“All in good time. As a child, you were curious about many things,” Nuitari said softly, his wonder and mystification growing. “You were known for asking questions. You were particularly curious about the gods. Why had they left? Where had they gone? Goldmoon mourned the absence of the gods, and because you loved her, you wanted to please her. You told her you would go seeking the gods and bring them back to her— Do you feel at all sleepy?”
She glared at him accusingly. “I cannot sleep, not in this cage. I walk like this half the night trying to wear myself out—”
“You should have told me sooner that you suffered from insomnia,” said Nuitari. “I can help.”
He reached into the magic, snatching some rose petals from the ethers. As a god, he didn’t need spell components to work this magic, but mortals were impressed by them. “I will cast a sleep spell upon you. You should lie down, lest you fall and hurt yourself.”
“Don’t you dare work your foul magic on me!” Mina cried angrily, striding toward him. “I won’t—”
Nuitari tossed the rose petals into the air. They fell down around Mina as he recited the words of the magical sleep spell, the same spell he’d cast on her earlier.
This time, the spell worked. Mina’s eyes closed. She swayed where she stood, then collapsed onto the floor. She would have bruised knees and elbows and a bump on her head when she awoke, but then, he’d warned her to lie down.
He knelt beside her, studied her.
She was, to all appearances, fast asleep, wrapped in the spell’s enchantment.
He pinched her arm, hard, to see if she was shamming.
She did not awaken.
Nuitari rose to his feet. He cast one more look at Mina, then walked out of the room. He went over again in his mind Basalt’s report.
The subject, Mina, is magic-resistant, Basalt had written, but with this qualification: she is resistant to the mam only if she does not know that mam is being cast upon her! Basalt had underlined this twice. If a spell is cast upon her without her knowledge, the magic—even the most powerful—has no effect upon her. However, if she is told in advance a spell is going to he cast upon her, she fails victim to it immediately, without even an attempt to defend herself.
Basalt concluded by writing, In several hundred years of practicing magic, I have never before seen a subject behave like this, nor has my fellow wizard.
Nuitari stood outside Caele’s room. Peering through the walls, the god could see Caele lying sprawled on his bed, indulging himself in an afternoon nap. Nuitari knocked on the door and called out the half-elf’s name in a peremptory voice. He watched, amused, to see Caele jolt to wakefulness.
Stifling a yawn, Caele opened the door. “Master,” he said. “I was just studying my spells—”
“Then you must have them inscribed on the backs of your eyelids,” said Nuitari. “Here, make yourself useful. Take this book back to the library for me.”
He tossed the white-bound spellbook of the White Robed wizard at Caele.
Instinctively, Caele caught it.
Blue and yellow sparks leapt off the white binding. Caele yelped and dropped the spell book to the floor. He thrust his burnt fingers into his mouth.
Nuitari grunted. Turning on his heel, he walked off.
This was all very strange.
4
Chemosh stood on the battlements of his cliff-top castle, gazing moodily out at the Blood Sea and thinking of various ways to avenge himself on Nuitari, rescue Mina, steal the Tower, and obtain the valuable artifacts stashed inside. He conceived and then discarded several plans, and after considerable thought, he was forced to admit that the prospect of achieving all of these goals was likely impossible. Nuitari was clever, curse him. In the eternal khas game waged between the gods, Nuitari had anticipated and thwarted Chemosh’s every move.
Chemosh watched the waves break on the rock-bound coast. Below those waves Mina languished, trapped inside Nuitari’s prison. Chemosh burned with a fierce desire to descend to the ocean floor and march inside and seize her. He avoided the temptation. Chemosh would not give Nuitari the satisfaction of mocking him. He would make Nuitari pay and he would get Mina back. He had yet to figure out how he was going to do this. Nuitari was in complete control of the win.
Almost. There was one piece on the board over which no one had any control. One piece that might give Chemosh the game.
Chemosh was thinking of this plan and that when he noted a wave, larger than the rest, rise up and move rapidly toward shore.
“Krell,” he said to the death knight, who was skulking about in obsequious attendance upon his lord, “Zeboim is coming to pay me a visit.
Krell leapt a foot in the air. If steel could have lost color, his helm would have gone white.
Chemosh pointed. “Look at that wave.”
Zeboim stood poised gracefully atop the mammoth wave. The water curled underneath her bare feet. Her hair streamed behind her. Sea foam clothed her. She held the wind in her hands and cast it forth as she came. Gusts started to buffet the castle.
“You might try hiding in the wine cellar,” suggested Chemosh, “or the treasure vault, or under the bed, if you can fit. I’ll keep her occupied. You had best hurry . . .”
Krell needed no urging. He was already running for the stairs, his armor clanking and rattling.
The wave broke over the battlements of Castle Beloved. The torrent of green water, tinged with red, would have drenched the god who stood there, if he had permitted the water to touch him. As it was, the sea swirled about his boots and cascaded down the stairs. He heard a roar and a clatter. Krell had been swept off his feet by the flood.
Zeboim calmly stepped onto the battlements. With a wave of her hand, she banished the sea, sent it back to fling itself in endless fury at the base of the cliff on which he had built his castle.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Chemosh asked blandly.
“You have my sons soul in your possession!” said Zeboim, her aqua eyes blazing. “Free him—now!”
“I will do so, but I want something in return. Give me Mina,” returned Chemosh coolly.
“Do you think I carry your precious mortal around in my pocket?” Zeboim demanded. “I have no idea where your little trollop has gone. Nor do I care.”
“You should,” Chemosh said. “Your brother is holding Mina against her will. Return Mina to me and I will free your son—if he’ll go.”
“He will leave,” said Zeboim. “He and I had a little talk. He’s ready to move on.” She thought the deal over. “Give me that wretch Krell”—she ground his name between her teeth—“and we’ll call it a bargain.”
Chemosh shook his head. “Only if you will give me that annoying monk of Majere. First things first, though. You must restore Mina to me. Your brother has her locked in the Tower of High Sorcery beneath the Blood Sea.”
“Rhys Mason is not a monk of Majere,” cried Zeboim, offended. “He is my monk and he is passionately devoted to me. He adores me. He would do anything for me. If it hadn’t been for him and his loyal dedication to me, my son would still be a prisoner of that—”
Zeboim paused. Chemosh’s last words had just hit her. “What do you mean—Tower of High Sorcery in the Blood Seal” she blazed. “Since when?”
“Since your brother restored the Tower of High Sorcery that was formerly at Istar. His newly built Tower is now at the bottom of the Blood Sea.”
Zeboim scoffed. “A Tower in the Blood Sea? My sea? Without my permission? You take me for a fool, my lord.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew.” Chemosh feigned surprise. “Brother and sister, so loving and close. He must tell you everything. I assure you, Lady, that your brother, Nuitari, has raised up the Tower that once stood in Istar. He is restoring it to its former glory and he plans to bring Black Robe wizards beneath the ocean to populate it.”