“Anchor here,” Zeboim ordered. “We are close to my destination. I will make the rest of the journey on my own.”
The captain was only too happy to obey. He heaved the ship to, and they drifted on the clouds.
Wrapping herself in a gray mist that she wound around her like a silken scarf, Zeboim descended down the side of the mountain, searching for Majere’s dwelling. She had not been here in eons and had forgotten precisely where it lay. Emerging onto a plateau that spanned the distance between two peaks, she thought this place looked familiar, and she lifted the veil of mist with her hands and peered out. She smiled in satisfaction.
A simple house, built of time, with spare, elegant lines, stood on the plateau. In addition to the house was a paved yard and a garden, all surrounded by a wall that had been constructed stone by stone by the hands of the owner. Those same hands had built the house and they also tended the garden.
“Ye gods, I’d go crazy as a blowfish, stuck here all alone,” Zeboim muttered. “No one to listen when you speak. No one to obey your commands. No mortal lives to tangle and twist. Except . . . that’s not quite true, is it, my friend?” Zeboim smiled a cruel, sardonic smile. Then she shuddered.
“Listen to me. I’ve been here only a few moments and already I’m talking to myself! Next thing you know I’ll be chanting and prancing around, waving my hands and ringing little bells. Ah, there you are.”
She found her prey alone in the courtyard, performing what appeared to be some sort of exercise or perhaps a slow and sinuous dance. Despite the bone-chilling cold that set the Sea Goddess’s teeth to chattering, Majere was bare-chested and bare-footed, wearing only loose-flowing pants bound around his waist with a cloth belt. His iron-gray hair was tied in a braid that fell to his waist. His gaze was turned inward, body and mind one as he moved to the music of the spheres.
Zeboim swooped down on him like a diving cormorant and landed in the courtyard right in front of him.
He was aware of her. She knew by the slight flicker of the eyes. Perhaps he’d been aware of her for a long time. It was hard to tell, because he didn’t acknowledge her presence, not even when she spoke his name.
“Majere,” she said sternly, “we need to talk.”
The gods have no corporeal forms, nor do they need them. They can communicate with each other mind-to-mind, their thoughts roving the universe, knowing no bounds. Like mortals, however, the gods have secrets—thoughts they do not want to share, plans and schemes they do not want to reveal—so they find it preferable to use their avatars not only when they need to communicate with mortals but also with each other. The god permits only a portion of himself or herself to enter into the avatar, thus keeping the mind of the god hidden.
Majere’s avatar continued with the exercise—hands moving gracefully through the thin, crisp air; bare feet gliding over the flagstone. Zeboim was forced to do her own dance—dodging out of his way, leaping to one side—as she sought to keep up with him and keep his face in view.
“I don’t suppose you could stand still for a moment,” she said, finally irritated. She had just tripped over the hem of her gown.
Majere continued to perform his daily ritual. His gaze looked to the mountains, not to her.
“We both know why I’m here. That monk of yours—the monk Mina is about to disembowel, or flay, or whatever bit of fun she plans to have with him.”
Majere turned away from her, his movements slow and proscribed, but not before she had seen a flicker in his gray eyes.
“Ah ha!” cried Zeboim, darting around to confront him. “Mina. That name is familiar to you, isn’t it? Why? That’s the question. I think you know something about her. I think you know a lot about her.”
The hand of the god moved in a graceful arc through the air. Zeboim reached out and caught hold of his wrist. Majere was forced to look at her.
“I think you made a mistake,” she said.
Majere remained standing perfectly still, calm and composed. He had every appearance of continuing to stand like that for the next century, and the impatient Zeboim released her grasp. Majere continued with his exercise as though nothing had happened to interrupt him.
“Here’s my theory,” said Zeboim. She was worn out from trying to keep up with the god and seated herself on the stone wall as she expounded her views. “You either knew or realized something about Mina. Whatever this is or was, you decided to have your monks deal with it, and thus Mina’s first disciple—the monk’s wretched brother—arrived at your monastery. What was supposed to happen? Were the monks meant to pray him back to life? Remove the curse from him?”
She paused to allow Majere to provide her with answers, but the god did not respond.
“Anyway,” Zeboim continued, “whatever was supposed to happen didn’t, and what did happen was disastrous. Perhaps Chemosh found out and acted to thwart your plans. His disciple murdered the monks.
All except one—Rhys Mason. He was to have been your champion, but oops! You lost him. He was, understandably, furious at you. Where were you when your monks were being slaughtered? Off doing your little dance?
“It all has to do with this business of free will.” The goddess rubbed her arms, trying to keep warm. “You gods of Light are always promoting free will, and here we have a prime example of why such a notion is so utterly ridiculous. Here you are, in desperate need of your disciple, and what does he do? He exerts his free will. He abandons you and turns to me for help.
“You refuse to abandon him, however. Very forgiving and understanding of you, I have to admit,” Zeboim added with a shrug. “Had one of my disciples done that, I would have drowned him in his own blood. But not you. Patiently you walk alongside him. Patiently you try to guide him, but somewhere, again, something goes wrong. I’m not sure what, but something.”
Majere continued his exercise. He did not speak. He did not look at her. He was listening to her, though. She was certain of that.
“I sprang Mina on you, or rather, on Rhys. I didn’t really mean to. We were in a hurry. I had to return her to Chemosh as part of a bargain we made. I thought I should introduce the two, however, since I was the one insisting that Rhys find her. I wanted him to know what she looked like. Well, sir! Imagine my shock when Mina claims he knows her! He claims he doesn’t, and it’s perfectly obvious to me he is telling the truth. The poor sod doesn’t know how to lie. I believe him, but Mina doesn’t.
“I do. I decide to bring these two together again. As an added bonus, by doing so, I make Chemosh’s life miserable, but that’s neither here nor there. Mina meets Rhys, and now he doesn’t know her and she knows he doesn’t know her. She’s confused, poor darling. I can’t say that I blame her. She says something very interesting to him, however. She says that the first time she saw him he was wearing orange robes. Rhys was wearing no such thing. He was wearing quite charming green robes, which I had given to him, so either Mina is color-blind, or she is daft.”
Zeboim paused for breath. Simply watching Majere seemed to wear her out. She no longer expected him to speak.
“I don’t believe Mina is either color-blind or crazy. I believe she saw what she saw. I believe she saw Rhys Mason at a time in his life when he is wearing orange robes and when he does know who she is. Not now, because he doesn’t. Not in the past, because he didn’t. Which leaves—a time when he will”
Zeboim paused for effect, then said, “Mina saw your monk in the future, a future in which he has returned to you, a future in which he knows something about Mina. He knows something, because you’ve told him.”