Amber and Ashes
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2024-12-08
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank Deb Guzman of Delavan, Wisconsin, and her border collies, Coy, Tell, and Bizzy, for
instructing me and my border collie Tess in the fascinating work of the herd dog.
My thanks to Joshua Stewart of Beaumont, Texas, who suggested the word "ernmide" for Rhys's staff.
I would like to thank Weldon Chen, "Granak" of Reno, Nevada, who made a khas board for me so that I could
learn to play the game. Thanks also to Tom Wham of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, who played numerous games of
khas with me and helped me understand the rules.
dedication
To Jamie and Renae Chambers.
We've faced some severe storms at sea. Your friendship and dedication kept our ship afloat.
With my love and thanks, Margaret
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.
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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 cliche 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!
-R.A. Salvatore
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.
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"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.
"There you stand, awaiting my commands. And just what am I supposed to tell you to do? Go out and recruit
followers for my worship? Wait!" he commanded irritably. Some of the decaying bodies, having mistaken this for
a command, were heading for the exit. "That wasn't an order, you brainless jumble of bones. I can imagine the
sort of followers you are likely to bring me. Everyone is eager to worship a god whose devotees are in the last
stages of rot."
Chemosh glowered at them, then made a sudden, impatient gesture. "Oh, go on! Get out of here. You turn my
stomach. Go terrorize some village. With any luck," he added, as they clanked and clattered and shuffled their
way out, dropping body parts all the way, "some holy cleric of Mishakal will find the lot of you and smash you to
bits."
Chemosh sat on the lid of a sarcophagus and flicked a fragment of bone off the black velvet of his breeches.
"Where are the young, the strong, the beautiful?" he demanded. "Why don't they come to me? I'll tell you
why." He cast a disgusted glance at the departing skeletons. "The young don't think of death. They think of life,
of living, of joy and happiness, youth and beauty. Speak of Chemosh, and they laugh at the thought. 'Come back
to talk to me of him when I am old and ugly,' they say. Those are the worshippers I attract-arthritic old geezers
who haven't a tooth in their heads, cackling old crones who chant my name and wave black cats at me. Cats!" he
muttered. "What do I want with cats?"
Chemosh kicked at the skull and sent it rolling. The rat went skittering off into a dusty corner. "What I want is
youth, strength, power. Converts who come to me willingly, eagerly. Converts who will frequent my temples in
broad daylight and proclaim that they are proud to worship me. That's what I want. That's what I need." His fist
clenched. "To gain the seat of power in the heavens, that is what I must have."
He stood up and roved restlessly about the vault. "Sargonnas has his minotaur empire that grows larger every
day. The namby-pamby Mishakal. How they adore her, all flocking to her worship with cries of 'Heal me, heal
me!' How can I compete with that?"
He paused to brush strands of sticky cobweb from his black velvet coat. "Even Zeboim, that wanton trollop,
has the heart of every sailor in the fleet. Me? I have large quantities of mold and mildew. And spiders. How can I
become a king among the pantheon when the most intelligent of my followers are the maggots who feed off
them?"
Chemosh wiped the dust from his hands, shook the dirt and bone fragments from his boots, and stalked out the
broken-down door that led into the vault. He wound his way up the stairwell that led back to the surface, back to
sunshine and fresh air.
"I am going to make changes," he vowed. "Death will have a new face. A face with bright eyes and ruby lips."
He emerged into the night and paused to gaze up at the stars, the newly formed constellations, the newly
returned three moons. Chemosh smiled.
"Lips people will be dying to kiss."
4
1
Mina buried her queen beneath a mountain.
The queen had raised that mountain, molded it, shaped it, lifted it up with her immortal hands. And now she
lay beneath it.
The mountain would die. Gnawed by the teeth of the wind, savaged by the drops of rain, slowly, over time,
century upon century, the magnificent mountain Takhisis had created would crumble into dust, mingle, and
become lost among the ashes of its dead creator. The final ignominy. The final, bitter irony.
"They will pay," vowed Mma, watching the sun set beyond the mountain, watching its shadow steal across the
valley. "They will pay-all those who had a hand in this, mortal and immortal. I would make them pay, if I weren't
so tired. So very tired."
