“Majesty, please . . Rhys prompted quietly.
Zeboim passed a hand over her brow, distracted.
“When my son died, I thought … I assumed that his spirit would continue on to the next stage of the soul’s journey. Instead”—she struggled for breath—“instead Chemosh kept his spirit, imprisoned it. He’s held my son captive all these long years.”
Zeboim’s voice dropped, low and throbbing with fear. “Now he has given the spirit of my son to the death knight who betrayed him. A death knight named Ausric Krell”—she choked on the name, as though it were a foul taste in her mouth—“is threatening to destroy my son’s spirit, to cast him into oblivion. Of course, Krell is acting under orders from Chemosh.”
“I assume, then, Majesty, that Chemosh is holding your son’s spirit hostage so that you will do something for him in return. What does he want you to do?”
“First, I am to stop you,” said Zeboim. “Chemosh finds you annoying.”
“I don’t know why,” Rhys said bitterly. “I’m not a threat to him or likely to be one, the way things are going.”
“Further, I am not to interfere with any of Chemosh’s plots and schemes. I have no idea what those maybe,” the goddess added, “but I’m not to do anything to thwart him.”
“So Chemosh is plotting something …” Rhys murmured. “Oh, yes,” said Zeboim with a vicious snap. “He is plotting something grand, of that you may certain. And whatever it is, he fears me. He fears that I will stop him, which I would!”
“And he fears me, it seems,” Rhys added.
“You?” Zeboim laughed, then said grudgingly, “Well, yes, I suppose he does. I am to rid myself of you and the kender, but that is not what is important. My son is important. I can do nothing to help him. If a drop of rain so much as falls on his helm, Krell will destroy my son’s soul. But you, monk …”
Zeboim sidled closer. Taking hold of Rhys’s hands, she stroked, carressed him. “You could go to Storm’s Keep. Krell wouldn’t suspect you.”
“Majesty,” protested Rhys, taken aback, “I can hardly get in the middle of a battle between two gods—”
“You are already in the middle,” Zeboim retorted angrily, shoving him away. “Chemosh commands that I get rid of you. Do you think he means that I am to send you back to your monastery with a pat on the ass and orders to be a good little boy?”
Rhys stood in the prison cell, his gaze fixed on the goddess.
Zeboim settled her robes around her, smoothed her disheveled hair. “You will go to Storm’s Keep. I will transport you through the ethers, don’t worry about that. You will need to make up some excuse for your presence there so that Krell won’t be suspicious. He has less brains than a mollusk, so that won’t be hard. Perhaps you will say you are sent by me to negotiate. Yes, Krell will like that. He’s easily bored and he enjoys tormenting his victims. It is too bad you are not more charming, entertaining. He likes to be entertained.”
“And how do you propose I rescue your son, Majesty, if I am to be tortured and killed?” Rhys asked. “You say this Krell is a death knight. That means that his power is only slightly less than that of a god—”
Zeboim waved that consideration away. “You serve me. I will grant you all the power you need.”
“You haven’t thus far,” Rhys stated coolly.
She cast him an angry glance. “I will. Don’t worry. As to how you save my son”—she shrugged—“that is up to you. You are clever, for a human. You will think of a way.”
Rhys sank down on the bed, tried to organize his scattered thoughts. That was proving difficult, since he could not believe that he was having this conversation.
“Where is Krell holding your son? I assume there are dungeons . .”
“He is not being held in a dungeon,” said Zeboim, her hands twisting together. “His spirit is imprisoned inside”—she drew in a seething breath, barely able to speak for her rage—“inside a khas piece!”
“A khas piece,” Rhys repeated, stunned. “Are you certain?” “Of course I am certain! I saw it! Krell flaunted it before me, bragged that he played with it nightly.”
“Which piece is it?”
“One of the two black knights.”
“Is there any way you can tell them apart?”
“Yes,” she said in scathing tones, “one is my son. It looks just like him.”
“Having never had the honor of meeting your son,” Rhys said carefully, “I do not know what he looks like. If you could give me something more to go on—”
“He is riding a blue dragon. But then, the other was also riding a blue dragon. I don’t know!” Zeboim tore at her hair with her hands. “I can’t think! Leave me alone. Just take yourself off and rescue him— Wait a moment. The pieces are real. Real corpses. Shrunken. Except for the one that was me, of course. And the king. That was Chemosh.”
Rhys rubbed his forehead. This was devolving into a strange and terrible dream.
“It is Chemosh’s idea of a jest,” Zeboim said by way of explanation. “He means to humiliate me. See here, monk, is this really important? We’re wasting time—”
“You are asking me to go on a hopeless venture, Majesty. Any information you can give me, however insignificant it seems to you, might help.”
Zeboim heaved an exasperated sigh. “Very well. Let me try to think back. The White Queen and King are elves. The Black Queen is … is me. The Black King is Chemosh.” She ground the name with her teeth.
“The two White clerics are monks of Majere.” Zeboim arched a brow at him. “Fancy that! The two Black Robe clerics are dwarves. The two White knights are elves riding silver dragons.
The pawns on the side of darkness are goblins. The pawns on the side of light are kender. As I said, Chemosh created this to humiliate me. My gallant son, doing battle against the likes of monks and kender …”
There came a thunderous knock on the door. Gerard’s voice boomed, “Time’s up, Brother.”
“Just one moment,” Rhys called. Rising to his feet, he turned to Zeboim. “Let us understand each other, Majesty. Either I go to Storm’s Keep and rescue your son or you will slay me—”
“I will do it, monk,” said Zeboim, calm as the eye of the storm. “Never think I won’t.”
Wrapping herself in her dark and tattered robes, she sat down on the bed and stared at the wall across from her.
Rhys bent near her, said to her softly, “You know, Majesty, my death would be quicker, easier if I told you just to kill me now.”
Zeboim looked up at him with her sea-green eyes. “It might be, or it might not. Whether it would or it wouldn’t, you’re not taking into account your friend the kender, nor all those doomed young people, like your brother, murdered in the name of Chemosh. Nor all those thousands of sailors on board ships stranded in the middle of flat and listless seas. Sailors who will surely die—”
Gerard banged on the door again. A key rattled in the lock.
Rhys straightened. “I understand, Majesty,” he said with the calm of one who can either be calm or break down and weep.
“I thought you might,” Zeboim said in languid tones. “Let me know your decision.”
“Where will you be, Majesty?”
Lying on the bed, the goddess gathered her robes around her, drew her cowl over her head, and turned her face to the wall. “Here. Where no one can find me.”
“Time’s up,” said Gerard, entering the cell. “How’d everything go?” he asked in a low voice.
“Well enough,” said Rhys.
Gerard cast a look at the bundle of clothes on the bed, then ushered Rhys out the door. He locked it behind him and the two walked down the corridor. When they were out of ear-shot of the prisoner, Gerard halted.
“What do I about the crazy woman?” he asked in a low tone. “Should I let her go?”
Rhys did not answer. In truth, he hadn’t heard the question. He was thinking about what he had to do and trying to figure out some way to do it and survive.