"That is well," said Rhys. "Now I think we should have something to eat and drink, and then get some rest."

"I'm not hungry," Nightshade mumbled.

"I am," Rhys stated. "I know Atta is."

At the mention of food, the dog licked her chops and stood up, wagging her tail.

"I think maybe you are, too," Rhys added, smiling.

"Well, just a little," said Nightshade and, with a mournful sigh, he slipped his hands out of the manacles and clanked over to the sack of salt pork.

Chapter 5.

The ocean boiled as Zeboim stalked into the water, and she was wreathed in steam when she boarded the minotaur vessel. The captain bowed low to her, and the crew knuckled their shaggy foreheads. "Where are you bound, Most Glorious One?" the captain asked humbly.

"The Temple of Majere," said the goddess.

The captain rubbed his snout and regarded her with an apologetic air. "I fear I do not know-"

Zeboim waved her hand. "It is on some mountain somewhere. I forget the name. I will guide you. Make haste."

"Yes, Most Glorious One." The captain bowed again and then began to bellow orders. The crew raced into the rigging.

Zeboim lifted her hands and summoned the wind, and the sails billowed.

"North," she said, and the waves curled and foamed beneath the prow as the wind bore the ship over the waves and up into the clouds.

The winds of the goddess's will drove her ship through the ethers foaming beneath the keel and carried her to a remote realm that appeared on no maps of Krynn, for few mortals had ever seen it or were aware it existed. Those who did know of it had no need to map it, for they knew where they were.

It was a land of tall mountains and deep valleys. Nothing grew on the towering mountains. The valleys were gashes cut into the stone with smatterings of grassy hillocks and the occasional scraggly pine or wind-bent spruce. The nomads who dwelt in this desolate region roamed the mountains with their herds of goats, eking out a harsh existence. These humans lived now as they had lived centuries ago, knowing nothing of the world beyond and asking nothing from that world except to be left alone.

As the goddess neared her destination, she shrouded the ship in clouds, for fear Majere, who was a solitary, reclusive god, would know of her coming and depart before she could speak to him.

"Gracious Lady, this is madness," said the minotaur captain. He cast a haggard look over the prow. Whenever the clouds parted, he could see his ship sailing perilously close to jagged, snow-capped peaks. "We will smash headlong into a mountain and that will be the end of us.'"

"Anchor here," Zeboim ordered. "We are close to my destination. I will make the rest of the journey on my own."

The captain was only too happy to obey. He heaved the ship to, and they drifted on the clouds.

Wrapping herself in a gray mist that she wound around her like a silken scarf, Zeboim descended down the side of the mountain, searching for Majere's dwelling. She had not been here in eons and had forgotten precisely where it lay. Emerging onto a plateau that spanned the distance between two peaks, she thought this place looked familiar, and she lifted the veil of mist with her hands and peered out. She smiled in satisfaction.

A simple house, built of time, with spare, elegant lines, stood on the plateau. In addition to the house was a paved yard and a garden, all surrounded by a wall that had been constructed stone by stone bv the hands of the owner. Those same hands had built the house and they also tended the garden.

"Ye gods, I'd go crazy as a blowfish, stuck here all alone," Zeboim muttered. "No one to listen when you speak. No one to obey your commands. No mortal lives to tangle and twist. Except... that's not quite true, is it, my friend?" Zeboim smiled a cruel, sardonic smile. Then she shuddered.

"Listen to me. I've been here only a few moments and already I'm talking to myself! Next thing you know I'll be chanting and prancing around, waving my hands and ringing little bells. Ah, there you are."

She found her prey alone in the courtyard, performing what appeared to be some sort of exercise or perhaps a slow and sinuous dance. Despite the bone-chilling cold that set the Sea Goddess's teeth to chattering, Majere was bare-chested and bare-footed, wearing only loose-flowing pants bound around his waist with a cloth belt. His iron-gray hair was tied in a braid that fell to his waist. His gaze was turned inward, body and mind one as he moved to the music of the spheres.

Zeboim swooped down on him like a diving cormorant and landed in the courtyard right in front of him.

He was aware of her. She knew by the slight flicker of the eyes. Perhaps he'd been aware of her for a long time. It was hard to tell, because he didn't acknowledge her presence, not even when she spoke his name.