She woke up tired; if one could use the term "waking," for she never truly slept. She passed the night in a
restless doze in which she remained conscious of every shift in the wind, every animal grunt or cry, every
dimming of the moonlight or flicker of the stars. Sleep lapped at her feet, ripples wetting her toes. Whenever
sleep's waves, silent and calm, restful and peaceful, would start to carry her away, she would jerk to wakefulness
with a gasp, as though she were drowning, and sleep would recede.
Mina spent the daylight hours guarding the Dark Queen's burial site. She never moved far from that tomb
beneath the mountain, though Gaidar nagged at her constantly to leave, if only for a little while.
"Go for a walk among the trees," the minotaur begged her, "or bathe in the lake or climb the rocky cliffs to see
the sunrise."
Mina could not leave. She had a terrible fear that some person of Ansa-lon would find this holy site, and once
that happened, the gawkers would come to stare and poke at the body and giggle and smirk. The treasure seekers
and despoilers would come to rip off the jewels and lug away the holy artifacts. Takhisis's enemies would come
to triumph over her. Her faithful would come, desperate to have their prayers answered, to try to bring her back.
That would be worst of all, Mina decided. Takhisis, a queen who had ruled heaven and the Abyss, forever
chained to the whining pleas of those who had done nothing to try to save her when she died except wring their
hands and whimper, "What will become of me?"
Day in and day out, Mina paced before the entrance to the tomb beneath the mountain where she had placed
the body of the dead queen. She had worked hard, for weeks, for months maybe-she had no sense of time-to hide
the fact that there was an entrance, planting trees, bushes, and wild flowers in front of it, training them to grow
over it.
Gaidar helped her in her task, and so did the gods, though she was not aware of their help and would have
scorned it if she'd known of it.
The gods who had judged Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, and found her guilty of breaking the immortal oath
they had all sworn at time's beginning, knew as well as Mina what would happen if mortals discovered the
location of the Dark Queen's resting place. Trees that were seedlings when Mina planted them grew ten feet tall
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in a month. Brush and bramble bushes sprang up overnight. A howling wind that never ceased to blow polished
the cliff face smooth, so that no trace of the entrance to the tomb remained visible.
Even Mina could no longer find the entrance, at least when she was awake. She could see it always in her
dreams. Now there was nothing left for her to do except to guard it from everyone-mortal and immortal. She had
become distrustful even of Gaidar, for he had been among those responsible for her queen's downfall. She didn't
like the way the minotaur was always urging her to leave. She suspected that he was waiting for her to depart and
then he would break into the tomb.
"Mina," Gaidar swore to her over and over, "I have no idea where the entrance to the tomb is. I could not even
find this mountain if I left it, for the sun never rises in the same place twice!" He gestured to the horizon. "The
gods themselves conceal it. East is west one day and west is east another. That is why it is safe to leave, Mina.
Once you leave, you will never find your way back. You can move on with your life."
She knew the truth of that in her heart. She knew it and longed for it and was terrified of it.
"Takhisis was my life," Mina said to Gaidar in answer. "When I looked in a mirror, her face was the face I
saw. When I spoke, her voice was the voice I heard. Now she is gone, and when I look in the mirror, no face
looks back. When I speak, there is only silence. Who am I, Gaidar?"
"You are Mina," he replied.
"And who is Mina?" she asked.
Gaidar could only stare at her, helpless.
They had this conversation often, almost every day. They had it again this morning. This time, though,
Gaidar's answer was different. He had been thinking long about this and when she said, "Who is Mina?" he
responded quietly, "Goldmoon knew who you were, Mina. In her eyes you could see yourself. You didn't see
Takhisis."
Mina considered this.
Looking back on her life, she saw it divided into three parts. The first was childhood. Those years were
nothing but a blur of color, fresh paint that someone had smeared with a soaking wet sponge.
The second was Goldmoon and the Citadel of Light.
Mina had no memory of the shipwreck or of being washed overboard or whatever had happened to her. For
her memory-and life-had begun when she opened her eyes to find herself, wet and water-logged, lying in the
sand, looking up at a group of people who had gathered around her, people who spoke to her with loving
compassion.
They asked her what had happened to her.
She didn't know.
They asked her name.
She didn't know that either.
They would eventually conclude that she had been the survivor of a shipwreck-though no ships had been
reported missing. Her parents were presumed to have been lost at sea. That theory seemed most likely, since no
one ever came searching for her.
They said it was not unusual that she remembered nothing of her past, for she had suffered a severe blow to
the head, which often accounted for memory loss.
