Margaret Weis - Amber and Blood

The girl’s face grew pinched. She was now fully awake and shivering so that her teeth chattered. Her grip on his hand tightened.

“I’m lost,” she said. Her lower lip quivered. Her eyes filled with tears. “I ran away from home and now I can’t find my way back.”

Rhys was relieved. Nightshade was wrong. The girl was likely some fisherman’s child who’d been caught out in the storm, been swept out to sea. She could not have walked far. Her village must close by. He pitied her parents. They must be frantic with worry.

“Once you are warm, I will take you, child,” Rhys promised. “Where do you live?”

The girl curled up in a shivering ball. Her eyes closed and she yawned. “You’ve probably never heard of it,” she said sleepily. “It’s a place called…”

Rhys had to lean close to her hear her drowsy whisper.

“Godshome.”

The gods had watched in astonishment and alarm as a mortal, Mina, reached down to the bottom of the Blood Sea, seized hold of the newly restored Tower of High Sorcery, and dragged it up from beneath the waves to present as a gift to her lover, Chemosh.

Obviously, Mina was not mortal. The most powerful wizards who had ever lived could not have accomplished such a feat, nor could the most powerful clerics. Only a god could have done that, and now all the gods were thrown into turmoil and consternation, trying to determine what was going on.

“Who is this new god?” the other gods clamored. “Where does she come from?”

Their fear was, of course, that she was some alien god, some interloper who, striding across the heavens, had come upon their world.

Their fears were allayed. She was one of theirs.

Majere held the answers.

“How long have you known?” Gilean demanded of the Monk God.

Gilean was the leader of the Gods of Gray, the neutral gods, who moderated between light and darkness. The neutral gods were strongest now, their numbers increased due to the self-imposed exile of Paladine, leader of the Gods of Light, and the banishment of Queen Takhisis, leader of the Gods of Darkness. Gilean wore the aspect of a scholarly sage, a middle-aged man of keen intellect and cool, discompassionate eyes.

“Many, many eons, God of the Book,” Majere replied.

The God of Wisdom, Majere wore orange robes and carried no weapon. His aspect was generally mild and serene, though now it was fraught with sorrow and regret.

“Why keep this secret?” Gilean asked.

“It was not mine to reveal,” Majere replied. “I gave my solemn oath.”

“To whom?”

“To one who is no longer among us.”

The gods were silent.

“I assume you mean Paladine,” Gilean stated. “But there is another god who is no longer with us. Does this have something to do with her?”

“Takhisis?” Majere spoke sharply. His voice hardened. “Yes, she was responsible for this.”

Chemosh spoke. “Takhisis’ last words, before the High God came to take her, were these: ‘You are making a mistake! What I have done cannot be undone. The curse is among you. Destroy me and you destroy yourselves.’”

“Why didn’t you tell us this?” Gilean asked, glowering at the Lord of Bones.

Chemosh was a vain and handsome god, with long flowing black hair and dark eyes, empty and cold as the graves of the accursed dead over which he presided.

“The Dark Queen was always making threats.” Chemosh shrugged. “Why was this one any different?”

Gilean had no answer. He fell silent and the other gods were also silent, waiting.

“The fault is mine,” Majere said at last. “I acted for the best. Or so I believed.”

Mina lay so cold and still on the battlements. Chemosh wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he dared not. Not with all of them watching him. He said to Majere, “Is she dead?”

“She is not dead, because she cannot die.” Majere looked at each of them, each and every one. “We have been blind. But now you see the truth.”

“We see, but we do not understand.”

“You do,” said Majere. He folded his hands and gazed out into the firmament. “You don’t want to.”

He did not see the stars. He saw the stars’ first light.

“It began at the beginning of time,” he said. “And it began in joy.” He sighed deeply. “And now, because I did not speak, it could end in bitter sorrow.”

“Explain yourself, Majere!” growled Reorx, smoothing his long beard. The God of the Forge, whose aspect was that of a dwarf, in honor of his favorite race, was not known for his patience. “We have no time for your blathering!”

Majere shifted his gaze from the time’s beginning to the present. He looked down at Mina.

“She is a god who does not know she is a god. She is a god who was duped into thinking she is human.”

Majere paused, as if to gain control of himself. When he spoke, his voice soft with anger, “She is a god of Light, tricked by Takhisis into serving Darkness.”

Majere fell silent. The other gods shouted questions, demanded answers. All the while, Mina lay unconscious on the battlements of Chemosh’s castle as the storm of anger and bafflement, accusations and recriminations raged around her. Such was the turmoil that when Mina woke, no one noticed. She stared at the beautiful, radiant, dark and awful beings stalking the heavens, flinging bolts of lightning and shaking the ground with their fury. She heard them shouting her name, but all she understood was that this was her fault.

A memory, a dim memory, from a time long, long passed, stirred in Mina and brought one terrible understanding.

I was never meant to wake.

Mina leapt to her feet and before any one could stop her, she jumped from the battlement and plunged silently, without a cry, into the crashing sea.

Zeboim screamed and ran to the edge of the wall to look into the waves. Storm winds tore at the sea-foam hair of the sea goddess and swirled her green gown about her. She watched the foaming water, but saw no sign of Mina. Turning, she cast a scathing glance and pointed an accusing finger at Chemosh.

“She’s dead and it is your fault!” She gestured into the storm-lashed water. “You rejected her love. Men are such beasts!”

“Spare us the drama, Sea Witch,” Chemosh muttered. “Mina’s not dead. She can’t die. She’s a god.”

“She may not be able to die. But she can still be wounded,” said Mishakal softly.

The storm winds ceased. The lightning bolts sizzled and went out. The thunder rolled over the waves and was silenced.

Mishakal, Goddess of Healing, the White Lady, as she was now known on Krynn, for her pure white gown and long white hair, walked over to Majere. She extended her hands to him. Majere took hold of her hands and gazed sorrowfully into her eyes.

“I know you keep your vow to protect one who is now gone,” said Mishakal. “You have my permission to speak.”

“I knew it!” Sargonnas snarled. The God of Vengeance and Leader of the Darkness strode forward. His aspect had the head of a bull and the body of a man after the minotaur, his chosen race. “This is a conspiracy among the Do-Gooders! We will have the truth and have it now!”

“Sargonnas is right. The time for silence is ended,” said Gilean.

“I will speak,” said Majere, “since Mishakal has given me leave.”

Yet he did not say anything, not immediately. He stood gazing down at the water that had closed over Mina’s head. Sargonnas growled impatiently, but Gilean silenced him.

“You said: ‘She is a god who does not know she is a god. She is a god who was tricked into thinking she is human.’”

“That is true,” Majere answered.

“And you said also, ‘She is a god of Light, tricked by Takhisis into serving Darkness.’”