"Majere," she said sternly, "we need to talk."

The gods have no corporeal forms, nor do they need them. They can communicate with each other mind-to-mind, their thoughts roving the universe, knowing no bounds. Like mortals, however, the gods have secrets-thoughts they do not want to share, plans and schemes they do not want to reveal-so they find it preferable to use their avatars not only when they need to communicate with mortals but also with each other. The god permits only a portion of himself or herself to enter into the avatar, thus keeping the mind of the god hidden.

Majere's avatar continued with the exercise-hands moving gracefully through the thin, crisp air; bare feet gliding over the flagstone. Zeboim was forced to do her own dance-dodging out of his way, leaping to one side-as she sought to keep up with him and keep his face in view.

"I don't suppose you could stand still for a moment," she said, finally irritated. She had just tripped over the hem of her gown.

Majere continued to perform his daily ritual. His gaze looked to the mountains, not to her.

"We both know why I'm here. That monk of yours-the monk Mina is about to disembowel, or flay, or whatever bit of fun she plans to have with him."

Majere turned away from her, his movements slow and proscribed, but not before she had seen a flicker in his gray eyes.

"Ah ha!" cried Zeboim, darting around to confront him. "Mina. That name is familiar to you, isn't it? Why? That's the question. I think you know something about her. I think you know a lot about her."

The hand of the god moved in a graceful arc through the air. Zeboim reached out and caught hold of his wrist. Majere was forced to look at her.

"I think you made a mistake," she said.

Majere remained standing perfectly still, calm and composed. He had every appearance of continuing to stand like that for the next century, and the impatient Zeboim released her grasp. Majere continued with his exercise as though nothing had happened to interrupt him.

"Here's my theory," said Zeboim. She was worn out from trying to keep up with the god and seated herself on the stone wall as she expounded her views. "You either knew or realized something about Mina. Whatever this is or was, you decided to have your monks deal with it, and thus Mina's first disciple-the monk's wretched brother-arrived at your monastery. What was supposed to happen? Were the monks meant to pray him back to life? Remove the curse from him?"

She paused to allow Majere to provide her with answers, but the god did not respond.

"Anyway," Zeboim continued, "whatever was supposed to happen didn't, and what did happen was disastrous. Perhaps Chemosh found out and acted to thwart your plans. His disciple murdered the monks.

All except one-Rhys Mason. He was to have been your champion, but oops! You lost him. He was, understandably, furious at you. Where were you when your monks were being slaughtered? Off doing your little dance?

"It all has to do with this business of free will." The goddess rubbed her arms, trying to keep warm. "You gods of Light are always promoting free will, and here we have a prime example of why such a notion is so utterly ridiculous. Here you are, in desperate need of your disciple, and what does he do? He exerts his free will. He abandons you and turns to me for help.

"You refuse to abandon him, however. Very forgiving and understanding of you, I have to admit," Zeboim added with a shrug. "Had one of my disciples done that, I would have drowned him in his own blood. But not you. Patiently you walk alongside him. Patiently you try to guide him, but somewhere, again, something goes wrong. I'm not sure what, but something."

Majere continued his exercise. He did not speak. He did not look at her. He was listening to her, though. She was certain of that.

"I sprang Mina on you, or rather, on Rhys. I didn't really mean to. We were in a hurry. I had to return her to Chemosh as part of a bargain we made. I thought I should introduce the two, however, since I I was the one insisting that Rhys find her. I wanted him to know what she looked like. Well, sir! Imagine my shock when Mina claims he knows her! He claims he doesn't, and it's perfectly obvious to me he is telling the truth. The poor sod doesn't know how to lie. I believe him, but Mina doesn't. was the one insisting that Rhys find her. I wanted him to know what she looked like. Well, sir! Imagine my shock when Mina claims he knows her! He claims he doesn't, and it's perfectly obvious to me he is telling the truth. The poor sod doesn't know how to lie. I believe him, but Mina doesn't.

