“I told you so, Rhys,” Nightshade shouted. “You can’t quit a god!”
Rhys slid his hand over the staff. He knew every knothole and whorl, every imperfection. He could feel the grain of the wood, the stripes that marked the lifespan of the tree and told the story of its growth—the summers that were hot and dry, the gentle rains of spring, fall’s glorious and defiant colors, and the silent, waiting winter. He could feel, within the staff, the breath of the god, and not just because this staff had been blessed by the god. The breath of the god was present in all living things.
The breath of god was hope.
Rhys had lost hope, or rather, he’d thrown hope away. It kept coming back to him, though. Stubborn, persistent.
He stood braced on the lurching deck, the wind of a dark and evil night lashing him, the ghostly ship bearing him to some unknown destination. He rested his head on his staff and closed his eyes and looked within.
The kender was wise, as kender often are to those with the wisdom to understand.
You can’t quit a god.
Book 4
The Tower of the Blood Sea
1
Chemosh stood on the ramparts of his fortress castle, watching the travesty that was taking place on a patch of scorched ground in front of him. The handsome brow of the Lord of Death was furrowed. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Occasionally he would grow so frustrated he had to quit watching and take to pacing the ramparts. He would then halt, looking back in hopes that things would have taken a turn for the better. Instead, it seemed they were going from bad to worse.
“Here you are, my lord,” said Mina, emerging from a door set in one of the corner towers. “I have been searching for you everywhere.”
She went to him and put her arms around him.
He pushed her away, repulsed by her touch. “I am not in a good humor,” he told her. “You would do well to leave me.”
Mina followed his irate gaze to where the death knight, Ausric Krell, was attempting to train the Beloved of Chemosh into a fighting force.
“What is wrong, my lord?” Mina asked.
“See for yourself!” Chemosh gestured. “That undisciplined mob is my army. The army that is going to march below the sea to conquer Nuitari’s tower. Bah!” He turned away in disgust. “That army could not raid a kender picnic!”
Krell was attempting to form the Beloved into ranks. Many of the undead simply ignored him. Those who did obey his commands would take their places in line only to forget why they were there a few moments later and wander off. Krell tried to bully and threaten those who refused to obey, but they were immune to his terrifying presence. He could break all the bones in their bodies and they would shrug it off and take another drink from their hip flasks.
Krell went to round up those who had wandered away and order them back in line. While he was gone, more deserted, forcing Krell to go thudding in pursuit. Some of the Beloved simply stood where they’d been told to stand, taking no interest in anything, staring up at the sky or down at the grass or across at each other.
“This is what I do to recruits who don’t obey my commands!” Krell howled in a rage. “Let this be a lesson to you!”
Drawing his sword, he began slashing at the Beloved, hacking off arms and hands and heads. The Beloved dropped down dead on the ground, where they began to wriggle themselves horribly back together in a few moments.
“There! Did the rest of you see that?” Krell turned around, only to discover the rest of the company had departed, heading in the direction of the nearest town, driven by their desperate need to kill.
“I have created the perfect soldier,” Chemosh fumed. “Impervious to pain. Ten times stronger than the strongest mortal. Unaffected by magic of any type. They know no fear. They can’t be slain. They would kill their own mothers. There’s just one problem.” He drew in a seething breath. “They are all idiots!”
Mina remembered that she had once envisioned an army of dead men—corpses marching to battle. Like the Lord of Death, she had imagined this would be the perfect army. Like him, she now began to realize the very traits that could make a man weak were those that also made him a good soldier.
“Nothing is going right for me!” Chemosh left off watching the ridiculous scene on the parade ground and stalked over to the door that led back inside his castle. “Everyone has failed me. Even you, who profess to love me.”
“Do not say I have failed you, my lord,” Mina pleaded.
She caught up with him and twined her hands around his arm.
“Haven’t you?” He glared at her and flung her away. “Where are my holy artifacts? You were inside the Solio Febalas. You had my artifacts in your grasp, and you came back with nothing. Nothing! And you refuse to go back there.”
Mina lowered her eyes before his rage. She looked down at his hands, at the lace falling over the slender fingers. His hands had not caressed her for many nights now, and she longed for his touch.
“Do not be angry with me, my dearest lord. I have tried to explain. The Solio Febalas is ... holy. Sanctified. The power and majesty of the gods—all the gods—are in the chamber. I could not touch anything. I did not dare! I could do nothing but fall to my knees in worship. . . .”
“Spare me this drivel!” Chemosh snarled. “Perhaps you fooled Takhisis with your show of piety. You do not fool me!”
He walked off, leaving Mina standing in hurt silence. Reaching the door, he paused, then turned around and stalked back.
“Do you know what I think, Mistress?” he said coldly. “I think you took some of those artifacts and you are keeping them for yourself.”
“I would not do such a thing, my lord!” Mina gasped, shocked.
“Or maybe you gave them to Zeboim. You two are such friends—”
“No, my lord!” Mina cried.
He seized hold of her, gripped her tight. Mina flinched in pain.
“Then go back to the Blood Sea Tower! Prove your love for me. Nuitari’s magic cannot stop you. The dragon will let you pass—”
“I cannot go back there, my lord,” Mina said, her voice low and trembling. She shrank in his grasp. “I love you. I would do anything for you. Just... I can’t do that.”
He hurled her from him, flung her back against the stone wall.
“As I thought. You have the artifacts and you want their power for yourself.” Chemosh pointed a finger at her. “I will find them, Mistress! You cannot hide them from me, and when I do ...”
He did not finish his threat, but glared at her, his gaze dark and menacing. Then, turning on his heel, he stalked off. He threw open the door with a bang, entered, and slammed it shut behind him.
Mina slid down the wall, too weak to stand. She was drained, bewildered, and confused. Chemosh had been pleased at her description of the wonders she had discovered in the Hall of Sacrilege. His pleasure had quickly waned when she spoke of her reverence and her awe.
“Never mind that. What wonders of mine did you bring out with you?” he had demanded.
“Nothing, my lord,” Mina had faltered. “How could I dare touch anything?”
He had risen from their bed and stalked out and he had not come back.
Now he believed that she was lying to him, hiding things from him. Worse, he was jealous of Zeboim, who had done all she could to foster his jealousy, though Mina was not aware of that.
“Forgive me for not bringing this charming young human back to you immediately,” Zeboim had said to Chemosh, upon their return. “We took a little side trip. I wanted her to meet my monk. You remember him—Rhys Mason? You traded him to me for Krell. It proved a most interesting experience.”
Chemosh would have thrown himself into the arms of Chaos before he would have given Zeboim the satisfaction of asking her what had occurred. He had asked Mina about the monk, but she had been vague and evasive, arousing his suspicions further.