Rhys watched his robes change from the sacred orange of Majere to a green he presumed was reminiscent of the ocean. He had never seen the sea, so he could not judge whether it was or it wasn’t. He counseled patience, then drew in a deep breath before he spoke.
“As you pointed out yesterday, I do not even know who this Mina is. I don’t know anything about her. I do know my brother, however—”
“She was commander of the Dark Knights during the War of Souls. Even you secluded monks must have heard of the War of Souls,” Zeboim said, seeing Rhys’s blank expression.
Rhys shook his head. The monks had heard tales from travelers about a War of Souls, but they’d paid scant attention. Wars between the living were none of their concern. Neither were wars between the living and the dead.
Zeboim rolled her eyes at his ignorance. “When my honored mother, Takhisis, stole away the world, she dredged up an orphan named Mina and made her a disciple. Mina went about spreading the word of this One God, performing showy miracles, killing dragons, and leading an army of ghosts. Thus she managed to convince foolish mortals that she knew what she was talking about.”
“So Mina is a disciple of Takhisis,” Rhys said.
“Was.” Zeboim corrected his verb tense. “When Mommy met her just reward for her treachery, Mina mourned her goddess and carried off the body. She was, by all accounts, prepared to end her miserable life, but Chemosh decided he could make use of her. He seduced her and she has now transferred her allegiance to him. Mina is the one who made your poor sap of a brother into a murderer. She’s the one you must find. She is mortal and therefore the weak link in Chemosh’s chain of command. Stop her and you stop him. I admit, it won’t be easy,” Zeboim conceded, adding grudgingly. “The chit has a certain charming way about her.”
“And where do I find this Mina?” Rhys asked.
“If I knew that,” Zeboim flared, “do you think I would bother with you? I would deal with her myself. Chemosh cloaks her in a darkness that not even my eyes can penetrate.”
“What about other eyes? The other gods? Your father, Sargonnas—”
“That numb-skulled cow! He is too absorbed in his own concerns, as are all the others. None of the gods has the wit to see that Chemosh has developed a dangerous ambition. He means to seize my mother’s crown. He plans to upset the balance and plunge Krynn into war again. I’m the only one who realizes this,” Zeboim said loftily. “The only one with the courage to challenge him.”
Rhys quirked an eyebrow. The idea of the cruel and calculating Zeboim as the champion of the innocent was a remarkable one. Rhys guessed uneasily there was more to it than that. This smacked of a personal vendetta between Zeboim and Chemosh. He was going to get caught in the middle, between the anvil of one and the hammer of the other. And he found it difficult to accept the fact that the gods of light were blind to this evil. He would know more, however, once he was out in the world. He remained silent, thoughtful.
“Well, Brother Rhys,” Zeboim demanded, “what are you waiting for? I’ve told you all you need to know. Be off with you!” “I do not know where Mina is—” Rhys began.
“You will search for her,” the goddess snapped.
“—but I do know where my brother is,” Rhys continued. “Or at least where he is likely to be.”
“I told you to forget your brother—”
“When I find my brother,” Rhys continued patiently, “I will question him about Mina. Hopefully, he will lead me to her or at least tell me where I can find her.”
Zeboim opened her mouth, shut it again. “That does have a certain logic to it,” she conceded grudgingly. “You may carry on with your search for your brother.”
Rhys bowed his thanks.
“But you are not to waste time searching for your mutt,” she added. “And I want you to make a slight detour. Since you are dealing with Chemosh, you will need someone with you who is an expert on the undead. You yourself have no such knowledge, I believe?”
Rhys had to admit he did not. The monks of Majere were concerned with life, not death.
“There is a town about twenty miles east of here. In that town is a burial ground. You will find the person you seek there. He comes every night around midnight. He is my gift to you,” said Zeboim, highly pleased with herself and her magnanimity. “He will be your companion. You will need his help in dealing with your brother, as well as any other of Chemosh’s followers you might encounter.”
Rhys did not like the idea of a companion who was not only a crony of Zeboim but who also apparently spent his nights hanging about graveyards. Nevertheless, he did not want to argue the point. He would at least take a look at this person and perhaps ask him a few questions. Anyone with knowledge of the undead would also likely have knowledge of Chemosh.
“I thank you, Majesty.”
“You are welcome. Perhaps you will think more kindly of me from now on.”
As the goddess started to disappear, dissolving into the morning mists, she called to him, “I see your mutt heading back along the road. It seems you left something behind. You have my permission to wait for it.”
The mists rose, burned off by the sun. Atta was walking down the path toward him. She carried something in her mouth. Rhys stared, astonished.
Atta had his staff.
The dog dropped his emmide at his feet and looked up at him, her whole back end wagging, her tongue hanging out in what was, for her, a grin.
Rhys knelt down on the path, ruffling her ears and the thick white fur on her neck and chest.
“Thank you, Atta,” he said and added softly, “Thank you, Majere.”
The emmide felt good in his hand, right and proper. Majere had sent it back to him—a clear message that, although he would receive no further blessings from the Mantis God, at least Rhys had Majere’s forgiveness and his understanding.
Rhys rose to his feet, his emmide in his hand, his dog at his side. A day’s walk would take to them to the town.
Night would introduce them to Zeboim’s gift.
8
The burial ground was an old one, dating back to the founding of the town. Set apart from the town in a grove of trees, the cemetery was well-maintained, grave markers in good condition, weeds trimmed. Flowers had been planted on some of the graves and they were in bloom, their perfume scenting the darkness. Some of the graves were decorated with objects dear to the departed. A rag doll lay on one small grave.
Rhys stood in the grove, keeping to the shadows, wanting to view this mysterious personage first before speaking to him. Atta dozed at his feet, snoozing but watchful.
The night deepened, nearing the midpoint, the cross-over from one day to the next. Bats skimmed through the air, feasting on insects. Rhys gave them his grateful thanks, for the insects had been feeding on him. An owl hooted, making known this was her territory. In the distance, another answered. The graveyard was quiet, empty except for the slumbering dead.
Atta rose suddenly to her feet, ears up, body quivering, tense and alert. Rhys touched her lightly on the head and she remained quietly at his side.
A person entered the graveyard, wandering among the markers, sometimes touching them with his hand, giving each a small, familiar pat.
Rhys was taken aback. He hadn’t known what to expect—a cleric of Zeboim; possibly a necromancer or even a black-robed wizard, follower of the dark god, Nuitari. In his wildest imaginings, Rhys had not foreseen this.
A kender.
Rhys’s first thought was that this was Zeboim’s idea of a joke, but the goddess did not strike him as the sort to indulge in a light-hearted prank, especially when she was so intent on the search for this Mina. He wondered if the kender was really the person he was supposed to meet or if his arrival was coincidental. Rhys discounted that after a moment’s consideration. People did not generally flock to graveyards in the middle of the night. The kender had arrived at the appointed hour, and by the way he walked and talked, he was a frequent visitor.