They took her to a place they called the Citadel of Light, a wondrous place of warmth and radiance and
serenity. Looking back on this time, Mina could not ever remember gray skies in connection with the Citadel,
though she knew there must have been days of wind and storm. For her, the years she spent there, from the age of
nine to fourteen, were lit by the sun gleaming on the crystal walls of the Citadel. Lit by the smile of the woman
who came to be dear to her as a mother-the founder of the Citadel, Goldmoon.
They told Mina that Goldmoon was a hero, a famous person all over Ansalon. Her name was spoken with love
and respect in every part of that continent. Mina didn't care about any of that. She cared only that when
Goldmoon spoke to her, she spoke to her with gentle kindness and with love. Although a busy person, Goldmoon
was never too busy to answer Mina's questions, and Mina loved to ask questions.
Goldmoon was old when Mina first met her, as old as a mountain, the girl used to think. Goldmoon's hair was
white, her face lined with deep sorrow and deeper joy, lines of loss and grief, lines of finding and hope. Her eyes
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were young as laughter, young as tears and-Gaidar was right. Looking back through time, Mina could see herself
in Goldmoon's eyes.
She saw a girl growing too fast, awkward and gawky, with long red hair and amber-colored eyes. Every night,
Goldmoon would brush the red hair that was thick and luxurious, and answer all the questions Mina had thought
up during the day. When her hair was brushed and plaited and she was ready for her bed, Goldmoon would take
Mina onto her lap and tell her stories of the lost gods.
Some of the stories were dark, for there were gods who ruled the dark passions that are in every man's heart.
There were gods of light in opposition to the gods of dark. Gods who ruled all that was good and noble in
mankind. The dark gods struggled endlessly to gain ascendancy over mankind. The gods of light worked
ceaselessly to oppose them. The neutral gods held the scales of balance. All mankind stood in the middle, each
man free to choose his or her own destiny, for without freedom, men would die, as the caged bird dies, and the
world would cease to be.
Goldmoon enjoyed telling Mina the stories, but Mina could tell that the stories made her adopted mother sad,
for the gods were gone and man was left alone to struggle along as best he could. Goldmoon had made a life for
herself without the gods, but she missed them and she longed more than anything for them to return.
"When I am grown," Mina would often say to Goldmoon, "I will go out into the world, and I will find the gods
and bring them back to you."
"Ah, child," Goldmoon would answer with the smile that made her eyes bright, "your search should carry you
no farther than here." She placed her hand on Mina's heart. "For though the gods are gone, their memory is born
in each of us: memories of eternal love and endless patience and ultimate forgiveness."
Mina didn't understand. She had no memory of anything from birth. Looking back, she saw nothing except
emptiness and darkness. Every night, when she lay alone in the darkness in her room, she would pray the same
prayer.
"I know you are out there somewhere. Let me be the one to find you. I will be your faithful servant. I swear it!
Let me be the one to bring knowledge of you to the world."
One night, when Mina was fourteen, she made that same prayer, made it as fervently and earnestly as she had
on the very first night she had ever prayed it. And, on this night, there came an answer.
A voice spoke to her from the darkness.
"I am here, Mina. If I will tell you how to find me, will you come to me?"
Mina sat up eagerly in bed. "Who are you? What is your name?"
"I am Takhisis, but you will forget that. For you, I have no name. I need no name, for I am alone in the
universe, the sole sod, the one god."
"I will call you the One God, then," said Mina. Jumping out of bed, she hastily dressed herself, made ready to
travel. "Let me go tell Mother where I am going-"
'Mother," Takhisis repeated in scorn and anger. "You have no mother. Your mother is dead."
'I know," said Mina, faltering, "but Goldmoon has become my mother.
She is dearer to me than anyone, and I must tell her that I am leaving, or when she finds that I am gone, she
will be worried."
The voice of the goddess changed, no longer angry but sweetly crooning. "You must not tell her or that would
ruin the surprise. Our surprise-yours and mine. For the day will come when you will return to tell Goldmoon that
you have found the One God, the ruler of the world."
"But why can't I tell her now?" Mina demanded.
"Because you have not yet found me," Takhisis replied sternly. "I am not even certain you are worthy. You
must prove yourself. I need a disciple who is courageous and strong, who will not be deterred by unbelievers or
swayed by naysayers, who will face pain and torment without flinching. All this you must prove to me. Do you
have the courage, Mina?"
