Amber and Ashes
Margaret Weis
Introduction
I remember the first time I came across Margaret’s work as clearly as if it was yesterday. It was the mid-’80s and I had just sent out the manuscript of my first novel, Echoes of the Fourth Magic. Making myself crazy watching the mailman every day, I decided to divert my attention. I had heard of some new fantasy books that were making quite a splash, so I went to my local book store and bought the first DRAGONLANCE® novel.
I was immersed in that book when the bad news began to arrive. Rejection letter after rejection letter showed up at my door; I had no idea of how badly I wanted to get published! Frustration turned to outrage, which I took out on the book I happened to have in my hands at the time. I remember declaring in no uncertain terms that “I can write a better book than this!” And all the while, I didn’t even realize the declaration as an expression of my own pain.
A few years later, I landed the deal with TSR and was subsequently asked to come out to Gen Con. My editor, Mary Kirchoff , took me aside to where two people, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman, were preparing for a signing.
“Watch these two,” she told me. “Learn how a pro handles a signing line.”
I sat down, a bit embarrassed, given my reaction to that DRAGONLANCE book those years before. Let me say here that I hadn’t finished that novel then. I was just too angry and frustrated.
I met Margaret and Tracy and we exchanged a few pleasant words. Nothing too substantial, because the line had started to form. The things that most struck me during that book signing were the questions and the remarks of the readers. Fan after fan came up and breathlessly and reverently spoke of Kitiara and Tanis and Raistlin. These people, numerous, intelligent and erudite, had been deeply touched by that book I had angrily tossed aside those years before.
That moment remains an epiphany for me. The first thing I did when I got home was go back to the book store and buy all of those early DRAGONLANCE books. This time I read them honestly. When I got done, I could have been one of those people in that line, demanding to know more about Raistlin, worried about Tanis and in love with Flint and Tasslehoff. The tale was wonderful and wonderfully told, with characters rich and enchanting (okay, except for Sturm. Man, I hated Sturm and cheered for the dragon! Mwahahahaha!).
Err, back on point … I am not surprised that Margaret draws lines of fans at every signing, nor am I the least bit surprised that after all these years, those original DRAGONLANCE books continue to sell tens of thousands of copies each year. They tell a tale familiar yet fresh. They show us heroes familiar yet unique. And they show us villains, wonderful and delicious. Of course, there’s also Raistlin, so multi-dimensional, so cool and so bad, so conflicted and so straightforward. The books are worthy of all the praise, to be sure.
Wow.
Just wow.
Margaret Weis is one of my favorite writers. I wish I could put words together as beautifully as she. She’s also one of my favorite people. Too often we hear the cliché that someone’s smile “lights up a room.” Too rarely do we actually meet someone who has a smile that really does.
Rock on, Margaret, and don’t you dare stop writing!
Prologue
The temple dedicated to his worship was located below the castle’s walls and ramparts, below the towers and spires, below the great hall with its moldering tapestries, below even the dungeons. The noble family to whom this castle had once belonged had buried their honored dead in this subterranean vault in order to maintain the holy sanctity of death, to keep the tombs safe from grave robbers and worse.
The grave robbers came anyway.
Eons ago, the noble and long forgotten family was consumed in some noble and long forgotten war. With the castle abandoned, there was no one left to protect the dead. Although the vault had been dug deep and the stairs that led to it were hidden, those who have a nose for treasure were able to sniff it out. The robbers pried loose the marble slabs, carved with the likeness of noble lord and noble lady, from the tops of the tombs and tossed them, broken, to the floor. They stripped the ruby rings from bony fingers, lifted the golden circlets from grinning skulls, snatched up the diamond pendants, and carried away the bejeweled swords.
After the robbers came worse.
Reviled throughout Ansalon, those who embraced the worship of Chemosh, Lord of Death, were forced to hold their sacred rites and rituals in places hidden from public view. Temples dedicated to the worship of Chemosh were established in caves, catacombs, and basements, and it was rumored that there was one in the sewers of Palanthas. The choicest of all locales for the god’s temple were those already dedicated to Death, for there the power of the god could be most keenly experienced. Local cemeteries were ideal, but these tended to be visible and were therefore often raided by local authorities seeking to eradicate the undead, thus making them dangerous places of worship for the clerics of Chemosh. The discovery of a family vault that was unknown to the rest of the world was an important find. Chemosh’s followers did all they could to keep it safe and keep it secret.
Clad in their ceremonial black robes, their faces hidden by white skull masks—for these followers of Chemosh trusted no one, not even each other—the clerics of the Lord of Death performed the rituals that brought the bodies of the dead back to what they considered “life.” When they themselves died, the souls of these clerics were not free to join the River of Souls to the next stage of the wondrous journey. Having pledged their loyalty to the god in return for favors given to them while they were living, they were constrained by the god to remain in the world after death, forced to do his bidding, their mortal remains animated and ordered to guard temple or treasure and fight off invaders, their corpses dying over and over again, to be reanimated over and over again.
When the Age of Mortals came and Takhisis stole the world out from the other gods—including Chemosh—his clerics lost their power. No longer would skeletons rise at their command and take up arms in their fleshless hands to guard them against their foes. Some of the clerics burned their black robes and white masks and blended in with the neighbors. Others kept the faith, kept it safe and secret. Trusting that someday their god would return, they locked up the vaults, the tombs, and the crypts and carried such secrets in their hearts. The living loyal to Chemosh bided their time, and so did the dead.
When Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, came seeking souls to fuel her return to the world, she could not locate many of those souls who were bound to Chemosh. Hidden in the darkness of undeath, they kept silent when she called, waiting for their master.
And now he was here, world found, treacherous Queen deposed and deceased. Chemosh was back, but he wasn’t happy.
He stood in the family vault that had once been his temple, stood amidst the dust and the rat droppings and bits and pieces of dismembered bodies—a collar bone here, a shin bone there—and he looked at his followers, who were slowly making their shambling way out of dark corners or pulling themselves up out of coffins. His lip curled.
“What an ugly lot you are,” he told them. “And you stink, too. Stink to high heaven. I’m surprised I couldn’t locate the world from your stench alone.”
The corpses didn’t understand. They turned empty eye sockets in his direction and waited in tongueless silence for his command. As they stood, looking incredibly stupid, a finger bone dropped off one. Another lost its kneecap. An arm fell off another.
Chemosh frowned. A rat ran across his boot. He was so plunged in gloom that he didn’t bother to kill it but let it go. The creature took refuge inside a skull, its tail sticking ludicrously out of the grinning mouth.