Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

  “I don’t know why it is,” Lleu muttered. “I eat and eat and never get full. Must be the damn food in this part of the country. All tastes the same. Bland, like these dwarf spirits. No kick to em.”

  Rhys took hold of his brother’s arm, gripped it hard.

  “Lleu, quit talking about food and dwarf spirits. Don’t you have any remorse for what you’ve done? For the terrible crime you committed?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” said the kender.

  “I told you to be quiet,” Rhys ordered impatiently.

  Nightshade leaned close to Rhys and put his hand on his arm. “You do realize he’s dead, don’t you?”

  “Nightshade, I don’t have time—”

  The words froze on Rhys’s tongue. He stared at his brother. Slowly, he relaxed his grip, loosened his hold on his brother’s arm.

  Unfazed, Lleu sat back in his chair. He picked up the jug, took another swig, and then set it back down with a thump.

  “Where’s my food?” he yelled.

  “Ask me again and you’ll get your food, all right. I’ll stuff it straight up your arse.”

  “Nightshade, what are you talking about?” Rhys whispered. He could not take his gaze from his brother. “What do you mean, ‘he’s dead’.”

  “Just what I said,” the kender replied. “He’s dead as a coffin nail. He just doesn’t know it yet. Would you like me to tell him? It might come as a shock—”

  “Nightshade, if this is some type of jest—”

  “Oh, no,” Nightshade protested, appalled at the mere suggestion. “I may joke about a lot things, but not my work. I take that very seriously. All those poor spirits waiting to be set free …” The kender paused, cocked an eye at Rhys. “You truly can’t see he’s dead?”

  Lleu had forgotten they were there. He stared into the smoke, every so often taking a pull from the jug, more by force of habit, seemingly, then because he took any pleasure in it.

  “He is acting very strangely,” Rhys conceded. “But he is breathing. His flesh is warm to the touch. He drinks and eats, he sits and talks to me—”

  “Yeah, that’s the odd part,” said Nightshade, screwing up his face into a puzzled expression. “I’ve seen plenty of corpses in my life, but they were all quiet, peaceful sorts. This is the first time I ever saw one sitting in a tavern drinking dwarf spirits and wolfing down meat pies.”

  “This is not funny, Nightshade,” Rhys said grimly.

  “Well, it’s hard to explain!” The kender was defensive. “It’s like you trying to tell a blind person what the sky looks like. I can see he’s dead because … because there’s no light inside him.”

  “No light …” Rhys repeated softly. He recalled the Master’s words: Lleu is his own shadow.

  “When I look at you or those two men playing bones over in the corner, I see a kind of light coming off them. Oh, it’s not much. Not bright like the fire or even a candle flame. You couldn’t read a book by it, or find your way in the dark or anything like that. It’s just a wavering, shimmering glow. Like the very tip tiptop of the flame before it trails off into smoke. That sort of light. When you had hold of him, did you feel a pulse? You might see if he’s got one.”

  Rhys reached out, took hold of his brother’s wrist.

  “What are you doing?” Lleu asked, regarding Rhys with a frown.

  “I am afraid that you are not well,” Rhys said.

  “That’s an understatement,” muttered the kender.

  “I’m fine, I assure you. I never felt better. Chemosh takes care of me.”

  “Well?” the kender asked Rhys eagerly.

  Rhys felt something that might have been a pulse but was not quite the same. It did not feel like the rush of life beneath the skin. More like turgid water moving sluggishly beneath a layer of thick ice.

  “What about the eyes?” Nightshade sat forward, trying to see Lleu through the smoke.

  Rhys had a better view. He looked into his brother’s eyes and recoiled.

  He’d seen those eyes before gazing up at him from the grave. Eyes that were empty. Eyes that had no soul behind them.

  Lleu’s eyes were the eyes of the dead.

  He could not take this as proof, however, for he was starting to doubt his own senses. His brother looked alive, he sounded alive, his flesh felt alive to the touch. Yet, there were the Master’s warning, the kender’s assessment, and now that Rhys came to think of it, there was Atta’s reaction to Lleu. She had taken against him from the first, confronting him with bared teeth and raised hackles. She did not want him near the sheep. She’d bitten him when he tried to lay his hands on her.