"I do. I decide to bring these two together again. As an added bonus, by doing so, I make Chemosh's life miserable, but that's neither here nor there. Mina meets Rhys, and now he doesn't know her and she knows he doesn't know her. She's confused, poor darling. I can't say that I blame her. She says something very interesting to him, however. She says that the first time she saw him he was wearing orange robes. Rhys was wearing no such thing. He was wearing quite charming green robes, which I had given to him, so either Mina is color-blind, or she is daft."

Zeboim paused for breath. Simply watching Majere seemed to wear her out. She no longer expected him to speak.

"I don't believe Mina is either color-blind or crazy. I believe she saw what she saw. I believe she saw Rhys Mason at a time in his life when he is is wearing orange robes and when he wearing orange robes and when he does does know who she is. Not now, because he doesn't. Not in the past, because he didn't. Which leaves- know who she is. Not now, because he doesn't. Not in the past, because he didn't. Which leaves-a time when he will,"

Zeboim paused for effect, then said, "Mina saw your monk in the future, a future in which he has returned to you, a future in which he knows something about Mina. He knows knows something, because you've told him." something, because you've told him."

Zeboim shrugged. "The problem you have, Majere, is that now this future will never come to pass, because Mina plans to torture your poor monk to death.

"Then there's the matter of the kender bursting into sloppy, wet blubbers whenever he he sees Mina, but I won't bore you with that. He's a kender, after all. You can't expect anything sensible from them." sees Mina, but I won't bore you with that. He's a kender, after all. You can't expect anything sensible from them."

Zeboim eyed Majere.

"Go ahead. Do your little dance. Pretend you are above all this. The truth is-you're in a pickle. I'm not alone in wondering what is going on with this Mina mortal. My brother, Nuitari, may be a pain in the backside, but he's not stupid. He and the weird cousins are asking questions. Sargonnas does not like the fact these Beloved are congregating in east Ansalon, so near his empire. Nuitari does not like them so near his precious Tower. Mishakal is furious that the hand of a child must be used to destroy them-a marvelous touch of Chemosh's, I must admit. I am quite amused by the thought of sweet little tykes forced to become bloodthirsty murderers.

"Why am I here, Majere? I can see you asking yourself that question. I came to warn you. I am the first god to visit you, but I won't be the last. All the signposts point to you. The rest will find their way to your mountain fastness, and some-I'm thinking specifically of my father-will not be as sweet and charming as I have been. You had best do something before you lose control of the situation completely. If you haven't already, that is."

"Perhaps you'd like to unburden yourself? Tell me the truth? I would be glad to help Rhys Mason-for a price. I'll placate my father and brother, keep them from disturbing you. Tell me what you know about Mina. It will be our secret-I swear it!"

Zeboim waited, rubbing her arms and stamping her feet.

Majere kept moving, gliding over the chill stone. His face was devoid of expression. His eyes fathomless, inscrutable.

"Keep your secret then!" Zeboim cried in nasty tones. "You will have no trouble doing so. Your poor monk will die before he reveals it. Ah, I forgot!" She clapped her hands. "He can't reveal it because he doesn't know it! He will be tortured for information he doesn't have and so can never tell. What a marvelous joke on the poor fellow. That will teach him to put his faith in a god such as you!"

Zeboim left in huff, trailing fog and mist behind her. Returning to her ship, she ordered the minotaurs to up anchor and make haste to find warmer climes.

In the courtyard, Majere tried to continue his ritual, but he found he could not. The mind has to be quiet and still for meditation, and his mind was in turmoil.

"Paladine," he said softly, "Your mortal body cannot hear me, but perhaps your soul can. I have failed you. I ask your forgiveness. I will try to make amends.

"Though I fear it is already too late."

Chapter 6.

Chemosh stood on the battlements of Castle Beloved (he was seriously considering changing the name) watching Mina running along the beach. The waves lapped at her feet, washing away her footprints. He watched until Mina had returned to the castle and he could no longer see her.

Turning, he almost stepped on Ausric Krell.

Chemosh cursed, falling back.

"What do you mean? Sneaking up on me like that!"

"You were the one who ordered me to be discreet," Krell returned sullenly.

"Around Mina, you walking soup kettle! When you are around me, you may clank and rattle as much as you like. Well?" he added, after a pause. "What news?"

