Zeboim shrugged. “The problem you have, Majere, is that now this future will never come to pass, because Mina plans to torture your poor monk to death.
“Then there’s the matter of the kender bursting into sloppy, wet blubbers whenever he sees Mina, but I won’t bore you with that. He’s a kender, after all. You can’t expect anything sensible from them.”
Zeboim eyed Majere.
“Go ahead. Do your little dance. Pretend you are above all this. The truth is—you’re in a pickle. I’m not alone in wondering what is going on with this Mina mortal. My brother, Nuitari, may be a pain in the backside, but he’s not stupid. He and the weird cousins are asking questions. Sargonnas does not like the fact these Beloved are congregating in east Ansalon, so near his empire. Nuitari does not like them so near his precious Tower. Mishakal is furious that the hand of a child must be used to destroy them—a marvelous touch of Chemosh’s, I must admit. I am quite amused by the thought of sweet little tykes forced to become bloodthirsty murderers.
“Why am I here, Majere? I can see you asking yourself that question. I came to warn you. I am the first god to visit you, but I won’t be the last. All the signposts point to you. The rest will find their way to your mountain fastness, and some—I’m thinking specifically of my father—will not be as sweet and charming as I have been. You had best do something before you lose control of the situation completely. If you haven’t already, that is.”
“Perhaps you’d like to unburden yourself? Tell me the truth? I would be glad to help Rhys Mason—for a price. I’ll placate my father and brother, keep them from disturbing you. Tell me what you know about Mina. It will be our secret—I swear it!”
Zeboim waited, rubbing her arms and stamping her feet.
Majere kept moving, gliding over the chill stone. His face was devoid of expression. His eyes fathomless, inscrutable.
“Keep your secret then!” Zeboim cried in nasty tones. “You will have no trouble doing so. Your poor monk will die before he reveals it. Ah, I forgot!” She clapped her hands. “He can’t reveal it because he doesn’t know it! He will be tortured for information he doesn’t have and so can never tell. What a marvelous joke on the poor fellow. That will teach him to put his faith in a god such as you!”
Zeboim left in huff, trailing fog and mist behind her. Returning to her ship, she ordered the minotaurs to up anchor and make haste to find warmer climes.
In the courtyard, Majere tried to continue his ritual, but he found he could not. The mind has to be quiet and still for meditation, and his mind was in turmoil.
“Paladine,” he said softly, “Your mortal body cannot hear me, but perhaps your soul can. I have failed you. I ask your forgiveness. I will try to make amends.
“Though I fear it is already too late.”
6
Chemosh stood on the battlements of Castle Beloved (he was seriously considering changing the name) watching Mina running along the beach. The waves lapped at her feet, washing away her footprints. He watched until Mina had returned to the castle and he could no longer see her.
Turning, he almost stepped on Ausric Krell.
Chemosh cursed, falling back.
“What do you mean? Sneaking up on me like that!”
“You were the one who ordered me to be discreet,” Krell returned sullenly.
“Around Mina, you walking soup kettle! When you are around me, you may clank and rattle as much as you like. Well?” he added, after a pause. “What news?”
“You were right, Lord,” said Krell, exultant. “She went to meet Zeboim!”
“Not a lover?” Chemosh repeated, astonished.
Krell saw that he’d made a mistake. “That, too,” he said hastily. “Mina went to meet the Sea Witch and a lover.” He shrugged. “Probably some priest of Zeboim’s.”
“Probably?” Chemosh repeated, frowning. “You do not know? You did not see him?”
Krell was flustered. “I... uh ... could hardly do that, my lord. Zeboim was there and . . . and you would not want her to know that we were spying—”
“What you mean is you did not want her to know that beneath all that steel plating hides a craven coward.” Chemosh began to walk toward the stair tower. “Come along. You will show me where to find this lover. I would like to meet him.”
Krell was in a quandary. His story was believable—as far as it went. He’d left out the kender and the dog, which, the more he thought about it, didn’t add anything to his tale of lovers and secret assignations. Then there was the liberty he’d taken in the timing of events—Zeboim had arrived, but only after Mina had left, something that was odd for two who were supposed to be in a conspiracy.
“Wait, my lord!” Krell cried urgently.
“For what?” Chemosh looked back impatiently.
“For .. . nightfall,” said Krell, saved by inspiration. “I heard Mina tell this man she would return to him in the night. You could catch them in the act,” he added, certain this would please his master.
Chemosh went exceedingly pale. His hands, beneath the ragged lace, clenched and unclenched. His unkempt hair ruffled in the wind.
“You are right,” said Chemosh in a toneless voice. “That is what I will do.”
Krell gave a great, though inward, sigh of relief. He saluted his lord, turned on his heel. He would go back to the cave, ensure that when Chemosh arrived he would find what Krell had told him to expect.
“Krell,” said Chemosh abruptly. “I am bored. Come play khas with me. Take my mind off things.”
Krell’s shoulders slumped. He hated playing khas with Chemosh. For starters, the god always won. Not difficult when you can see at a glance all possible moves, all possible outcomes. For finishers, Krell had urgent business in that cave. He had a kender and a dog to dispatch.
“I would be only too happy to give you a game, my lord, but I have the Beloved to train. Why don’t you have a romp with Mina? You may as well get your money’s worth—”
Krell realized as he was speaking that he’d made a mistake. He would have swallowed his words, if he could, and himself as well, but it was too late for that. The dark eyes of Chemosh had a look in them that made the death knight wish he could crawl inside his armor and never come out.
There was a moment’s horrible silence, then Chemosh said coldly, “From now on, Mina will train the Beloved. You will play khas.”
“Yes, lord,” mumbled Krell.
The death knight clumped after Chemosh, following him down the stairs and into the hall. Krell might be in disgrace, but he had one consoling thought: he would not be in Mina’s boots right now for anything heaven or the Abyss had to offer.
Mina took a swim in the ocean, though it was not precisely intentional. The waves kicked up by Zeboim’s ire flooded the narrow strip of beach that ran from the rock groin to the cliff on which stood the castle. The water was not deep, and the force of the waves was broken by the rocks. Mina was a good swimmer, and she enjoyed the exercise that warmed her muscles and freed her mind, forced her to acknowledge an unpleasant truth.
She believed the monk. He was not lying. She knew men, and he was the sort who was incapable of lying. He reminded her, in an odd way, of Galdar, her officer and loyal friend. Galdar, too, had been incapable of telling a lie, even when he knew she would have preferred a lie to the truth. Mina wondered, with a pang, where Galdar was. She hoped he was doing well. She wished suddenly she could see him. She wished, for one moment, he was there to put his arm around her—the arm she had miraculously restored—and tell her all would be all right.
Emerging from the sea, Mina wrung the water from her hair and from her sodden gown and gave up wishing for what could never be. She had to decide what to do with the monk. He didn’t know her now, but he had known her when she had first met him. There had been recognition, knowledge in his eyes. He’d forgotten, or something had happened to cause him to forget.