The dead who guarded the castle needed no gates. The wraiths, ghosts and restless spirits Chemosh brought to defend his dwelling could pass through the Abyssal rock as easily as a mortal slips through a leafy green bower. Chemosh needed an entrance for his new disciples, however. The Beloved were dead, but they still retained their corporeal forms. They entered through a magical portal located at a single point in the north wall. The portal could be controlled by Chemosh, the castle’s master, and by one other, the person who was to have been the castle’s mistress.
Mina.
Chemosh had meant the castle to be a gift to her. He had named it both in her honor and as a tribute to his new disciples. He called it Castle Beloved.
But only Mina’s ghost had come to take up residence.
Mina was dead, slain by Nuitari, the God of the Black Moon, the same god who had put an end to Chemosh’s ambitious designs. Nuitari had secretly raised up the ruins of the Tower of High Sorcery of Istar. He had seized the treasure trove of holy artifacts that was to have put Chemosh on the throne as ruler of the heavenly pantheon. Nuitari had captured Mina, taken her prisoner, and in order to flaunt his power over the Lord of Death, Nuitari had slain her.
Chemosh now dwelt alone in Castle Beloved. The place had become loathsome to him, for it was a constant reminder of the ruin of his schemes and plots. Much as he detested the castle, he found he could not leave. For Mina was there. Her spirit came to him there. She hovered near his bed—their bed. Her amber eyes gazed at him but could not see him. Her hand reached out to him but could not find him. Her voice spoke, but she could not talk to him. She listened for his voice, but she could not hear him when he called to her.
The sight of her ghostly form tormented him, and he tried countless times to leave her. He returned to his abandoned dwelling in the Abyss. Her spirit could not follow him there, but the memory of her was there, and her memory left him feeling such bitter pain, he was forced to return to Castle Beloved to find solace in the sight of her wandering ghost.
Chemosh would have his revenge against Nuitari, that much was assured. His plans were vague, however, still in formation. The death knight alone could not dislodge the powerful god from his Tower, though Chemosh did not say that to Krell. He planned to let Krell shake in his boots for a while. Krell owed Chemosh a few uncomfortable hours for losing Ariakan.
Nor did Chemosh tell the death knight that his bungling had worked out for the best. Zeboim was Nuitari’s sister, but there was no love lost between the siblings. Chemosh now had a way to acquire Zeboim as a powerful ally.
The Lord of Death, accompanied by a most reluctant Ausric Krell, passed through the inner and outer walls of the castle and entered the main hall, empty, save for a throne that stood upon a dais in the center. There was room on the dais for two thrones, and when he had first built the castle, there had been two thrones. The larger and more magnificent of these thrones belonged to the god. A smaller and more delicate throne was intended for Mina. Chemosh had smashed that throne to pieces.
The wreckage of the throne lay strewn about the hall. Krell, clumping in after him, trod on some of the rubble. Hoping to regain favor in the eyes of the god, Krell began gushing over the castle’s architectural design.
Chemosh paid no attention to the death knight’s fawnings. He seated himself on his throne and waited, tensely, for Mina’s ghost to come to him. The waiting was always agony. Part of him secretly hoped she would not materialize, that he would never see her again. Perhaps, then, he could forget. But if for some reason more time passed than was usual and her ghost did not appear, he felt he would go mad.
Then she was here, and Chemosh gave a sigh that was mingled despair and relief. Her form, wavering and delicate and pale as though she were spun of cobweb, drifted through the hall toward him. She wore some sort of loose-fitting gown made of black silk that seemed stirred by the undercurrents of the deep, for it undulated gently around her ghostly form. She lifted a ghostly hand as she drew near him, and her mouth opened, as though she was saying something. Her words were smothered by death.
“Krell,” Chemosh said tersely. “You reside on the plane of death, as does she. Speak to Mina’s spirit for me. Ask her what it is she so desperately wants to tell me! It is always the same,” he muttered feverishly, plucking the lace on his sleeve. “She comes to me and seems to want to say something to me, and I cannot hear her! Perhaps you will be able to communicate with her.”
Krell had hated Mina in life. She had faced him unafraid the first time they’d met, and for that, he’d never forgiven her. He was glad she was dead, and the last thing he wanted to do was act as a go-between for her and her lover.
“My lord,” Krell ventured to point out, “you rule the plane of Death and Undeath. If you can’t communicate—”
Chemosh turned a baleful eye upon the death knight, who bowed and muttered something about being happy to speak to Mina whenever she should decide to put in an appearance.
“She is here now, Krell. Talk to her! What are you waiting for? Ask her what she wants!”
Krell looked about. He saw nothing, but he didn’t like to disappoint his lord and so he began talking to a crack in the wall.
“Mina,” said Krell in sonorous and mournful tones, “Lord Chemosh would like to know—”
“Not there!” Chemosh said in exasperation. He gestured. “She is here! Next to me!”
Krell stared about the hall, then said as diplomatically as possible, “My lord, the journey from Storm’s Keep was a strenuous one. Perhaps you should lie down—”
Chemosh bounded off the throne and strode angrily toward the death knight. “There’s not much of you left, Krell, but what there is I’ll shred into infinitesimal pieces and scatter to the four corners of the Abyss—”
“I swear to you, my lord!” Krell cried, backing up precipitously, “that I do not know what you’re talking about! You say, ‘Speak to Mina,’ and I would be glad to do your bidding, but there is no Mina for me to speak to!”
Chemosh halted. “You cannot see her?” He pointed to where she was standing. “If I extend my arm, I could touch her.” He suited his action to his words and held out his hand to her.
Krell turned his helmed head in the direction indicated and stared with all his might. “Oh, of course. Now that you point her out—”
“Don’t lie to me, Krell!” Chemosh cried savagely, clenching his fist.
The death knight recoiled. “My lord. I am truly sorry. I want to see her, but I do not—”
Chemosh shifted his gaze from Krell to the apparition. His eyes narrowed. “You don’t see her. Strange. I wonder . . .”
He raised his voice, shouting, so that it echoed through the shadowy realm of death. “To me! Servants, slaves! To me! Now!”
The hall filled with a ghostly throng, constrained to come at their master’s bidding. Wraiths and specters gathered around Chemosh and waited in their customary silence for him to command them.
“You see these minions of mine, do you not, Krell?” Chemosh made a sweeping wave of his arm.
Left behind by the river of souls as it flowed through eternity, the undead who had fallen prey to the blandishments of the Lord of Death floated in a stagnant swamp of their own evil.
“Yes, my lord,” said Krell. “I see them.” They were low creatures, and he cast them a disdainful glance.
“And you don’t see Mina standing among them?”
Krell stood dithering in an agony of indecision. “My lord, since my death, my eyesight is not what it used to be—
“Krell!” Chemosh shouted.
The death knight’s shoulders slumped. “No, my lord. I know you don’t want to hear this, but she is not among these—”