Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

  “But you are alive,” said Rhys mildly.

  “I’m different,” said the kender. “And, no, I’m not afflicted,” he added, offended, “so wipe that pity-look off your face.”

  Rhys remembered hearing something about afflicted kender, but he couldn’t recall what and so he let that pass.

  “I am not pitying you. I am curious,” he said, threading his way around the grave markers. “I mean no disrespect to the honored dead, nor do I mean them any harm. I heard you talking to them—”

  “I’m not crazy, either,” stated the kender from behind his grave stone, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Not at all,” Rhys said amiably.

  He sat down comfortably near the grave marker of Simon Plowman. Opening his scrip, Rhys drew out a strip of dried meat. He broke off a share for Atta and began to chew on a piece himself. The meat was highly spiced and the pungent smell filled the night. The kender’s nose wrinkled. His lips worked.

  “Odd place for a picnic,” the kender observed.

  “Would you like some?” Rhys asked and he held out a long strip of meat.

  The kender hesitated. He eyed Rhys warily. “Aren’t you afraid to let me get close to you? I might steal something.”

  “I have naught to steal,” Rhys answered with a smile. He continued to hold out the meat.

  “What about the dog?” the kender asked. “Does he bite?”

  “Atta is a female,” Rhys answered. “And she harms only those who do harm to her or those under her protection.”

  He held out the meat.

  Slowly, cautiously, his distrusting gaze on the dog, the kender crept out from behind the stone. He made a dart at the meat, snatched it from Rhys’s hand, and devoured it hungrily.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, his mouth full.

  “Would you like more?” Rhys asked.

  “I—Yes.” The kender plopped down beside Rhys and accepted another piece of meat and a hunk of bread.

  “Don’t eat so fast,” Rhys cautioned. “You’ll give yourself a belly ache.”

  “I’ve had a belly ache for two days,” said the kender. “This tastes really good.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve had a proper meal?”

  The kender shrugged. “Hard telling.” He put out his hand and gave Atta a gingerly pat on the head, to which Atta submitted with good grace. “You have a nice dog.”

  “You’ll forgive me for saying this,” Rhys said. “I don’t mean to offend, but usually your people have little difficulty acquiring food and anything else they want.”

  “You mean borrowing,” said the kender, growing more cheerful. He settled down comfortably beside Atta, continued to pet her. “Truth is, I’m not very good at it. I’m ‘all thumbs and two left feet,’ my pap used to say. I guess it’s because I hang around with them all the time.” He gave a nod toward the graves. “They’re much easier to get on with. Not one of them ever accused me of taking anything.”

  “Who do you mean by ‘them’?” Rhys asked. “The people who are buried here?”

  The kender waved a greasy hand. “People who are buried anywhere. The living are mean. The dead are much nicer. Kinder. More understanding.”

  Rhys regarded the kender intently. Since you are dealing with Chemosh, you will need someone with you who is an expert on the undead.

  “Are you saying you can communicate with the dead?”

  “I’m what they call a ‘nightstalker’.” The kender held out his hand. “Name of Nightshade. Nightshade Pricklypear.”

  “I am Rhys Mason,” said Rhys, taking the small hand and shaking it, “and this is Atta.”

  “Hi, Rhys, hi, Atta,” said the kender. “I like you. I like you, too, Rhys. You’re not excitable, like most humans I’ve met. I don’t suppose you have any more of that meat left?” he added with a wistful glance at the leather scrip.

  Rhys handed over the bag. He would restock his supplies in the morning. Someone in the town would need wood chopped or other chores done. Nightshade finished off the meat and most of the bread, sharing bites with Atta.

  “What is a nightstalker?” Rhys asked.

  “Wow! I thought everyone knew about us.” Nightshade regarded Rhys with astonishment. “Where have you been hiding? Under a rock?”

  “You might say that.” Rhys smiled. “I am interested. Tell me.”

  “You know about the War of Souls?”

  “I’ve heard mention of it.”

