The net’s movement ceased. Mina hung suspended in the water. Still entangled in the net, she could not easily turn her head and she had only a limited view of her surroundings. From what she could see, she was in some type of small, well-lighted chamber filled with sea water.
Two faces peered at her through a crystal pane.
“Fishermen,” Mina realized suddenly, recalling how the fishermen on Schallsea Isle would use lights at night to lure fish to their nets. “And I am their catch.”
She could not get a good look at her captors, for the net began to revolve and she was losing sight of them. The two were apparently as shocked to see her as she had been to see them. They began speaking to each other—she was able to see their mouths move, though she could not hear what they were saying.
It was then she noticed the surface of the water over her head ripple, as though air were being blown into the chamber. Looking up, she saw that the water level was starting to sink. The fishermen were pumping the water out of the room, replacing it with air.
The water is as air to you … the air will be as water.
Mina recalled Chemosh’s warning about the spell he had cast over her, a warning she had not taken very seriously at the time, for she had not imagined that the two of them would be separated.
The water level was falling rapidly.
Mina pushed at the net with her hands and kicked her feet, trying frantically to free herself. Her efforts were futile, only caused the net to spin wildly.
She tried to draw attention to her plight, doing her best to shake her head, pointing upward.
The faces in the window watched her struggles with avid interest. Either they did not understand or they did not care.
Mina had not forgotten Chemosh’s admonition to call him if she were in trouble. She had been too startled to do so when she first was caught in the net, and then too busy trying to free herself. After that, she had been too proud. He was constantly reminding her that she was weak as all mortals are weak. She wanted to prove herself to him, as she had proven herself at Storm’s Keep. Common sense dictated that she seek his help now.
Mina would not yell out his name in a panic, however. Though she died in this moment, her pride would not allow to beg him.
“Chemosh,” Mina said softly, to herself, to the memory of his dark eyes and his burning touch, “Chemosh, I am in need. The inhabitants of this Tower have caught me in some sort of net.”
The top of her head broke through the surface of the water. She could feel the air on her scalp. Soon she would be exposed to the air.
“Chemosh,” she prayed swiftly, as the water level continued to drop, “if you do not come to me soon, I will die, for they are depriving me of the water I need to breathe.”
Silence. If the god heard her, he did not answer.
The water level fell to her shoulders. She dared not draw in a breath. She held the water in her lungs as long as she could, until her lungs burned and ached. When the pain became too great, she opened her mouth. Water spewed down her chin. She tried to breathe, but she was like a landed fish. She gasped for life, her mouth opening and closing.
“Chemosh,” she said, as the light began to fade, “I come to you. I am not afraid. I embrace death. For now I will no longer be mortal …”
The net and its captive hit the floor. Eagerly, the two wizards turned the handle to the door of the air lock and hastened inside, the skirts of their black robes sloshing through the ankle-deep water. The two leaned down for a better look at their catch.
The woman lay on her back, enmeshed in the net, her eyes wide open, mouth gasping, her lips blue. Her hands and feet twitched spasmodically.
“You were right,” said one wizard to the other, his tone one of academic interest. “She is drowning in air.”
12
Gliding through the crystalline Tower walls, Chemosh found himself in a room intended for use as a library in some future point of time. The room was in disarray, but shelves, lining the walls, were undoubtedly meant to hold books. Scroll cases stood empty in the center of the room, along with several writing desks, an assortment of wooden stools and numerous high-backed leather chairs, all jumbled together. A few books stood on the shelves, but most remained in boxes and wooden crates.
“I seemed to have arrived on moving day,” Chemosh commented.
Walking over to a shelf, he picked up one of the dusty volumes that had toppled over on its side. The book was bound in black leather with no writing on the cover. A series of glyphs inscribed on the spine bore the book’s title, or so Chemosh supposed. He could not read them, was not interested in reading them. He recognized them for what they were—words of the language of magic.
“So …” he murmured. “As I suspected.”
Dropping the book onto the floor, he looked about for something on which to wipe his hands.
Chemosh continued to poke around, peering into crates, lifting the lids on boxes. He found nothing of any interest to him, however, and he left the library by way of a door at the far end. He entered a narrow corridor that curved off to his left and right. He looked down one way and then down the other, saw nothing that aroused his curiosity. He strolled off to his right, glancing into open doors as he passed. He found empty rooms, destined to be living quarters or school rooms. Again, nothing of interest, unless you counted it as interesting that someone was obviously preparing for a crowd.
Chemosh had never before walked the halls of one of the Towers of High Sorcery. The provinces of the gods of magic, the Towers are home to wizards and their laboratories, their spellbooks and artifacts, all of which are jealously guarded, off-limits to all outsiders. That includes gods.
Especially gods.
Prior to the rise of Istar, Chemosh had never felt any inclination to enter one of the Towers. Let the wizards keep their little secrets. So long as they didn’t interfere with his clerics, his clerics did not interfere with wizards. Then came the Kingpriest and suddenly the world—and heaven—changed.
When the Kingpriest tossed the wizards of Istar out on their ears and then filled up the Tower with holy artifacts, stolen from the ruins of demolished temples, the gods were incensed. Several of the more militant, including Chemosh, proposed storming the Tower of Istar and removing their artifacts by force. The proposal was debated in heaven and eventually discarded; the idea being that this would take away the free will of the creatures they had created. Mankind must deal with mankind. The gods would not intervene, not unless it became clear to them that the foundation of the universe itself was threatened. Chemosh wanted his artifacts returned to him, but he wanted the destruction of the Kingpriest and Istar more, and so he went along with the others. He agreed to wait and see.
Mankind dropped the ball. They went along with the Kingpriest, supported him. The universe gave a dangerous lurch. The gods had to act.
They rained down destruction on the world. Clerics vanished. The Age of Despair began. The gods kept apart, remained aloof, waiting for the people to return to them. Chemosh might have secured his artifacts then, but he was hip-deep in a dark and secret conspiracy meant to return Queen Takhisis to the world. He dared not do anything that might draw attention to their plot. When the War of the Lance started and the other gods were preoccupied, Chemosh entered the Blood Sea to search for the Tower. It was gone, buried deep beneath the shifting sands of the ocean floor.
Now the Tower had been rebuilt and he had no doubt that his artifacts and those of the other gods must be somewhere inside. They had not been destroyed. He could sense his own power emanating from those he had blessed and in some instances forged. His essence was quite faint, not strong enough to help him locate his holy relicts, but it was there—a whiff of death amidst the roses.