He was weary in body and spirit, however. No blessing could ease that. Perhaps this weariness accounted for the impression that came to him that his body was one of those in the grave. The clods were falling on top of him. He was being buried underneath them.
Night was nearly over by the time he tossed the last shovelful of dirt onto the mass grave. He said no prayers. He had forsaken Majere and he doubted that Zeboim would be interested.
He needed sleep.
Rhys turned and, summoning Atta, he went to his cell, threw himself onto his mattress, and slept.
He woke suddenly, not to the tolling of the bell, but to its aching absence.
nce the dead were laid to rest, Rhys had to think about the living. He could not start his journey by abandoning the livestock, leaving them to starve or fall prey to wild beasts. Their care was his responsibility now. He and Atta and the rest of the herd dogs drove the sheep and the cattle thirty miles to the nearest village, traveling the entire distance through a torrential downpour that made mud soup of the roads. Zeboim was obviously not pleased at the delay.
The last time he had walked this road was fifteen years ago, when he’d been on his way to the monastery. He had not been on it since. He had not left the monastery in fifteen years. He looked at the world to which he was returning and found it wet, sodden, gray, and not much changed. Trees were taller. Hedges were thicker. The road appeared to be more traveled than it had been, which meant that the village must be prospering. He passed a few people on the road, but they were full of their own concerns and said nothing to his greeting, although several cursed at him and his flock for blocking their way, holding them up. Rhys remembered why he’d left the world and he was sorry to be going back. Sorry, but determined.
The villagers gratefully accepted the monk’s gift, although they were somewhat alarmed when Rhys told them that he was doing this because the other monks had died of disease, leaving him the sole survivor. He assured the people that there was no danger of contagion. That and the well-fed milk cows and the healthy sheep went far to persuade the villagers that they could safely accept this unlooked-for wealth.
Rhys lingered on the outskirts of the village to watch the villagers herd the sheep to the meadows. He’d given them the herd dogs as well. Atta’s brothers and sisters ranged behind, keeping the flock together, guiding them up the hillside.
Atta sat at Rhys’s side, watching with doleful eyes the pack into which she’d been born going off and leaving her behind. She kept looking questioningly at Rhys, waiting for him to give the command for her to rush off to join them. Rhys stroked her ears, bid her quietly, “Stay.”
He had never thought of giving her up, not even at the command of the goddess. Atta had defended him when he could not defend himself. She had risked her life to protect his. There was a bond between them that he could not bear to break. He needed at least one companion in whom he could put his trust. Trusting Zeboim was out of the question.
Rhys returned to the monastery. He scrubbed the dining hall clean of all the terrible traces of the murders. This done, he scoured the kitchen. He was not certain if the poison would wash away or not and decided not to chance it. He smashed all the crockery. He hauled the pots and kettles to the stream, weighted them down with rocks and sank them in the deepest part of the water. He left no trace behind.
That final, terrible task done, he made a last tour of the buildings that were horribly, achingly silent. The monks’ most valued possessions were their books, and these he locked away in a safe place until a representative from the Prophet of Majere could be found who would come to take over. Rhys would stop at the first temple of Majere to send a message to the prophet. In the meantime, he trusted that the god would watch over his own.
Rhys had no personal possessions, other than his emmide that had been a gift from the Master seven years ago. The emmide was a holy artifact, made of the wood of a holly tree, said to be sacred to Majere. Since Rhys had turned his back on the god, he did not feel right about keeping the god’s gift. He left the emmide in the library with the books, propping it up against the wall. As he walked away, he felt as if he were leaving behind one of his arms.
He went to his bed, but sleep would not come to him this night, despite the fact that he was bone-tired. No ghosts of his murdered brethren haunted him. They were in his heart, however. He saw their faces before him, heard their voices. He heard, too, the impatient goddess pounding her hand on the roof. The rain fell steadily all night.
He had planned to set out before daylight, but since he couldn’t sleep, he might as well start walking. He packed bread and dried meat and apples for himself and Atta in a leather scrip, slung the leather scrip over his shoulder, and then whistled for Atta.
When she did not come, he went in search of her, thinking he knew where to look.
He found her lying beside the empty sheep pen, her eyes sad, wondering.
“I know how you feel, girl,” said Rhys.
He whistled again and she rose to her feet and came obediently after him.
He did not look back.
