Amber and Iron

by Margaret Weis

  The three of them set off down the road and into the night, following the Beloved.

  hey tracked Lleu to a wharf where he had arranged to meet a young woman. She did not appear, however, and after waiting for over an hour, Lleu cursed her roundly and left, turning into the first tavern he came upon. Rhys knew from experience his brother would remain there all night, and he’d find him either here or near about the tavern the next day. He and a yawning Nightshade and a drooping Atta found a sheltered doorway and, huddling together for warmth, they prepared to get what sleep they could.

  Nightshade was snoring softly and Rhys was drifting off when he heard Atta growl. A man dressed in white robes that gleamed in the light of his lantern stood over them, gazed down on them. His face was smiling and concerned, and Rhys soothed Atta’s worries.

  “It’s all right, girl,” he said. “He’s a cleric of Mishakal.”

  “Huh?” Nightshade woke with a start, blinking at the lantern light.

  “Pardon me for disturbing you, friends,” said the white-robed man. “But this a dangerous place to spend the night. I can offer you shelter, a warm bed, and a hot meal in the morning.”

  Moving closer still, he held the lantern high. “Bless my soul! A monk! Brother, please accept my hospitality. I am Revered Son Patrick.”

  “Hot meal …” Nightshade repeated. He looked hopefully at Rhys.

  “We accept your invitation, Revered Sir,” Rhys said gratefully. “I am Rhys Mason. This is Nightshade and Atta.”

  The cleric gave them all polite greeting, even Atta, and though Patrick glanced curiously at Rhys’s aqua-green robes he politely refrained from comment. He lit their way through the city streets.

  “A long walk, I’m afraid,” he said in apology. “But you will find peace and rest at the end of it. Rather like life itself,” he added with a smile for Rhys.

  As they walked, he told them that this part of New Port was known as Old Port, so-called because it was the oldest part of the new city. New Port had not existed until the Cataclysm had sundered the continent of Ansalon, elevating parts of the continent and sinking others, causing some parts to split wide open and other parts to break off. One of these massive splits allowed the creation of a vast body of water known as New Sea.

  The first settlers to arrive at this location—refugees fleeing the destruction up north—were visionaries, who saw immediately the advantage of building here. The land configuration formed a natural harbor. Ships that would soon be plying the waters of New Sea could dock here, take on goods, refit and overhaul, whatever was needed.

  The city began modestly, with a stockade overlooking the harbor. New Port’s rapid growth soon overflowed the stockade and expanded along the waterfront and inland.

  “Like an ungrateful child who discovers wealth and success, and then refuses to acknowledge the humble parents who brought him into the world, the wealthy parts of the city are now far removed from the lowly docks that were its cause for success,” Patrick explained, sadly shaking his head.

  “The flourishing merchants who fund the ships and own the warehouses live far from the stench of fish heads and tar. Brothels and gambling dens and taverns like the Dinghy have shouldered out more reputable establishments on the waterfront. Housing is cheap down by the docks, for no one of means wants to live there.”

  They passed row after row of ramshackle dwellings made of wood taken from abandoned warehouses, and walked dismal streets paved with mud. Drunken sailors and slovenly women lurched past them. Even though the hour was past midnight, several children ran up to them to beg for coins or rooted through heaps of refuse in hopes of finding food. Whenever they came upon such children, Patrick stopped to speak to them, before continuing on his way.

  “My wife and I have started a school down here among the docks,” he explained. “We teach the children to read and write, and send them home with at least one good meal in their bellies. Hopefully we can help some of them find better lives outside this wretched place.”

  “The gods bless the gift and the giver,” said Rhys quietly.

  “We do what we can, Brother,” said Patrick, with a smile and a sigh. “We do what we can. Here we are. Come inside. Yes, Atta, you can come, too.”

  The Temple of Mishakal was not a grand edifice, but a very modest building that had evidently undergone recent repairs, for it smelled strongly of whitewash. The only sign that it was a temple was the holy symbol of Mishakal newly painted on one of the walls.