  Rhys might have assumed that the Master was speaking in metaphors. He might dismiss the kender as talking nonsense. But Rhys trusted the dog. Atta had realized from the moment she saw and smelled Lleu that there was something wrong about him.

  “You are right,” said Rhys softly. “His eyes are those of a corpse.”

  Lleu shoved back his chair, stood up. “I’ve got to go. I’m meeting someone. A young lady.” He winked and leered.

  “That wouldn’t be Mina, would it?” Rhys asked.

  Lleu’s reaction was startling. Reaching over the table, he grabbed hold of the collar of Rhys’s robes and nearly dragged him from the chair.

  “Where is she?” Lleu demanded, and he was panting with an ugly eagerness. “Is she around here somewhere? Tell me how to find her! Tell me!”

  Rhys looked down at his brother’s hands, gripping the home-spun fabric. The knuckles were white with intensity. The fingers quivered.

  “I have no idea where she is,” Rhys said. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Lleu glared at him suspiciously. Then he let go.

  “Sorry,” Lleu mumbled. “I need to find her, that’s all. It’s all right. I’ll keep looking.”

  Lleu flung open the door and walked out, slamming the door shut behind him. The barkeep roared out that he wanted his money, but by then, Lleu was long gone.

  Rhys was on his feet. Nightshade jumped up in response.

  “Where are we going?”

  “After him.”

  “Why?”

  “To see what he does, where he goes.”

  “Hey!” shouted the barkeep. “Are you going to pay for your friend?”

  “I have no money—” Rhys began and was interrupted by the sound of steel coins ringing on the bar.

  “Thanks,” said the barkeep, scooping up the coins.

  Rhys looked accusingly at Nightshade.

  “I didn’t do it,” said the kender promptly.

  “That’s two you owe me, monk,” said Zeboim’s sultry voice from the smoky shadows. “Now go after him!”

  Rhys and Nightshade left the tavern, silently hurrying along behind Lleu, who was heading back into Solace.

  They took precautions to keep him from seeing that he was being followed, although that proved unnecessary, for he never once looked behind. He strolled jauntily down the road, his head thrown back, singing the refrain of the bawdy song.

  “Nightshade,” said Rhys, “I have heard that there are undead known as zombies.” He felt strange, asking such a question, unreal, as if in a horrible dream. “Is it possible—”

  “—that he’s a zombie?” Nightshade shook his head emphatically. “You’ve never seen a zombie, have you? Zombies are corpses that are raised up after death. Their stench alone is enough to curl your socks. They have rotting flesh, eyeballs hanging out of the eye sockets. They shuffle when they walk because they don’t know how to move their legs or feet. They’re more like horrible puppets than anything else. They don’t sing, I can tell you that, and they’re not young and handsome.

  “I’ll say one thing for your brother, Rhys,” Nightshade concluded solemnly. “He’s the best looking dead man I ever saw in my life.”

  hys and Nightshade followed Lleu to one of the newer parts of Solace. In order to accommodate the numbers of people moving into the city, houses were being hastily constructed b
elow the vallenwood trees, not up among the branches. Those who lived in these new houses were generally refugees who had fled the destruction caused by Beryl. They had lived in tents when they first arrived in Solace, but by now some of them had done well for themselves and wanted permanent dwellings.

  A great many houses could be built around the bole of one of the giant trees. To save money and wood, the designer followed the elven plan of using the tree itself as one wall of the house, so that the homes resembled mushrooms sprouting out of the mud at the base of the tree. The hour was late. Most of the houses were dark, their occupants having gone to bed, but here and there a light shone from one of the windows, casting its glow into the street.

  Lleu slowed his pace when he reached this part of town and ceased to sing. He walked up to one of the darkened houses and peeked in a window. Then he loitered up and down the street, casting an occasional glance at the house. Rhys and Nightshade stood in the shadows and watched and waited.

  The door to the house opened a crack. A young woman in a cloak slipped out and softly and stealthily closed the door behind her. She was having trouble seeing in the darkness and looked about fearfully.