Mina trembled, terrified. She didn't think she did have the courage. She wanted to go back to her bed, and then
she thought of Goldmoon and how wonderful the surprise would be. She imagined Goldmoon's joy when she saw
Mina coming to her, bringing with her a god.
Mina laid her hand over her heart. "I have the courage, One God. I will do this for my adopted mother."
7
"That is as I would wish it," said Takhisis, and she laughed as though Mina had said something funny.
Thus began the third part of Mina's life, and if the first was a blur and the second was light, the third was
shadow. Acting on the One God's command, Mina ran away from the Citadel of Light. She sought out a ship in
the harbor and went onboard. The ship had no crew. Mina was the only person aboard, yet the wheel turned, the
sails raised and lowered; all tasks were accomplished by unseen hands.
The ship sailed over waves of time and carried her to a place that she seemed to have known forever yet just
this moment discovered. In this place, Mina first beheld the face of the Dark Queen, and she was beautiful and
awful, and Mina bowed down and worshipped her.
Takhisis gave Mina test after test, challenge after challenge. Mina endured them all. She knew pain akin to the
pain of dying, and she did not cry out. She knew pain akin to the pain of birth, and she did not flinch.
Then came the day when Takhisis said to Mina, "I am pleased with you. You are my chosen. Now is the time
for you to go back to the world and prepare the people for my return."
"I went back to the world," Mina told Gaidar, "on the night of the great storm. I met you that night. I
performed my first miracle on you. I restored your arm."
He cast her a meaningful glance, and she flushed and said hurriedly, "I mean-the One God restored your arm."
"Call her by who she was," said Gaidar harshly. "Call her Takhisis."
He looked involuntarily at the stump that was all that was left of his sword arm. When he had found out the
true name of the One God, the god who had returned his lost arm to him, Gaidar had prayed to his god Sargonnas
to remove it again.
"I would not be her slave," he muttered, but Mina didn't hear him.
She was thinking about pride, hubris and ambition. She was thinking about the desire for power and who had
truly been responsible for the fall of the Dark Queen.
"My fault," she said quietly. "I can admit that now. I was the one who destroyed her. Not the gods. Not even
that wretched god-elf Valthonis, or whatever he calls himself. I destroyed her. I betrayed her."
"Mina, no!" Gaidar returned, shocked. "You were her slave just as much as any of us. She used you,
manipulated you-"
Mina raised her amber eyes to meet his. "So you believed. So they all believed. I alone knew the truth. I knew
it and so did my Queen. I raised an army of the dead. I fought and killed two mighty dragons. I conquered the
elves and brought them under the heel of my boot. I conquered the Solamnics and saw them run from me like
whipped dogs. I made the Dark Knights a power to be feared and respected."
"All in the name of Takhisis," said Gaidar. The minotaur scratched the fur on his jowls and rubbed his muzzle.
He looked uneasy.
"I wanted it to be in my name," said Mina. "She knew it. She saw into my heart and that was why she was
going to destroy me."
"And that was why you were going to let her," said Gaidar.
Mina sighed and bowed her head. She sat on the hard ground, her legs drawn up. her arms wrapped around her
knees. She wore the clothes she had worn that fateful day when her Queen had died, the simple garments worn
underneath the armor of a Dark Knight-shirt and breeches. They were ragged and worn now, bleached by the sun
to a nondescript gray. The only color that was bright upon it was the red blood of the queen who had died in
Mina's arms.
Gaidar shook his horned head and sat up straight on the boulder he was using for a seat, a boulder he'd rubbed
smooth over the past several months.
"All that is over now, Mina. It is time you moved on. There is yet much to do in the world and a new world in
which to do it. The Dark Knights are in disarray, unorganized. They need a strong leader to bring them together."
"They would not follow me," said Mina.
Gaidar opened his mouth to remonstrate then shut it again.
Mina glanced up at him, saw that he knew the truth as well as she did. The Dark Knights would never again
accept her as a commander. They had been wary of her from the beginning-a girl of seventeen, who barely knew
one end of a sword from another, who had never seen a battle, much less led men into one.
8
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTSIwouldliketothankDebGuzmanofDelavan,Wisconsin,andherbordercollies,Coy,Tell,andBizzy,forinstructingmeandmybordercollieTessinthefascinatingworkoftheherddog.MythankstoJoshuaStewartofBeaumont,Texas,whosuggestedtheword"ernmide"forRhys'sstaff.IwouldliketothankWeldonChen,"Granak"ofReno,Neva...
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