  Rhys was about to enter when he saw in the lantern light something that stopped him in his tracks so that Nightshade bumped into him.

  Posted on the outside of the little temple, nailed to the wall, was a missive bearing the words, written in bold letters in red ink: Beware the Beloved of Chemosh!

  Below was a paragraph of text, describing the Beloved, urging people to look for the mark of “Mina’s Kiss” and warning people to refrain from taking any vow to serve the Lord of Death.

  “Ah,” said Patrick, seeing Rhys frown, “do you know about these Beloved of Chemosh?”

  “To my sorrow, yes,” Rhys replied.

  “Do you think your warning will help stop the Beloved?” Nightshade asked the cleric.

  “No, not really,” Patrick replied sadly. “Few of the people around here can even read, but we talk to all who enter our temple, urging them to be careful.”

  “What has been the reaction?” Rhys asked.

  “As you might expect. Some now fear that everyone they meet is out to slay them. Others think it’s a plot to try to coerce people into joining the church.” Patrick smiled wryly and shrugged. “The majority scoff at the entire notion. But we can discuss this further in the morning. Now, come to your beds.”

  He hustled them inside and led them to a room where a row of cots had been set up. He gave them blankets and wished them a good night.

  “May the blessing of Mishakal guard your rest this night, my friends,” he said as he left.

  Rhys lay down on the cot, and perhaps Mishakal did touch him gently because, for the first night in many long, weary nights, he did not dream of his wretched brother.

  Rhys did not dream of anything.

  Rhys was up with first light to find Nightshade happily devouring a bowl of bread and milk in company with a pleasant looking woman who introduced herself as Revered Sister Galena. She invited Rhys to sit down and break his fast. He gladly did so, for he discovered he was unusually hungry.

  “Only if I may be allowed to do some work for you in payment,” he added with a smile.

  “It’s not necessary, Brother,” said Galena. “But I know you won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, so I accept your offer with grateful thanks. Mishakal knows we can use all the help we can get.”

  “The kender and I must take care of some business first,” Rhys said, washing up his dishes, “but we will return in the afternoon.”

  “Can I stay here, Rhys?” Nightshade asked eagerly. “You don’t really need my help, and the Revered Sister said she’d teach me how to paint walls!”

  Rhys looked uncertainly at Galena.

  She smiled broadly. “Of course he can stay.”

  “Very well,” said Rhys. He drew Nightshade off to one side. “I have to go find Lleu. I’ll meet you back here. Don’t say anything about knowing one of the Beloved,” he added in an undertone. “Don’t say anything about Zeboim or about Mina or about being able to talk to dead people or that you’re a nightstalker—”

  “Don’t say anything about anything,” Nightshade said with a wise nod.

  “Right,” said Rhys. He knew his advice would be useless, but he felt bound to try. “And keep your hands to yourself. I have to go now. Atta, watch!”

  He pointed at the kender. Nightshade had gone over to help Galena wash up, and of course, the first words out of his mouth were, “Say, Revered Sister, do you have anyone in your family who is recently deceased? Because, if you do—”

  Rhys smiled and shook his head and went in search o
f Lleu.

  He found his brother strolling the docks in company with a young woman who had a baby in her arms and a little boy of about four walking beside her, holding onto her long skirts. Lleu was at his most charming. The young woman was looking at him with adoring eyes, hanging on his every word.

  She was pretty, though she was far too thin and her face, in repose, looked haggard. Her smile seemed forced. Her laughter was shrill, too loud. She appeared determined to like Lleu and even more determined that he should like her.

  “You broke our date last night,” Lleu was saying.

  “I’m sorry,” the young woman replied, worried. “You’re not mad at me, are you? The old crone who was supposed to come watch the children didn’t turn up.”

  Lleu shrugged. “I’m not mad. I can always find pleasant company …”

  The young woman grew even more worried. “I have an idea. You can come to my place tonight, after I put the children to bed.”