  “Lleu?” she called in a tremulous tone.

  “Lucy, my dove.” He caught her in his arms and kissed her.

  “No, no, not here!” she said breathlessly, pushing him away. “Suppose my husband were to wake up and see us?”

  “Where shall we go, then?” said Lleu, holding her around the waist and nuzzling her neck. “I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  “I know a place,” she said. “Come with me.”

  Clinging together, laughing and giggling, the two hastened down the street. Rhys and Nightshade followed after them. Rhys was troubled, uncertain what to do. This was apparently nothing more than a midnight assignation with a young woman, perfectly normal for a young man like Lleu, except that Lleu was far from normal and the young woman was married.

  Rhys should probably call a halt to this now, take hold of the young woman and drag her back to her house. There would be a scene with the husband: tears and wails, rage, a fight. The neighbors would wake. Someone would summon the authorities.

  No, Rhys determined. Nothing good would come of an uproar. He would bide his time, wait until they were someplace quiet, then try to talk to Lleu.

  The couple reached a secluded, cleared area amidst a grove of pine trees. From the looks of the trampled grass, this was the local meeting ground for lovers. They had barely stopped walking before Lleu had his hands all over the woman. His kissed her neck, ran his hands over her breasts, lifted up her skirts.

  “He’s pretty lively for a dead guy,” Nightshade observed.

  Rhys was uncomfortable watching this. He felt he should intervene, although what he would say was open to question. The young woman would be embarrassed and upset. Lleu would be angry. Again, there would be tears, recriminations.

  The young woman sighed, panted, and clung to Lleu, pressing his head against her bosom, running her fingers through his hair. Lleu took off her cloak and spread it on the pine needles. The two sank down onto the ground.

  “We should leave,” said Rhys, and he was about to turn to go when his brother’s next words halted him.

  “Have you thought more about what we talked about, my dearest?” Lleu asked. “About Chemosh?”

  “Chemosh?” Lucy repeated vaguely. “Don’t let’s talk about religion now. Kiss me!”

  “But I want to talk about Chemosh,” Lleu said, his hand fondling her breasts.

  “That old, moldy god?” Lucy sighed, pouting. “I don’t see why you want to talk of gods at a time like this.”

  “Because it is important to me,” said Lleu. His voice took on a soft tone. He kissed her on the cheek. “To us.” He kissed her again. “I can’t run away with you if you won’t swear to worship Chemosh, as I do.”

  “I don’t see what difference it makes,” Lucy said, between her own kisses.

  Lleu brushed her lips with his own. “Because, my sweet, I will live forever, as I am now—young, vibrant, handsome—”

  She giggled. “You are so vain!”

  “You, on the other hand, will grow old. Your hair will turn gray. Your skin will wrinkle and your teeth fall out.”

  “You wouldn’t love me then,” Lucy said, faltering.

  “You will die, Lucy,” Lleu said softly, stroking her cheek with his hand. “And I will be alive and healthy and needing someone to share my bed …”

  “And if I worship Chemosh, he will keep me young and beautiful?” Lucy asked. “Forever and always?”

  “Forever and always,” said Lleu. “And that is how long I will love you.”

  “Well, then,” said Lucy with a laugh, “I give my soul to Chemosh!”

  “You will not regret it, my love,” said Lleu.

  He pulled down her bodice, exposing her breasts that were white in the moonlight. She sighed and shivered and put her hand on his head, drew him down to kiss her soft flesh. He pressed his lips against her left breast, gripped her tightly in his arms.

  “Lleu,” Lucy said, her tone changing. “Lleu, you’re hurting me—Ah!”

  She gave a piercing scream and struggled in his arms. Lleu held her fast. Her scream swelled to an agonized shriek. Her body jerked and twitched. Rhys jumped to his feet and raced toward the couple, with Nightshade dashing along behind.

  “She’s dying!” cried the kender. “He’s killing her! Her spirit light’s fading.”

  The young woman shuddered, her body stiffened, and then she went limp.

  Rhys grasped hold of Lleu, pulled him off her and flung him aside. Kneeling down on the ground, he gathered up the body of the young woman in his arms, hoping to feel yet some spark of life.

