secluded place on the riverbank, a bower of damp leaves and tree roots and crushed grass.
“Who are you?” the young man demanded of the handsome, elegantly dressed god who seemed to have sprung from the earth, for he had heard no sound of his approach.
“Chemosh,” he answered, and as the young man’s jaw dropped, the god reached out his hand and touched the young man on his chest, over his heart. “And you are mine.”
The young man gasped in pain and clutched his chest. His body shuddered. He sank to his knees. His eyes stared at the god, as the light slowly faded from them. He pitched forward on his face and lay still. Chemosh stepped over the body. He looked at Mina, his expression dark and frowning.
“I do not like this,” he said.
“How have I displeased you, my lord?” asked Mina. She rose with dignity to face him. “I do all that you require of me.”
What she had said was perfectly true and that only made Chemosh angrier; that and the fact that he did not understand why he should be angry with her at all.
“You are a High Priestess of the Lord of Death,” Chemosh stated. “It is not fitting that these yokels should paw at you with their coarse, ham-fisted hands. You seem to take great pleasure in their pawing and mauling, however. Perhaps I do wrong to stop you.”
“My gentle lord,” said Mina, moving close to him, looking up at him. Her amber eyes, liquid and golden, poured over him.
“You command me to bring these young ones to you. I obey your commands.”
She moved closer still, so that he could feel her warmth, smell the fragrance of her hair and the scent of her flesh that was still soft and pliable with desire.
“The hands that touch me are your hands,” she said to him. “The lips that kiss mine are your own. None other.”
Chemosh took her in his arms and kissed her hard, brutally, venting his anger on her, who was the cause of it, though he could not say precisely why. Mina returned his kiss, fierce and desperate, as on the field of battle, when all the turmoil of the fight fades away and leaves the two combatants, locked together in a precious moment that will live until one of them dies.
“My lord…” Mina breathed. “Would you have me grant him your blessing?”
She gestured to the body of the young man that lay upon the blanket beside the river bank.
“I will deal with it,” he said and, bending down, he placed his hand on the young man’s still breast.
The eyes of the corpse opened. He had green eyes and fair blonde hair. He looked to Chemosh and he knew the Lord of the Dead, and there was reverence in his gaze. He rose to his feet and bowed.
“You are one of my Beloved,” Chemosh said to the young man. “Travel east, into the morning of your new life. And, as you go, find others who will swear to worship me and bring them to my service.”
“Yes, lord.” The young man made another low bow to Chemosh, who brushed him off with a wave of his hand.
The young man’s eyes stole to Mina, who smiled on him, a smile that didn’t know his name. Chemosh’s brows lowered, and the young man turned and ran away.
“If you can wrench your mind from your conquest, perhaps we can get back to business,” Chemosh said. He knew he was being unjust. Mina was doing nothing more than he had instructed her to do. He couldn’t help himself, however.
“You are in an ill humor this day, my lord,” said Mina, entwining her hands over his arm. “What has happened to cast this dark shadow over you?”
“You would not understand,” he said shortly, pushing her hands aside. “You are a mortal.”
“A mortal who has touched the mind of a god.”
Chemosh looked at her sharply. If she was smiling, smug and triumphant, he would slay her where she stood.
He saw her serious, unknowing. She loved him, adored him. He sighed deeply, reassured.
“It is Sargonnas. The horned god puffs and struts about heaven as if he were the king of us all.” Chemosh fumed as he walked, pacing back and forth along the river bank. “He flaunts his victories in Silvanesti, brags that he has crushed the elves, laughs at how he has cozened the ogres into believing that his minotaur are their allies. He boasts that he and his cows will soon be the unchallenged rulers of the eastern third of Ansalon.”
“Mere braggadocio, my lord,” said Mina dismissively.
“No,” said Chemosh. “The bull-god may be a boorish churl, but he has a crude sort of honor and does not lie.” Chemosh halted in his pacing, turned to face Mina. “It is time for us to put our plan into action.”