  “Very well,” said Lleu. “Tell me where you live.”

  She gave him directions. He kissed her on the cheek, patted her little boy on the head, and chucked the baby under the chin.

  Rhys’s gorge rose at the sight of the Beloved caressing the children and it was all he could do to keep silent. Lleu at last took himself off, heading, undoubtedly, for yet another bar. Rhys followed the young woman. She entered one of the hovels near the docks. He waited a moment, pondering his course of action, then made up his mind. Crossing the street, he knocked on her door.

  The door opened a crack. The young woman peered out.

  She seemed startled to see a monk and opened the door a little wider. “Well, Brother. What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Rhys Mason. I want to speak to you about Lleu. May I come inside?” Rhys asked.

  The young woman was suddenly cold. “No, you may not. As for Lleu, I know what I’m about. I don’t need you to lecture me on my sins, so go on about your business, Brother, and let me go about mine.”

  She started to shut the door. Rhys interposed his staff between the door and the frame, holding it open.

  “What I have to say is important, Mistress. Your life is in danger.”

  Rhys could see, over her shoulder, the baby lying on a blanket on a straw pallet in the corner of the small room. The little boy stood behind her, watching Rhys with wide eyes. The woman, following the movement of his eyes, threw the door wide open.

  “My life!” She gave a bitter laugh. “Here is my life! Filth and squalor. Look for yourself, Brother. I am a young widow left destitute, with two small children and barely enough to hold body and soul together. I cannot go out to work, because I am afraid to leave the children, so I take in sewing. That barely pays the rent on this dreadful place.”

  “What is your name, Mistress?” Rhys asked gently.

  “Camille,” she returned sullenly.

  “Do you think Lleu will help you, Camille?”

  “I need a husband,” she said in hard tones. “My children need a father.”

  “What about your parents?” Rhys asked.

  Camille shook her head. “I am alone in the world, Brother, but not for long. Lleu has promised to marry me. I will do anything I must to hold onto him. As for my life being in danger”—she scoffed—“he may be a little too fond of his drink, but he is harmless.”

  Behind her, the baby started to wail.

  “Now, I must go tend to my child—” She tried again to close the door.

  “Lleu is not harmless,” said Rhys earnestly. “Have you heard of Chemosh, the god of death?”

  “I know nothing of gods, Brother, nor do I care! Now will you leave or must I summon the city guard?”

  “Lleu will not marry you, Camille. He has booked passage on board a ship to Flotsam. He leaves New Port tomorrow.”

  The young woman stared at him. Her face paled, her lips quivered. “I don’t believe you. He promised! Now go! Just go!”

  The baby had worked himself into a frenzy. The little boy was doing his best to soothe him, but the baby was having none of it.

  “Think about what I have said, Mistress Camille,” Rhys pleaded. “You are not alone. The Temple of Mishakal is not far from here. You passed it on your way. Go to the clerics of Mishakal. They will assist you and your children.”

  She pushed at him, kicked at his staff.

  “Lleu has a mark on his breast,” Rhys continued. “The mark of a woman’s lips burned into his flesh. He will try to make you give your soul to Chemosh. Do not do it, Mistress! If you do, you are lost! Look into his eyes!” he pleaded. “Look into his eyes!”

  The door slammed shut. Rhys stood on the street outside, listening to the baby’s screams and the mother’s voice trying to soothe it. He wondered what to do. If this young woman fell victim to Lleu, she would abandon her children to walk with the Lord of Death.

  Then Rhys remembered the missive posted on the temple wall, and his heart eased. He was not alone in his battle against the Beloved. Not anymore. He could seek out help.

  Rhys returned to the clerics of Mishakal and their humble temple to find Nightshade happily whitewashing the walls and Atta lying under a table contently gnawing on a bone. She wagged her tail when she saw Rhys but was not about to relinquish her bone long enough to go greet him.

  “Look, Rhys, I’m working!” Nightshade called proudly, waving his paintbrush and splattering himself and the floor with white paint. “I’ve already paid for supper.”

