Margaret Weis - Amber and Blood

“We need tinder to start the fire,” said Rhys. “Perhaps some seaweed. If you could hurry…”

Muttering under his breath, Nightshade summoned Atta and the two went back out. Rhys hoped he would be quick about his task. The girl’s skin was cold and clammy to the touch, her heartbeat slow and sluggish, her lips and fingernails blue. He would have wrapped her in his own robes, but they were as wet as her cotton smock.

He glanced around the grotto that had once been a shrine to Zeboim. An altar to the goddess stood at the far end. He had paid it scant attention when the minotaur had first brought him here. He’d had far more urgent matters to think about, such as being chained to a wall and threatened with torture and death. Now, hoping he might find something of use, he left the child and went back to look at it more closely.

The altar was crudely carved out of a single piece of red-and-black striped granite. A conch shell had been placed reverently on the altar that was adorned with a frayed, sea-green piece of silk. Breathing a prayer of thanks to Majere and another prayer asking forgiveness of Zeboim for defiling her altar, Rhys lifted up the shell, removed the cloth, then carefully put the shell back.

Rhys took off the child’s sopping-wet smock, rubbed her dry with the silk cloth, and wrapped her up in it, winding it around her much like the cocoon from which the fabric had been spun. The girl ceased to shiver. Some color came to her pallid cheeks, the blue faded from her lips.

“Thank you, Zeboim,” said Rhys softly.

“You’re not very welcome,” said the Sea Goddess, sharply. “Just make certain you scrub my cloth and put it back when you’ve finished.”

Zeboim entered the grotto quietly, subdued—for her—with a only a moderate breeze stirring the blue-green dress that frothed about her bare feet. She cast a bored glance at the girl on the floor.

“Where did you dredge up the kid?”

“I found her washed up on the shore during the storm,” Rhys replied, watching the goddess closely.

“Who is she?” Zeboim asked, though she didn’t seem to much care.

“I have no idea,” Rhys replied. He paused, then said quietly, “Do you know her, Majesty?”

“Me? No, why should I?”

“No reason, Majesty,” said Rhys, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Nightshade must have been mistaken.

Stepping over the girl, Zeboim came to Rhys and knelt down before him. She reached out with her hand, caressed his cheek.

“My own dear monk!” she said in dulcet tones. “I am so glad to see you safe and sound! I’ve been consumed with worry for you.”

“I thank you for your concern, Majesty,” said Rhys warily. “How may I serve you?”

“Serve me?” Zeboim was dismayed. “No, no. I came merely to inquire about your health. Where is your friend, the… um… dear little kender. And that mutt. Dog. I mean, dog. Sweet dog. Oh, my dear monk, you’re so cold and wet. Let me warm you.”

Zeboim fussed about him. Drying his robes with a touch of her hand, she lit the pile of driftwood with a flick of her finger. All the while, Rhys waited in silence, not fooled by her blandishments. The last he’d seen of the Sea Goddess, she had told him she would watch in glee as Mina put him to death.

“There, isn’t that better?” Zeboim asked solicitously.

“Thank you, Majesty,” Rhys said.

“Is there anything else I can do for you—”

“Perhaps tell me why you’ve come,” Rhys suggested.

Zeboim looked annoyed, then said abruptly, “Oh, very well. If you must know, I’m looking for Mina. It occurred to me she may have come to you, seeing that she found you interesting. I’m sure I don’t know why. I think you’re as dull as dishwater. But Mina couldn’t stop talking about you, and I thought she might be here.”

She glanced about the grotto, and shrugged. “It seems I was mistaken. If you see her, you will let me know. For all the grand times we had together—”

As she started to leave, her gaze fell again on the child wrapped in the altar cloth. Zeboim halted, staring.

The girl lay on her side, curled up in a ball. Her face was hidden by the cloth, but her tangled red braids were clearly visible in the firelight. The goddess looked at the girl, then she looked at Rhys.

Zeboim gasped. Swooping down on the girl, the Sea Goddess grasped hold of the altar cloth and dragged it from the child’s face.

Zeboim grasped the girl’s chin and wrenched her face to the firelight. The girl woke with a cry.

“Stop it!” said Rhys sharply, intervening. “You’re hurting her.”

Zeboim laughed wildly. “Hurt her? I couldn’t hurt her if I drove a stake through her heart! Did Majere do this? Does he think he can hide her from me with this stupid disguise—”

“Majesty—” Rhys began.

“Ouch!” Zeboim cried, snatching back her hand. She glared down at the child in shock. “She bit me!”

“Come near me and I’ll bite you again!” the girl cried. “I don’t like you! Go away.”

She wrapped herself more snugly in the altar cloth, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes.

Zeboim sucked her bleeding hand and regarded her intently.

“Don’t you know me, child?” she asked. “I’m Zeboim. We’re friends, you and I.”

“I never saw you before,” said the girl.

“Majesty,” said Rhys uneasily, “who is this girl? You seem to know her.”

“Don’t play games with me, monk,” said Zeboim.

“I am not playing a game, Majesty,” said Rhys earnestly.

Zeboim shifted her gaze to him. “You’re telling the truth. You truly don’t know.” She gestured at the slumbering child. “She is Mina. Or rather, she was Mina. I have no idea who she thinks she is now.”

“I do not understand, Majesty,” said Rhys.

“You’re not alone,” the goddess said grimly. “Where did you find her?”

“She was in the sea during the storm. She nearly drowned—”

“In the sea?” Zeboim repeated, and she added in a murmur. “Of course! She jumped from the wall into the sea. And she came to you, the monk who knew her…”

“Majesty,” said Rhys, “you need to tell me what is going on.”

Zeboim eyed him. “My poor monk. It would be immense fun to walk out and leave you floundering in ignorance, but not even I am that cruel. I don’t have time to go into details, but I will tell you this much. This girl, this child, this Mina is a god. She is a god who does not know she is a god, a god who was tricked by Takhisis into thinking she was human. What’s more, she is a god of light who was duped into serving darkness. Are you keeping up with me so far?”

Rhys stared at her, dumbstruck.

“I can see you’re not.” Zeboim shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t much matter. You’re stuck with her. To continue my story, poor Mina had the misfortune to fall in love with Chemosh and—just like a man—he broke her heart. Mina tried to win him back by giving him a gift. She dragged the Tower of High Sorcery up out of my sea and stuck it on that island out there. We were all very impressed. That was the first hint most of us had that she was a god. Majere, of course, already knew.”

“I don’t believe… I can’t believe…” Rhys paused, recalling the name of the place she had referred to as home. “If what you say is true, Majesty, how did she come to be like this? A child?”

“The gods only know,” said Zeboim. “No, wait. I take that back. We gods haven’t a clue. You think I’m lying, don’t you?”

Rhys was embarrassed. “Majesty—”

She grasped hold of his arm, digging her nails through the fabric of his robes into his flesh. Staring into his eyes, past his eyes, into his very soul, she hissed at him.