“Are there truly that many of these monsters around?” Galena asked, shocked.
“We have no way of knowing,” said Rhys. “But it is certain their numbers grow daily.”
Nightshade came over to join them, trailing paint spatters all along the floor.
“I saw ten yesterday,” he reported. “Down by the docks and up in the city.”
“Ten!” Galena was horrified. “This is appalling.”
“Lleu is supposed to meet this young woman tonight at her house. We can capture him when he arrives.”
“Are you certain he is one of the Beloved?” Patrick asked, regarding Rhys intently. “Forgive me for questioning you, Brother, but our fear is the innocent may suffer along with the guilty.”
“Lleu is—or was—my brother,” Rhys replied. “He murdered our parents and the brethren of my Order. He tried to murder me.”
Patrick’s expression softened. He looked at Rhys as if much made sense to him now. “I am truly sorry, Brother. Where does this young woman live?”
“Not far,” said Rhys. He shook his head. “I can’t describe to you the exact location. Her dwelling is one of many on the street, and they all look alike. It will be easier for me to take you there. You should summon the city guard.”
“We will be ready, Brother.”
“I will return at nightfall,” said Rhys. Taking hold of his staff, he rose to his feet. “Thank you for the meal.”
“There is no need to leave, Brother. You should stay and rest. You look worn out.”
“I wish I could,” said Rhys, and he was in earnest. The peace of this quiet place was soothing balm to his tormented soul. “But I have to meet again with the ship’s captain, try once more to persuade him to take us on as passengers.”
“He thinks kender are unlucky,” said Nightshade cheerfully. “I told him I could make the voyage really interesting. I saw the souls of quite a few dead sailors roaming about the ship, and I told him they all wanted to talk to him. He didn’t seem to like to hear that, though. He got really mad, especially when I mentioned the mutiny and the fact he’d had them all strung up from the yardarms. I think they still have hard feelings.”
Rhys looked at Patrick and coughed. “I don’t suppose you could continue to keep the kender—”
“Of course. He’s been quite a help today.”
“He can whitewash the floor as well as the walls,” added Galena, with a glance at the trail of white spatters.
Rhys whistled to Atta, who left her bone with regret.
“I’ll keep it for her,” Galena offered. She picked up the bone and placed it on a shelf. Atta kept her jealous gaze on it every inch of the way.
“Brother,” said Patrick, accompanying Rhys to the door, “you might think about enlisting the aid of Zeboim’s cleric. He’s a powerful force with these ships’ captains. They’d be willing to listen to him, and he’d be more than willing to listen to you.”
“A good idea, Revered Son,” Rhys said quietly. “Thank you.”
“We will keep you in our prayers, Brother,” Patrick added as Rhys and Atta took their leave.
“Pray for that young woman,” Rhys said. “Your prayers will be better spent.”
Patrick stood in the doorway watching Rhys walk off down the street. The monk’s staff thumped the cobblestones. The black and white dog padded along at his side.
Thoughtful, Patrick turned away.
“Where are you going, my dear?” Galena asked.
“To have a word with Mishakal,” he replied.
“About that young woman?”
“You and I can take care of her.” Patrick glanced back out the window to see Rhys and Atta vanish around the corner. “This problem is one only the goddess can handle.”
“And what is that?” asked his wife.
“A lost soul,” said Patrick.
hys seriously considered Patrick’s advice regarding Zeboim’s priest. He chose, finally, to go to the ship’s captain alone. Rhys did not like the idea of being any more beholden to the goddess than he already was—or rather, than she thought he was. Truth be told, he’d done far more for her than she’d done for him.
He was kept waiting for hours, for the captain with a vessel making ready to sail is a busy man and has no time to talk to potential passengers, especially those who can’t pay their way. Noontime came and went and finally, late in the day, the captain told Rhys he could spare him a few moments.
Rhys eventually persuaded the man to agree to let him and Atta on board the vessel. The captain was adamant about Nightshade, however. A kender on board ship was bad luck. Everyone knew that.
Rhys suspected this was a superstition the captain had just conveniently made up, but all his arguments fell on deaf ears. Rhys finally and reluctantly agreed to leave the kender behind.
“We’ll miss Nightshade, won’t we, Atta?” Rhys said to the dog as they walked back toward the temple.
Atta looked up at him with her soft brown eyes and gently wagged her tail and crowded close to him. She didn’t understand his words, but she knew by his tone that he was sad and did what she could to offer comfort.
Rhys was truly going to miss Nightshade. Not a person to make friends easily, Rhys had found solace in the companionship of the other monks, but he’d had no true friends among them. He had not needed friends. He had his dog and his god.
Rhys had lost his god and his brothers, but he’d found a friend in the kender. Looking back on these last bleak weeks, Rhys knew with certainty he could not have gone on if it hadn’t been for Nightshade, whose cheerful outlook on life and unfailing optimism had kept Rhys afloat when the dark waters seemed about to close over him. The kender’s courage and—odd as it might sound when speaking of a kender—common sense had kept them both alive.
