Mina’s gaze grew abstracted. She stared at him, but she did not see him. She was seeing the dragon.
“No,” she said softly. “That is not right. That is not how she said it. The inflection is wrong.”
“Inflection?” Rhys shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean, Mistress.”
“The dragon did not say, ‘Who are you?’ The dragon said, ‘Who are you? Where did you come from?’ ”
Mina’s amber eyes focused again on him. “Do you hear the difference?”
Rhys shrugged. “I don’t know the answer. It is the dragon to whom you should be talking, not to me.”
“The dragon grew angry. She thought I mocked her, and she would have nothing more to do with me. I truly do not know what she meant, but you do, and you will tell me.
Mina caught hold of his chin and slammed his head against the jagged stone wall. The blow sent splinters of fiery pain through his skull. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he was afraid he would pass out. He tasted blood in his mouth from biting the inside of his cheek. His head throbbed.
“I cannot tell you what I do not know,” Rhys said, spitting out blood.
“Will not tell me, you mean.”
Mina glared at him. “I have heard you monks are trained to withstand pain, but that’s only when you are alive.”
She leaned over him, put her hands on the stone floor on either side of him. Her amber eyes, up close, seemed to swallow him. “One of the Beloved would tell me whatever I wanted him to tell me. The Beloved would not lie to me. You could taste Mina’s kiss, monk.”
Her lips brushed his cheek.
Rhys’s stomach clenched. His heart shriveled. He thought of Lieu, a monster burning with pain who could find ease only in murder.
Rhys drew in a breath and said, as calmly as he could manage, “I must swear an oath to Chemosh, and that I will never do.”
Mina smiled in disdain. “Do not pretend to be so righteous, monk. You are sworn to Zeboim. She told me as much. If I ask her, she will sell your soul to Chemosh—”
“I am sworn to Majere,” said Rhys quietly.
Mina sat back on her heels. Her lip curled. “Liar! You abandoned Majere. Zeboim told me as much.”
“Thanks to a kender’s wisdom and my god’s refusal to abandon me, I have learned my lesson,” Rhys said. “I asked Majere’s forgiveness and he granted me his blessing.”
Mina laughed again and gestured to Rhys. “Here you are, chained to a wall in a grotto far from anywhere. You are completely at my mercy. This is a strange way for a god to show his love.”
“As you say, Mistress, I am chained to a wall. I have no doubt but that you mean to kill me, and, yes, my god loves me. For at last I have the answer to my riddle. I know who I am.”
Rhys looked up at her. “I am sorry, Mistress, but I do not know you.”
Mina stared at him seething silence. The amber eyes burned.
“You are wrong, monk,” she said at last, when she could speak. “I will not kill you. I will kill them.” She pointed at Nightshade and Atta. “You have all day to reflect on my riddle, monk—a day in which you can imagine their agony. They will die in excruciating pain. The dog first, and then the kender. I will return with the setting sun.”
She left them, stalking angrily out of the grotto.
Lurking about outside the rock walls, Krell heard Mina announce her departure, and he had just time enough to remove himself from sight before she emerged. Her face was pale, her amber eyes glinted, her lips compressed. Her expression was not the expression of a woman in love. She looked angry clear through, angry and thwarted. Krell was not worried by such details, however. He knew what his master wanted to hear, and he was prepared to tell him.
Now all Krell needed was a name.
He had tried his best to eavesdrop on the conversation, but it had been muffled and indistinct. He understood very little of what was said, but it occurred to him, after several moments, that the man’s voice sounded familiar to him.
Krell was positive he’d heard that voice somewhere before. He could not recall where. He’d heard so many voices lately that all of them rattled around in confusion inside his empty helm. What he did know was that the sound of the man’s calm voice dredged up some very violent feelings. Krell had a grudge against that voice. If only he could remember what.
The death knight followed Mina until he saw she was headed back to the castle, and then he turned back to the grotto. He was intending to enter, to see this man for himself, and discover just where and when they’d met. . .
A blast of wind and rain, sea foam and fury spewed out of the cave.
“What do you mean you are sworn to Majere?” The goddess shrieked and howled. “You are mine! You gave yourself to me!”
Krell knew that voice if he knew no other. Zeboim. And she was in a tempest.
Krell had no idea why his nemesis was in there; nor did he care, for it had just occurred to him that Chemosh would be impatient for his report.
“I must not keep my master waiting,” Krell said to himself and turned and fled.
4
“What do you mean you are sworn to Majere?” Zeboim cried tempestuously. “You are mine, monk! You gave yourself to me!”
The goddess had materialized in the grotto in a gust of wind and drenching rain. Her green dress foamed around her. Her long hair, whipped by the wind, lashed Rhys’s face, drawing blood. Her gray-green eyes scorched him. Gnashing her teeth, she struck at Rhys, nails curled to claws.
“You ungrateful wretch! After everything I’ve done for you! I could scratch your eyes out! Eyes be damned, I could rip out your liver!”
Nightshade cowered against the wall. Atta whined. Rhys said a silent prayer to Majere and waited.
Zeboim straightened, her hands twitching. She drew in a breath, then drew in another. Slowly she mastered her fury. She even managed a tight-lipped smile.
Zeboim knelt beside Rhys, slid her hand seductively up his arm, and said softly, “I will give you another chance to come back to me, monk. I will save you from Mina. I will save you from Chemosh. I ask only one little favor in return.”
“Majesty, I—”
Zeboim put her fingers over his mouth. “No, no. Wait until you have heard what I want. It is small, smaller than small. Infinitesimal. A mere nothing. Just. . . tell me the answer.”
Rhys was puzzled.
“The answer to the riddle,” Zeboim clarified. “Who is Mina? Where does she come from?”
Rhys sighed and closed his eyes. “In truth, I do not know, Majesty. How could I? Why does it matter?”
Zeboim rose to her feet. Clasping her arms together, her fingers drumming, she began to pace the cavern, her green dress roiling around her ankles.
“Why does it matter? I ask myself the same thing. Why does it matter who brought this irritating human into the world? It doesn’t matter to me. It matters to my brother for some bizarre reason. Nuitari even went so far as to visit Sargonnas to ask him what he knew about Mina. Apparently she had a friend who was a minotaur or some such thing. This Galdar was found, but he was of no help.”
Zeboim gave an exasperated sigh. “The long and short of it is—now all of the gods are exercised over this stupid question. The dragon who started it has vanished without a trace, as though the seas swallowed her up, which they didn’t. I can vouch for this much at least. That leaves you.”
“Majesty,” Rhys said. “I do not know—”
Zeboim halted in her pacing and turned to face him. “She claims you do.”
“She also claims I was wearing the orange robes of Majere when we met. You were there, Majesty. You know I was dressed in the green robes you gave me.”