  “Well, what happened was that when Takhisis stole away the world, she blocked off all the exits, so to speak, so that anyone who died was trapped in the world. Their souls couldn’t move on. Some people—mystics, mostly, usually necromancers—found out that they could communicate with these dead souls. My parents were both mystics. Not necromancers,” Nightshade added hurriedly. “Necromancers are not nice people. They want to control the dead. My parents just wanted to talk to them and help them. The dead were very unhappy and lost, because they had no place to go.”

  Rhys regarded the kender intently. Nightshade spoke of all this in such matter-of-fact tones that Rhys found it difficult to think the kender was lying, yet the idea of the living holding conversations with the dead was a hard one to comprehend.

  “I went along with my parents whenever they visited a burial ground or a cemetery or a mausoleum,” Nightshade was saying. “I’d play games with them while my parents worked.”

  “You played games with the dead,” Rhys interrupted.

  Nightshade nodded. “We had a lot fun. We’d play at ‘nine-men Morris’, and ‘duck, duck, goose, goose’, and ‘red rover’ and ‘king of the crypt’. A dead Solamnic knight taught me to play khas. A dead thief showed me how to hide a bean under three walnut shells and switch them around really fast, then have people try to guess where it’s hidden. Do you want to see that one?” he asked eagerly.

  “Maybe later,” said Rhys politely.

  Nightshade rummaged around the scrip and, not finding anything else to eat, handed it back. He leaned comfortably against the marker. Atta, seeing that no more meat was forthcoming, put her head on her paws and went to sleep.

  “So now, Nightshade, you continue your parents’ work?”

  “I wish!” The kender heaved a gusty sigh.

  “What happened?”

  “Everything changed. Takhisis died. The gods came back. The souls were free to go on their journey again. And I don’t have anyone left to play with.”

  “The dead are all leaving Krynn.”

  “Well, not all,” Nightshade amended. “There’re still your spirits, poltergeists, dopple-gangers, zombies, revenants, ghosts, skeletal warriors, phantoms, and so on. But they’re harder to come by these days. Generally the necromancers and the clerics of Chemosh snap them up before I can get to them.”

  “Chemosh,” said Rhys. “What do you know of Chemosh? Are you a follower of his?”

  “Yuck, no!” Nightshade stated, shuddering. “Chemosh is a not a nice god. He hurts the spirits, turns them into his slaves. I don’t worship any god. No offense.”

  “Why should I be offended?”

  “Because you’re a monk. I can tell by your robes, though they’re sort of strange. I’ve never seen that odd green color before. Who is your god?”

  The name of Majere came readily and easily to Rhys’s lips. He paused, bit it back.

  “Zeboim,” he said.

  “The sea goddess? Are you a sailor? I’ve always thought I’d like to go to sea. There must be lots and lots of bodies underneath the ocean—all those who died in shipwrecks or were swept away in storms.”

  “I’m not a sailor,” Rhys replied, and changed the subject. “So what have you been doing with yourself since the War of Souls?”

  “I travel from town to town, searching for a dead person to talk to,” said the kender. “But mostly I just get thrown into jail. It’s not all that bad. At least they feed you.”

  He was so thin and frail, and although he talked cheerfully, h
e seemed so unhappy that Rhys made up his mind. He still couldn’t figure out if the kender was crazy or sane, lying or honest (as kender go). He figured it would be worth his while to find out, however. And he preferred not to offend his temperamental goddess, who had given him this strange gift.

  “The truth is, Nightshade,” said Rhys, “I was sent here to seek you out.”

  The kender jumped up, startling Atta from her doze. “I knew it! You’re the sheriff in disguise!”

  “No, no,” Rhys said hastily. “I really am a monk. Zeboim was the one who sent me.”

  “A god looking for me?” Nightshade said, alarmed. “That’s worse than the sheriff.”

  “Nightshade—” Rhys began.

  He was too late. With a leap and a bound, the kender cleared the grave marker and took to his heels. Having spent a lifetime fleeing pursuers, the kender was fleet and agile. A good meal had given him strength. He was familiar with the surrounding territory. Rhys could never catch him. He had someone with him who could, however.