“The clerics of Mishakal will take him in,” Rhys said to Atta. “The goddess has always had a soft spot in her heart for kender.” He sighed deeply and shook his head. “The hard part will be convincing him to stay behind. We’ll have to sneak out while he’s asleep, slip away before he knows we’re gone. Fortunately, the ship sails with high tide and that is at dawn—”
Thinking about Nightshade, Rhys was not paying particular attention to where he was going and suddenly discovered he’d taken a wrong turn. He was in a part of town completely unfamiliar to him. He was annoyed by this mistake, and his annoyance grew to worry when he noted the hour was far later than he’d thought. The sky was a pinkish red color; the sun was sinking behind the buildings. People around him were hurrying home to their suppers.
Fearing he would be late for his meeting with the clerics and the city guard, Rhys hurriedly retraced his steps, and after stopping several people to ask directions, he and Atta once more found themselves on the street that led to the temple.
He was walking as fast as he could, with Atta trotting behind, and not watching where he was going. His first notion that anything was amiss was Atta trying to nudge him out of the way by pressing her body against his leg. The dog had often done this, for Rhys would sometimes become so absorbed in his meditations that he would walk headlong into trees or tumble into brooks if the dog wasn’t there to watch out for him.
Feeling her weight against him, he lifted his head and looked right into the bright light of a lantern. The light blinded him, so he could not make out any details about those he’d nearly run down, except there was a group of perhaps six men.
He nimbly side-stepped to avoid a collision with the leader, adding contritely, “I am so sorry, sir. I am in a hurry, and I wasn’t watching—”
His voice died. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes had grown accustomed to the light, and he could now see quite clearly the burnt-orange color of priestly robes and the rose-symbol of Majere.
The priest lifted his lantern so that the light shone on Rhys, who could not believe his bad fortune. He had taken such care to avoid Majere’s priests. Now he had literally run right into six of them. What was worse, the lead priest, the on
e with the lantern, was, by his garb, a High Abbot.
The abbot was staring at Rhys in astonishment, his startled gaze taking in the monk who was wearing the robes of Majere, but in the aqua green colors of Zeboim. Astonishment darkened to disapproval and what was worse, recognition. The abbot swung the lantern close to Rhys’s face, so that he was forced to avert his eyes from the flaring light.
“Rhys Mason,” said the abbot sternly. “We have been searching for you.”
Rhys didn’t have time for this. He had to reach the temple of Mishakal. He was the only one who knew where to find Lleu, who was probably already on his way to the young woman’s house.
“Excuse me, Your Holiness, but I am late for an urgent appointment.” Rhys bowed and started to leave.
The abbot grabbed hold of Rhys’s arm, detaining him.
“Forgive me, Holiness,” said Rhys politely but firmly. “I am late.”
He made a swift, deft move to break the abbot’s grip. Unfortunately, the Abbot was also trained in the art of “merciful discipline,” and he executed a skillful countermove that kept Rhys in his grasp. Atta, at Rhys’s feet, growled threateningly.
The abbot fixed the dog with a look and raised his hand in a commanding gesture. Atta flopped down on her belly and laid her head between her paws. Her growl subsided. She feebly wagged her tail.
The abbot turned back to Rhys.
“Do you run from me, Brother?” the abbot asked in a tone that was more sorrowful than censorious.
“Forgive me, Your Holiness,” said Rhys again. “I am in haste. A matter of life and death. Please, release me.”
“The immortal soul is more important than the body, Brother Rhys. This life is fleeting, the soul eternal. I have received reports that your soul is in peril.” The abbot held Rhys firmly. “Return with us to our temple. We would talk with you and find a way to bring the lost sheep back to the flock.”
“I would like nothing better, Holiness,” Rhys replied earnestly, “and I promise I will come to your temple later this night. Now, as I told you, I am urgently needed elsewhere. The life that is in peril is not my own—”
“Forgive me if I do not entirely trust you, Brother Rhys,” said the abbot.
The priests of Majere, crowding around him, nodded their cowled heads.
“Members of our Order have been searching Ansalon for you, and now that we have found you we intend to keep you. Come, walk with us, Brother.”
“I cannot, Holiness!” Rhys was starting to grow angry. “Walk with me, if you do not believe me! I go to the Temple of Mishakal. Her clerics and I are on the track of one of the Beloved who intends to take the life of a young mother.”
“Are you the sheriff of this city, Brother?” asked the abbot. “Is it your responsibility to apprehend criminals?”
“In this case, yes!” Rhys retorted.
The sky was dark now, the stars were out. The young woman would have put her little ones to bed and would be watching, waiting for Lleu. “The Beloved is—or was—my wretched brother. I am the only one who can recognize him.”
“Nightshade knows him,” said the abbot imperturbably. “The kender can point him out to the guards.”
Rhys was taken aback. The abbot seemed to know everything about him.
“The kender knows Lleu, but he does not know where this young woman lives. I didn’t tell him or the clerics of Mishakal.”