  “Too late,” Lleu said coolly. He rose to his feet, looked down at the dead woman dispassionately, as upon a job well done. “She belongs to Chemosh now.”

  The woman was no longer breathing. Her eyes were empty and unknowing. Rhys felt for the lifebeat in her neck, found none. On her breast, burned into her flesh, was the imprint of his brother’s lips.

  “Majere,” Rhys prayed. “She didn’t know what she was saying. Have mercy on her. Restore her to life!”

  Rhys shifted position slightly. The woman’s head lolled to one side. Her flaccid arm slid off his knee and fell limply to the ground. Rhys listened for the voice of the god.

  “Do not punish this innocent woman because of me, Lord!” Rhys begged. “Her death is my fault! I could have saved her, as I could have saved my brothers.”

  There came no answer. The only sound was Lleu’s scornful laughter.

  “Zeboim,” Rhys cried, his voice harsh. “Grant this poor woman her life.”

  An echo of his brother’s scornful laugh came back to him from out the shadows of the trees.

  Rhys gently lowered the woman’s body onto the ground.

  “Her spirit’s gone,” said Nightshade. “I’m sorry, Rhys. There’s nothing can be done. I’m afraid your brother may be right. Chemosh has her.”

  Rising to his feet, Rhys faced his brother. “I didn’t want to do this, Lleu, but you have left me no choice. You are my prisoner. I’m going to take you to the authorities. You’ll be charged with murder. I want you to come with me quietly. I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will, if necessary.”

  Lleu shrugged. “I’ll come with you willingly, brother. But I think you’re going to find it hard to make that charge of murder stick.”

  “Why is that?” Rhys asked grimly.

  “Because there has been no murder,” said a voice behind him, with a giggle.

  Lucy scrambled to her feet and ran over to stand beside Lleu. She clasped her arms around him, pressed up against him. Her hair was disheveled, her bodice undone. Rhys could still see the mark—red and fiery—of Lleu’s lips on her breast, that rose and fell with the breath of life. She regarded Rhys with mocking laughter in her eyes.

  “I am alive, monk,” she said. “Be
tter than ever.”

  “You were dead,’ said Rhys, his throat constricting. “You died in my arms.”

  “Maybe I did,” Lucy returned archly, “but who will believe you? No one. No one in the whole wide world.”

  “Do you want me to come with you to the sheriff, brother?” Lleu asked. “I can introduce him to a couple of other young women I’ve met during my time in Solace. Women who now understand and embrace the ways of Chemosh.”

  Rhys was starting to understand, though the understanding was so horrendous that he found it difficult to accept.

  “You are dead,” he said.

  “No, brother, I am one of the Beloved of Chemosh,” said Lleu.

  He and Lucy both laughed.

  “I tried to explain all to you once, Rhys, but you wouldn’t listen. Now, you see it for yourself. Look at Lucy. She is beautiful, blooming, radiant. Does she look dead to you? Show him, Lucy.”

  The young woman advanced upon Rhys, hips swaying, her eyes half-shut, her lips parted provocatively. “Your brother is envious, Lleu. He wants me for himself.”

  “He’s all yours, my dove,” said Lleu. “Have fun—”

  Lucy continued to advance, her head thrown back, her lashes half-closed, her lips parted.

  “Kill her!” said Nightshade suddenly.

  Rhys fell back a pace. He could not take his eyes from her, the woman who had died in his arms, and who was now fondling him with a flirtatious smile.

  “Kill her and kill him, too,” said Nightshade urgently.

  “According to Lleu, they can’t be killed,” Rhys said. “Besides, there’s been too much death already.”

  Lucy took hold of the collar of Rhys’s robes, slid her hands beneath it.

  “You have never lain with a woman, have you, monk? Wouldn’t you like to find out what you’ve been missing all these years?”

  Rhys thrust aside her clutching hands, shoved her away.

  “You have to try to kill them,” said Nightshade, relentless, “or they’ll do murder again.”

  “A monk of Majere does not kill …” Rhys said softly.

  “You’re not a monk,” Nightshade returned brutally, “and if you were, it doesn’t matter. They’re already dead!”