  “Atta,” Rhys said, “away!”

  Atta was on her feet. Hearing the familiar command, she instinctively started to obey, then stopped and looked back at Rhys in perplexity.

  “I will do what you say, Master, but where are the sheep?” she seemed to be asking.

  “Away,” he said firmly and gestured at the fleeing kender.

  Atta regarded him for another second, just to make certain she understood, then she sped off, bounding through the grave yard in pursuit.

  The dog used the same tactics with Nightshade that she would have used with sheep, coming up on his left flank, circling wide, not looking at him so as not to frighten him, steering around in front of him to turn him, force him back toward Rhys.

  Seeing the black and white streak out of the corner of his eye, Nightshade veered from his course, heading off in another direction. Atta was there ahead of him and he was forced to turn again. She was there again and once more he had to turn.

  She did not attack him. When he slowed, she slowed. When he came to a halt, she dropped to her belly, staring at him so intently with her brown eyes that he found it hard to look away. The moment he moved, she was on her feet again. Nightshade tried every dodge and dart he knew, but she was always in front of him, her lithe little body turning time and again to head him off. He could move freely only one direction and that was back the way he’d come.

  Finally, panting, Nightshade climbed up on a grave marker and stood there, shivering.

  “Get her away from me!” he howled.

  “That’ll do, Atta,” said Rhys, and she relaxed and came over to him to have her head patted.

  Rhys walked up to where he’d treed the kender.

  “You are not in trouble, Nightshade. Quite the opposite. I am going on a quest and I need your help.”

  Nightshade’s eyes widened. “A quest? My help? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, that is why my god sent me to find you.”

  Rhys told the kender everything that had happened, from his brother’s arrival at the monastery to the terrible crime he’d committed. Nightshade listened, fascinated, though he picked up on the wrong part of the quest. He jumped down from the grave marker and seized hold of Rhys’s hand.

  “We have to go back there right away!” he said, trying to tug Rhys off. “Back to where you buried your friends!’

  “No,” said Rhys, standing firm. “We need to search for my brother.”

  “But all those uneasy spirits need me,” Nightshade said, pleading.

  “They are with their god now,” said Rhys.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes,” said Rhys, and he was certain. “We have to find my brother and stop him before he harms anyone else. We need to find out what Chemosh did to him to turn him from a cleric of Kiri-Jolith to a follower of the Lord of Death. You can communicate with the dead, which might prove to be useful, and you can do so without rousing suspicion. I can’t pay you anything,” he added, “for we monks are forbidden to accept any reward except what we need for our survival.”

  “More meat like what we just ate would be fine with me. And it will be good to have a friend,” Nightshade said excitedly. “A real live friend.”

  He glanced at Atta with trepidation. “I suppose you have to take the dog?”

  “Atta makes a good guardian as well as a good companion. Don’t worry.” Rhys rested his hand reassuringly on the kender on the shoulder. “She’s fond of you. That’s why she chased after you. She didn’t want you to leave.”

  “Really?” Nightshade looked pleased. “I thought she was herding me like I was a sheep or something. If she likes me, that’s different. I like her, too.”

  Rhys let the darkness hide his smile. “I am staying with a farmer whose home is nearby. We’ll spend the night there and get an early start in the morning.”

  “Farmers don’t usually let me into their houses,” Nightshade pointed out, falling in beside Rhys, the kender’s short legs taking two strides to his one.

  “I think this one will,” Rhys predicted. “Once I explain to him how fond Atta is of you.”

  Atta was so fond of the kender that she lay across his legs all night, never letting him out of her sight.

  hys had no difficulty picking up his brother’s trail. People remembered quite clearly a cleric of Kiri-Jolith who spent his nights carousing in the tavern and his days flirting with their daughters. Rhys had been grimly expecting to hear that his brother had done murder again and was surprised and relieved to hear no worse of him than he’d left town without paying his bar tab.

