The priestess of Chemosh was on hand, much to Krell’s annoyance. He was convinced that Chemosh had placed her here to spy on him, and in this Krell was right. Chemosh trusted no one these days. Krell had tried a few times to get rid of the woman, but she persisted in staying and, not only that, she felt free to voice her opinion.
“We have now only to wait for Mina to arrive,” Krell continued. “When I give the order, we attack the temple of Sargonnas, though we will make it appear as though his priests have attacked us.”
Krell pointed to the three Bone Warriors. “Your task will be to keep the sheriff’s men busy, and any others who seek to intervene, such as the foul paladins of Kiri-Jolith. I will snatch Mina and kill the monk.”
The Bone Warriors shrugged their bone-armored shoulders. They had no care who or what they fought. All they sought was a chance to take out their undying rage on the living.
Having said all that was necessary, Krell was about to rise when the priestess spoke.
“You are making a mistake allowing Mina to enter the Temple of Majere. You should capture her before she sets foot on the grounds. Otherwise, Majere’s priests will defend her.”
Krell bristled. “And since when should I fear a bunch of monks? What are they going to do to me? Kick me with their bare feet? Maybe hit me with a stick?” He chortled and thumped the heavy bone armor that covered his body.
“Do not underestimate Majere, Krell,” the priestess cautioned. “His priests are more powerful than you think.”
Krell snorted.
“At least take me with you,” the priestess urged. “I can deal with the monk while you kidnap the child-”
“I go alone!” Krell stated angrily. “Those are my orders. Besides, my fight with the monk is personal.”
Rhys Mason had given Krell no end of trouble, starting from the day Zeboim had dropped the monk down on Storm’s Keep. The monk had made Krell look bad in the eyes of his master, and Krell had long dreamed of the time he would have him at his mercy. Still, Krell would have been just as happy to slay Rhys in the middle of a crowded marketplace as in a temple, but there was another consideration.
Chemosh had given Krell specific instructions to search the monk’s body and bring to him any objects the monk might be carrying. Krell had asked point blank what Chemosh was looking for. The god had been evasive. Krell guessed the monk was carrying something valuable.
Krell tried to imagine what such an object might be-treasure valuable to a god-and at last he decided it must jewels. Chemosh probably wanted to give them to Mina.
“And why should she have them and not me?” Krell asked himself. “I do all my master’s dirty work, and small thanks I get for it. Nothing but insults. He won’t even make me a death knight again. If I have to be a living man, I’ll be a rich living man. I’ll keep the jewels for myself.”
This being Krell’s decision, he couldn’t allow anyone-such as this high and mighty priestess-to witness the monk’s death. A nice, quiet place like a temple was the perfect location for the murder. Krell had already planned what he would do with his money. He would return to Storm’s Keep. Although Krell had never thought he would say this, he had come to miss the place where he had spent so many happy undead years. He would restore Storm’s Keep to its former glory, hire some thugs to guard it, and spend his days terrorizing the northern coast of Ansalon.
“Krell? Are you listening to me?” the priestess demanded.
“No,” said Krell sullenly.
“What I was saying is important. If this Mina is a god as Chemosh claims, how do you plan to carry her off? It seems to me,” the priestess added acerbically, “that she would be more likely to carry you off-or perhaps merely suspend you from the ceiling.”
The priestess was in her forties, tall for a woman and excessively thin. She had a gaunt face, protuberant eyes, and almost no lips, and she was not the least impressed with Ausric Krell.
“If His Lordship wanted you to know his plans, he would have told you, Madame,” Krell answered with a sneer.
“His Lordship did tell me,” replied the priestess coolly. “His Lordship told me to ask you. Perhaps I should remind you that you are counting upon my priests and followers risking their lives to assist you in this endeavor. I need to be apprised of what you have planned.”
If Krell had been a death knight, he would have snapped her scrawny dried-up neck like a scrawny dried-up twig. He wasn’t a death knight anymore, however, and she had been one of Chemosh’s first converts. Her unholy powers were formidable.
“If you must know, I am to use these on Mina,” Krell stated, and he revealed two small balls made of iron crisscrossed by golden bands. “These are magic. I’m to throw one of these at her. When the ball hits her, the gold bands will detach and bind her arms to her side’s. She’ll be helpless. I’ll pick her up and carry her off.”
The priestess laughed-screeching laughter that was like skeletal fingers clawing slate.
“This girl is a god, Krell!” said the priestess, when she could speak. Her lipless mouth twitched. “Magic will have no effect on her. You might as well bind her arms with daisy chains!”
“A fat lot you know about it,” Krell returned angrily. “This Mina doesn’t know she’s a god. According to Nuitari, if Mina sees someone casting a magic spell on her, she falls victim to it.”
“You’re saying she is subject to the power of suggestion?” the priestess asked skeptically.
Krell wasn’t certain he was saying that or not, since he had no clue what she meant.
“All I know is that my lord Chemosh said this would work,” Krell replied in sullen tones. “If you want, you can take it up with him.”
The priestess glared at Krell, then she rose haughtily and stalked out of the chamber. Shortly after that, the spy sent a message to the temple to report that Mina, accompanied by a kender and a dog, was in Temple Row.
“Time to move into position,” said Krell.
5
Rhys recounted his story to the Abbot from the beginning, starting when his poor brother had come to the monastery, and continuing to the end, telling how Mina had brought them from Flotsam to Solace in a day. Rhys kept his gaze on the sunlight flickering in the distant vallenwood tree and told his tale simply, without embellishment. He freely confessed his own faults, passed lightly over his trials, and emphasized Nightshade’s friendship, help, and loyalty. He told all he knew about Mina.
The Abbot listened to the monk’s story without interruption, remaining relaxed and composed. Every so often he touched his fingers to the scar on the back of his hand and sometimes, especially when Rhys spoke of Nightshade, the Abbot smiled.
At length Rhys came, with a sigh, to the end. He bowed his head. He felt limp and wrung out, as though he had been drained.
At length, the Abbot stirred and spoke, “Yours is a wondrous tale, Brother Rhys Mason. I must confess I would find it hard to believe, if I had not been a part of it.” He passed his hand again over the scar. “Praise Majere for his wisdom.”
“Praise Majere,” Rhys repeated softly.
“And so, Brother,” said the Abbot, “you have made a promise to take this god-child to Godshome.”
“Yes, Holiness, and I am at a loss. I do not know how to find Gods-home. I do not even know where to begin to look, except that according to legend it is located somewhere in the Khalkist mountains.”
“Have you considered the possibility that perhaps Godshome does not exist at all?” the Abbot suggested. “Some think Godshome is symbolic of the end of the spiritual journey each mortal takes when he first opens his eyes to the light of the world.”
“Do you believe that, Holiness?” Rhys asked, troubled. “If that is true, what am I to do? The gods are vying for Mina, each wanting to claim her for his or her own. I have been accosted by Chemosh and Zeboim. The sheriff told me about the riot this morning in Temple Row. The strife in Heaven falls like poisonous rain onto the earth. We could become embroiled in another War of Souls.”