"You were right, Lord," said Krell, exultant. "She went to meet Zeboim!"

"Not a lover?" Chemosh repeated, astonished.

Krell saw that he'd made a mistake. "That, too," he said hastily. "Mina went to meet the Sea Witch and and a lover." He shrugged. "Probably some priest of Zeboim's." a lover." He shrugged. "Probably some priest of Zeboim's."

"Probably?" Chemosh repeated, frowning. "You do not know? You did not see him?"

Krell was flustered. "I... uh... could hardly do that, my lord. Zeboim was there and... and you would not want her to know that we were spying-"

"What you mean is you did not want her to know that beneath all that steel plating hides a craven coward." Chemosh began to walk toward the stair tower. "Come along. You will show me where to find this lover. I would like to meet him."

Krell was in a quandary. His story was believable-as far as it went. He'd left out the kender and the dog, which, the more he thought about it, didn't add anything to his tale of lovers and secret assignations. Then there was the liberty he'd taken in the timing of events-Zeboim had arrived, but only after after Mina had left, something that was odd for two who were supposed to be in a conspiracy. Mina had left, something that was odd for two who were supposed to be in a conspiracy.

"Wait, my lord!" Krell cried urgently.

"For what?" Chemosh looked back impatiently.

"For... nightfall," said Krell, saved by inspiration. "I heard Mina tell this man she would return to him in the night. You could catch them in the act," he added, certain this would please his master.

Chemosh went exceedingly pale. His hands, beneath the ragged lace, clenched and unclenched. His unkempt hair ruffled in the wind.

"You are right," said Chemosh in a toneless voice. "That is what I will do."

Krell gave a great, though inward, sigh of relief. He saluted his lord, turned on his heel. He would go back to the cave, ensure that when Chemosh arrived he would find what Krell had told him to expect.

"Krell," said Chemosh abruptly. "I am bored. Come play khas with me. Take my mind off things."

Krell's shoulders slumped. He hated playing khas with Chemosh. For starters, the god always won. Not difficult when you can see at a glance all possible moves, all possible outcomes. For finishers, Krell had urgent business in that cave. He had a kender and a dog to dispatch.

"I would be only too happy to give you a game, my lord, but I have the Beloved to train. Why don't you have a romp with Mina? You may as well get your money's worth-"

Krell realized as he was speaking that he'd made a mistake. He would have swallowed his words, if he could, and himself as well, but it was too late for that. The dark eyes of Chemosh had a look in them that made the death knight wish he could crawl inside his armor and never come out.

There was a moment's horrible silence, then Chemosh said coldly, "From now on, Mina will train the Beloved. You will play khas."

"Yes, lord," mumbled Krell.

The death knight clumped after Chemosh, following him down the stairs and into the hall. Krell might be in disgrace, but he had one consoling thought: he would not be in Mina's boots right now for anything heaven or the Abyss had to offer.

Mina took a swim in the ocean, though it was not precisely intentional. The waves kicked up by Zeboim's ire flooded the narrow strip of beach that ran from the rock groin to the cliff on which stood the castle. The water was not deep, and the force of the waves was broken by the rocks. Mina was a good swimmer, and she enjoyed the exercise that warmed her muscles and freed her mind, forced her to acknowledge an unpleasant truth.

She believed the monk. He was not lying. She knew men, and he was the sort who was incapable of lying. He reminded her, in an odd way, of Gaidar, her officer and loyal friend. Gaidar, too, had been incapable of telling a lie, even when he knew she would have preferred a lie to the truth. Mina wondered, with a pang, where Gaidar was. She hoped he was doing well. She wished suddenly she could see him. She wished, for one moment, he was there to put his arm around her-the arm she had miraculously restored-and tell her all would be all right.

Emerging from the sea, Mina wrung the water from her hair and from her sodden gown and gave up wishing for what could never be. She had to decide what to do with the monk. He didn't know her now, but he had known her when she had first met him. There had been recognition, knowledge in his eyes. He'd forgotten, or something had happened to cause him to forget.

One way to restore memory was through pain. Mina had ordered torture used on her prisoners. The dark knights had been experts at it. She had watched men suffer and sometimes die, confident she was doing right, serving a laudable cause-the cause of the One God.