The rain ceased the moment they were on the road. A low ground fog blanketed the valley. The rising sun was an eerie red blur, its light strained through the gray mist as through a cheese cloth. Moisture dripped from the tree leaves to land with a dull plopping sound on the wet ground. All other sound was hushed and muted.
Rhys had much to think about as he walked. He gave Atta her freedom to roam, an unusual treat for the hard-working dog. She could dash into the brush in search of rabbits, bark at squirrels, frisk down the road ahead of him, come racing back with tongue lolling, her eyes bright. She did not do any of that today but trotted behind him, head down, tail drooping. He hoped she would perk up, once they were away from her familiar surroundings, away from the lingering scent of sheep and the other dogs.
When he had taken the livestock to the village he had questioned the inhabitants, asking if they had seen a cleric of Kiri-Jolith pass through recently. None of them had. Rhys did not find that surprising. The village lay north and east of the monastery, whereas the city of Staughton—Lleu’s home—was located to the south. There was no reason why Lleu should not return to Staughton. He could always concoct some plausible tale to explain his parents’ disappearance. Traveling these days was dangerous, particularly in Abanasinia, where lawless men roamed the countryside. Lleu had only to invent a tale of an attack by robbers, in which his parents had been killed and he himself wounded, and he would be believed.
Rhys walked along, so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not miss Atta until a cessrat skittered across his path and no dog bounded after it. He halted, called and whistled, but Atta did not appear. The thought came to him that she had gone back to her pack. That was only natural. She had made her choice, as he had made his. He had to see for himself, however, had to make certain she was safe. Turning around, his heart heavy, he almost stumbled over the goddess, who, with characteristic impetuosity, appeared with no warning to stand before him, blocking his path.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“I am going first to look for my dog, Mistress,” he said, “and then to Staughton to search for my brother.”
“Forget the dog. And forget your brother,” Zeboim commanded imperiously. “I want you to seek out Mina.”
“Mistress—”
“Majesty, to you, monk,” Zeboim said in haughty tones.
“I am no longer a monk, Majesty.”
“Yes, you are. You will be my monk. Majere can have monks. Why can’t I? Of course, you will have to wear different colored robes. My monks shall wear sea-green. Now, Monk of Zeboim, what was it you were about to say?”
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 now 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.
he 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.
“Hullo, Simon Plowman,” said the kender, squatting down comfortably by a grave. “How are you tonight? Doing okay? You’ll be pleased to know the wheat is up about six inches now. That apple tree you were worried about doesn’t look so good, however.”
The kender paused, as if waiting for a reply.
Rhys watched, mystified.
The kender heaved a dismal sigh and stood up. He moved on to the next grave, the one with the rag doll, and sat down beside it.
“Hullo, Blossom. Want to play at tiddle-winks? Maybe a game of khas? I have my board with me and all the pieces. Well, most of the pieces. I seem to have misplaced a rook.”
The kender patted a large pouch he wore slung over one shoulder and looked with hopeful expectancy at the grave.
“Blossom?” he said again. “Are you here?”
He sighed dolefully and shook his head.
“It’s no use,” he said, talking to himself. “No one to talk to me. They’ve all gone.”
The little fellow seemed so truly sad and heart-broken that Rhys was moved to pity him. If this was lunacy, it had certainly taken a strange form. The kender did not appear to be insane, however. He sounded rational, and apart from looking rather thin and pinched, as if he hadn’t had much to eat, he seemed healthy enough.
His hair was done up in the typical kender topknot. The tail straggled down behind him. He wore more subdued colors of clothing than was usual with kender, having on a dark vest and dark britches. (In this Rhys was mistaken. In the darkness, he mistook them for black. He would later come to find out, in the light of day, that they were a deep, but vibrant, shade of purple.)
Rhys was curious, now. He walked toward the graveyard, deliberately stepping on sticks and shuffling his feet through the leaves so that the kender would hear him coming.
Her nose twitching at the unusual smell of kender, Atta ranged alongside him.
“Hello—” Rhys began.
To his astonishment, the kender leapt to his feet and retreated behind a tall grave marker.
“Go away,” said the kender. “We don’t want your kind here.”
“My kind?” Rhys said, pausing. “What do you mean—my kind?” He wondered if the kender had something against monks.
“The living,” said the kender. He waved his hand as though he were shooing chickens. “We’re all dead here. The living don’t belong. Go away.”
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