  “I told him we feed everyone in need,” said Patrick. “But he insisted. He’s a most unusual kender.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Rhys. He paused then said quietly, “Revered Son, I must speak to you on a matter of importance.”

  “I thought you might,” Patrick replied. “Your friend has been telling us some very interesting stories. Please, Brother, seat yourself.”

  Galena brought Rhys a bowl of stew. Patrick sat beside him as he ate, keeping him company. He refused to let Rhys talk business until he had finished his meal, explaining it was bad for the digestion.

  Thinking what he had to say, Rhys agreed. Instead, he urged Patrick to tell his story.

  “My wife and I were both mystics in the Citadel of Light. When the gods returned, the leaders of the Citadel agreed all mystics would be given a choice—we could serve the gods or we could remain mystics. Our founder, Goldmoon, was both, and the leaders believed this is what she would have wanted. My wife and I prayed for guidance and the White Lady came to each of us in a dream, asking us to follow her, so we did.

  “We are originally from New Port. We knew there was great need here, and we decided to return to do what we could to help. We’re starting with the school for the children and a house of healing. A humble beginning, but at least it’s a beginning. None of the other gods have a presence in this city—except Zeboim, of course,” Patrick added with a sigh and a sidelong glance at Rhys.

  He said nothing but continued eating.

  “Zeboim’s temple was the last the people left after the gods vanished, and the first they came back to. In fact, there were some who didn’t leave at all. They kept bringing their gifts, year after year. ‘You never know with the Sea Witch’, they say in these parts. ‘She might be playing one of her little games. We don’t dare take a chance.’ ”

  Rhys looked at Nightshade, happily sloshing paint around. A good deal of it was actually hitting the wall. Rhys reached down, stroked Atta’s head.

  “Forgive me for asking, Brother,” Patrick said after a moment, “you are obviously a monk, but I am not familiar with your order—”

  “I was a monk of Majere,” Rhys replied. “I am not anymore. That was excellent,” he told Galena, as she removed the bowl. “Thank you.”

  Patrick seemed about to say something else, then changed his mind. Galena carried the dishes to the kitchen before returning to sit with her husband.

  “What is it you need to discuss with us, Brother?” Patrick asked.

  “The Beloved,” said Rhys. />
  Patrick’s expression darkened. “Nightshade told us that you have been tracking one of them and that it is here, in our city. This is bad news, Brother.”

  “It gets worse. The Beloved has taken up with a young woman. I fear he means her harm. I tried to warn her, but she is a widow with two children and in desperate need. She thinks he will marry her and she refused to listen to my warnings. He is meeting her tonight. We must stop him.”

  “Judging by the information on the Beloved we received from the Citadel, stopping him will not be easy,” said Galena, troubled.

  “Yet we must do something,” Patrick said. “Do you have any ideas, Brother?”

  “We could try to apprehend him. Lock him up in a prison cell. He will undoubtedly escape from jail,” Rhys admitted. “Locks and iron bars will not be much of a hindrance to him, but at least this young woman and her children will be safe. You can take them into your care, keep her away from him until he has left this city.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Lleu has booked passage on a ship out of New Port. He intends to leave tomorrow.”

  “Then he will attack someone else.” Patrick frowned. “I don’t like letting him go.”

  “I am trying to acquire passage on the same ship. I will continue to do what I can to prevent Lleu from harming anyone.”

  “I still don’t like it,” said Patrick.

  Galena rested her hand on his arm. “I know how you feel, but, husband, think of this poor young mother! We need to save her and her children.”

  “Of course,” said Patrick immediately. “Our first care must be for her. Then we will decide what to do with the Beloved. Where is he now?”

  “I left him in a bar. He will spend the day there, come out at night.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better for us to apprehend him there?”

  “I thought of that,” said Rhys. “But this young woman is the type of vulnerable person Chemosh seeks out. We can stop this Beloved, but what of the next one who finds her? She must be made to see the danger for herself.”