  When Rhys asked if his brother had spoken of Chemosh, everyone looked amused and shook their heads. He’d said no word to them of any god, especially not such a dark god as Chemosh. Lleu was a pleasant and handsome young man looking for fun, and if he was a little reckless and heedless, there was no harm in that. Most thought him a good fellow and wished him well.

  Rhys found this all very strange. He could not equate the picture these people were giving him of a light-hearted bounder with the cold-blooded murderer who had so ruthlessly killed nineteen people. Rhys might have doubted that he was truly on his brother’s track, but everyone recognized Lleu by his physical descripion and the fact that he wore the robes of Kiri-Jolith. Clerics of that god were not plentiful in Abanasinia, where his worship was just starting to spread.

  Rhys found only one man who had anything bad to say about Lleu Mason and that was a miller who had given Lleu room and board in return for a few days work at the mill.

  “My daughter has not been the same since,” the miller told Rhys. “I curse the day he came and curse myself for having anything to do with him. A dutiful child my Besty was before he started taking notice of her. Hard-working. She was to be married next month to the son of one of the most prosperous shop-keepers in this town. A fine match it was, but that’s off now, thanks to your brother.”

  He shook his head dourly.

  “Where is your daughter?” Rhys asked, glancing about. “If I could speak to her—”

  “Gone,” said the miller shortly. “I caught her sneaking home from a meeting with him in the wee hours. I gave her the whipping she deserved and locked her in her room.” He shrugged. “After a few days, she managed to get out somehow and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

  “Did she run off with Lleu?” Rhys asked.

  The miller didn’t know. He didn’t think so, for Lleu had departed before the daughter ran away. It was possible, the miller conceded, that she might have run off to be with him, although, in truth, she had not appeared to be that enamored of him. The miller didn’t know and he obviously didn’t care, except that he had lost a hard-worker and a chance for a marriage from which he stood to profit.

  Rhys conceded it was possible that his brother had seduced the young woman and persuaded her to run away with him, but in that case, why hadn’t they run off together? He thought it more likely that th
e young woman had simply fled a loveless home and the prospect of a loveless marriage. Nothing sinister about it.

  Still, the matter troubled Rhys. He asked for a descripion of the girl and inquired about her, as well as about Lleu, along the road. Some had seen her, some had seen him, but none had seen them together. The last he heard of the miller’s daughter, she had joined up with a caravan headed for the sea coast. His brother, it seemed, had spoken vaguely of traveling to Haven.

  While Rhys talked with the living, Nightshade communicated with the dead. While Rhys visited inns and taverns, Nightshade visited crypts and cemeteries. Nightshade forbade Rhys from accompanying him, for, the kender claimed, the dead tended to be shy in the presence of the living.

  “Most of the dead, that is,” the kender added. “There are those who like to go about rattling bones and clanking chains and tossing chairs out of windows. I’ve met a few who get a kick out of reaching up from the grave and grabbing people by the ankle. They’re the exception, however.”

  “Thank the gods,” said Rhys dryly.

  “I guess so.” Nightshade wasn’t convinced. “Those sort of dead are the interesting ones. They tend to stick around, not run off to some higher plane of existence and leave a fellow without anyone to talk to.”

  The “higher plane “appeared to be a popular destination, for Nightshade was having trouble communicating with the dead, or so he claimed. Those he did find could tell him nothing about Chemosh. Rhys had been skeptical of the kender’s claims from the beginning and his skepticism was growing. He decided to follow the kender one night, see for himself what was going on.

  Nightshade was excited this evening, for he’d heard of a battlefield nearby. Battlefields were promising, he explained, because the dead were sometimes abandoned on the field, their bodies left unburied to rot in the sun or be torn apart by vultures.

  “Some spirits are good sports about it and just go ahead and depart,” Nightshade explained. “But others take it personally. They hang about, waiting to vent their anger against the living. I should find someone who’s eager to talk.”

  “Might not that be dangerous?” Rhys asked.