He laughed out loud to hear the puny plashing waves breaking on the rocks. Leaning over the edge of the cliff, he made a rude gesture at the sea, shouted out an obscenity. He laughed again and strode with brisk steps back across the courtyard, heading for the Tower of Lilies and the library. Zeboim would soon realize he had returned and he had to have everything in readiness.
Zeboim was in the Blood Sea, assisting her father, Sargonnas, when she heard Krell’s curse. The minotaur were launching a grand expeditionary force to firmly clinch their hold on Silvanesti. A fleet of ships—battle ships, supply ships, troop transports and ships filled with immigrants—were leaving the minotaur isles, setting sail for Ansalon.
This was Sargonnas’s moment of supreme triumph and he wanted nothing to mar it. He asked his daughter for calm seas and favorable winds and Zeboim, having nothing better to do, agreed to grant his request. In return, the minotaur gave her lavish gifts and fought games in her honor in their Circus.
Blood spilt in her name. Bracelets of gold and earrings of silver decking her altars. How could a goddess refuse?
Sails billowed. The winds capped the blue sea with white froth that bubbled and broke beneath the leaping bows of the minotaur vessels. The minotaur sailors sang songs and danced on the rolling decks. Zeboim danced with them upon the sparkling water.
And then came Krell’s voice rolling across the world.
He cursed her name. He cursed her wind and water. He cursed her, and then he laughed.
Turning her far-seeing eyes his direction, Zeboim saw Krell standing on a cliff atop Storm’s Keep.
The goddess did not stop to think. She did not ask herself how he came to be there or why he felt so bold as to be able to challenge her. Swift as raging flood waters sweeping down out of the mountains, Zeboim swept through the heavens and broke upon Storm’s Keep in a torrent of fury that lashed the seas and caused them to rise up and crash over the cliffs.
Zeboim sensed Krell’s foul presence in the Tower of Lilies. She smote the heavy door that led to the Tower, splintered it, and with a wave of her hand, sent the wreckage flying to the four corners of the compass. She blew through the chill stone corridors, so that they were awash in sea water, to find Krell sitting at his ease in a chair in the library.
The goddess was always too impatient to be observant of details, which were meaningless to her anyway. Zeboim saw nothing except the death knight. She was suddenly, dangerously calm, as the seas before the hurricane, when, the sailors say, the wind “eats” the waves.
“So, Krell,” said Zeboim, soft and menacing, “Chemosh has tired of you at last and thrown you back upon the refuse heap.”
“Really, now, Madame,” said Krell, leaning back comfortably in his chair and crossing his legs. “You should not speak of this fine fortress that you yourself built for your beloved son—the late and most lamented Lord Ariakan—as a refuse heap.”
Zeboim crossed the room in a bound. Lightning flared in the skies, and thunder cracked. The air sizzled with her anger. She loomed over him, roaring and sparking.
“How dare you sully his name by speaking it! The last time you did that, I cut out your tongue with my knife and watched you choke on your own blood. I will give you back your tongue, just so I have the pleasure of cutting it out—”
She raised her hand.
“Careful, Madame,” said Krell imperturbably. “Do not do anything to jostle the khas board. I am in the middle of a game.”
“To the Abyss with your game!” Zeboim reached down to seize hold of the board and upend it, scatter the pieces, stamp on them, pulverize them. “And to the Abyss with you, Ausric Krell! This time I will utterly and finally destroy you!”
“I would not do that, Madame,” Krell said coolly. “I would not touch that khas board if I were you. If you do, you will regret it.”
The tone of his voice—sneering and smug—and a cunning yellow glow in the heart of the red-flame eyes gave the goddess pause. She did not understand what was happening, and a little belatedly, she asked herself the questions that she should have asked before she came to Storm’s Keep.
Why had Krell returned voluntarily to his prison? She had assumed that Chemosh had abandoned the death knight, banishing him back to this fortress. Now that she was paying attention, she sensed the presence of the Lord of Death. Chemosh held his hand protectively over Krell, as Krell was holding his hand protectively over the khas board. Krell was acting with Chemosh’s blessing—a blessing that made Krell daring enough to curse her, defy her.
Why? What was Chemosh’s game? Zeboim did not think it was khas. Struggling to regain at least a semblance of composure, she dug her nails into her palms and bit off the words that would have reduced Ausric Krell to a sizzling heap of molten metal.
“What are you talking about, Krell?” Zeboim demanded. “Why should I give a damn about this khas board or any other khas board, for that matter?”
She spoke disdainfully but, when she thought Krell wasn’t looking, she sneaked a swift, uneasy glance at the board. It seemed ordinary enough as far as khas boards went. Zeboim had never liked khas. She did not like any games, for that matter. Games meant competition, and competition meant that someone won and someone lost. The idea that she might lose at anything was so supremely laughable that it was not worthy of consideration.
“This is a very valuable khas board, Madame. Your son, my lord Ariakan, had it specially made for him. Why don’t you sit down and finish the game with me,” Krell invited. He gestured at the board. “You take the dark pieces. It is your move.”
Zeboim tossed her head and sea foam flicked about the room. “I have no intention—”
“It is your move, Madame,” repeated Ausric Krell, and the red eyes flickered with amusement.
The presence of Chemosh was very strong. Zeboim was tempted to call out to him, then decided that she would not give him the satisfaction. She did not like the fact that Krell kept speaking of her son. Fear stirred in her, irrational fear.
Chemosh had always been a shadowy god, least known to her of any of the gods, keeping to himself, making no friends, forging no alliances. After the return of the gods to the world, Chemosh had grown even more secretive, retiring to deeper, darker shadows. The heat of his ambition could be felt throughout heaven, however, spewing forth steam, causing small tremors, like the molten lava boiling in the dark depths of a mountain.
“I know nothing about this game,” Zeboim said dismissively. “I do not know what pieces to play and I truly do not care.”
“Might I suggest a move, Madame?”
Krell was being officiously polite, but she heard laughter gurgle in his hollow armor. Her hands itched to seize hold of that armor and rend it open. She clasped her hands together to restrain herself.
Krell leaned over the board. His thick, gloved finger pointed. “Do you see the knight on the blue dragon? The one standing next to the figure of the queen? I’m going to take that piece with my rook unless you make a move to stop me.”
The placement of the pieces on the hexes on the board meant nothing to her. The pieces were scattered all about, with some standing on hexes on one side of the board and some standing on hexes on the other; some facing their rulers and others turned away. The knight to which Krell pointed appeared to be in the thick of some type of action, for he and the queen he served were surrounded by other pieces. As was most natural to her, Zeboim concentrated on the queen.
She studied the piece intently and suddenly her eyes widened. She was the queen, standing upon a conch shell, her sea green dress foaming around her ankles, her face carved in delicate detail.
Zeboim’s heart melted. Her son had obviously had this carved in tribute to her. She clasped the piece fondly, loathe to set it down.