“Why not?” asked the abbot. “You could have given the clerics the location of the young woman’s house.”
Rhys fumbled for an answer. “All the dwellings look alike. It would have been difficult—”
“Lie to others if you must, Brother Rhys. Never lie to yourself. You want to be there. You want to destroy the monster that was once your brother with your own hands. You have made this a personal vendetta, Rhys Mason. You are consumed with hatred and the desire for revenge, yet,” the priest added, his voice softening, “Majere still loves you.”
He reverently touched the staff that Rhys held in his hand.
As though a lightning blast lit up the darkness, turning night to terrible day, Rhys saw himself in stark clarity. The abbot spoke the truth. Rhys could have given Patrick the location of the young woman’s house. He had deliberately withheld it. He wanted to be there. He wanted to confront his brother, and he had been willing to sacrifice the young woman’s life for his own hateful need.
Rhys longed to fall to the ground at the abbot’s feet. He longed to spew out the poison that was eating him up inside. He longed to beg for mercy, for forgiveness.
The Abbot had hold of his forearm. Dropping his staff, Rhys took hold of the Abbot’s arm with his free hand, and giving a yank, he jerked the abbot off his feet and flung him to the ground.
“Atta, watch him!” Rhys ordered.
The dog leaped to her feet. She did not attack the abbot. She stood over him, her teeth bared, growling a warning. The abbot said something to her, but Atta had direct orders from her master now and wasn’t about to disobey him.
“Brother Rhys—” the abbot began.
“She won’t hurt you if you don’t move, Holiness,” said Rhys coldly. He was watching the other priests, who were now circling him.
Rhys lifted up his staff with his foot and flipped it into his hands. He wondered uneasily if the staff would continue to fight for him. After all, he was opposing Majere’s servants. He held the staff out in front of him, half-expecting it to splinter and crack. The staff remained firm and felt warm and comforting in his grasp.
“I don’t want to hurt any of you,” Rhys said to the priests. “Let me pass.”
“We don’t want to hurt you either, Brother,” said one of the priests, “but we have no intention of letting you go.”
They meant to try to subdue him, render him helpless. Rhys carried the image of the young woman and the terrible fate that awaited her in his mind. The five priests came at him in a rush, intent on dragging him to the ground.
Rhys lashed out with the staff. He clouted one of the priests on the side of the head, knocking him down. He thrust the end of the staff into another priest’s midriff, doubling him over, and struck a third on the back of the head—all in a flurry of moves that took only seconds.
He saw at once the priests were not as well trained in the art of merciful discipline as their abbot, for the two remaining on their feet fell back, watching him warily. The abbot must have tried to rise, for Rhys heard Atta bark and snap. He glanced back to see the abbot wringing a bleeding hand.
Wishing desperately he’d never walked this street, never set foot in this city, Rhys planted the butt end of the staff firmly in the cobblestones, and gripping it with both hands, used it to launch himself into the air. He vaulted over the heads of the startled priests and landed on the pavement behind them. Whistling to Atta, Rhys dashed off down the street.
He risked a glance backward, thinking they might be pursuing him, but he saw only Atta tearing along after him. Two of the priests were tending to the fallen. The abbot nursed his bleeding hand and gazed after Rhys with a sorrowful expression.
Rhys put all thoughts of the sins he’d committed out of his mind as he ran.
He reached the temple of Mishakal and found Patrick, his wife and Nightshade, along with the city guard, gathered in front of the building. Nightshade was pacing back and forth, peering up and down the street.
“Brother, you’re late!” Patrick cried.
“Where have you been?” Nightshade wailed, clutching at him. “It’s way after dark!”
“Come with me!” Rhys gasped. He shook off the kender and kept running.
he young mother’s name was Camille.
The only child of a wealthy merchant widower, she had been raised with every indulgence and was headstrong and spoiled. When, at sixteen, she had fallen in love with a sailor, she had willfully ignored her father’s command and run off to marry the sailor. Two children came along shortly thereafter.
Her father had refused to have anything to do
with her and even went so far as to change his will to leave his money to his business partners. Time might have softened the old man, who truly loved his daughter, but he died within a week of making the change. Shortly after her father’s death, Camille’s husband fell from the rigging of his ship and broke his neck.
She was now a widow, destitute, with two small children to support. Her duenna had taught her to do fancy sewing, and Camille, swallowing her pride, was forced to go to the homes of the wealthy young women who had once been her peers to beg for work.
This did not bring in much money. She was twenty-one, lonely, half-starved, and in despair. The only other thing she had to sell was her body, and she was facing the horrible choice of turning to prostitution or watching her children starve when she met Lleu.
With his charming manner and good looks, Lleu would have been the answer to her prayers, except that Camille never prayed. She had heard of the gods—some vague mention that they’d returned after a long absence—but that was about it. Remote and far away, the gods had nothing to do with her.
He was the answer to her problems, though. Camille did not love Lleu. She was determined to marry him, however. He would support her and her children, and in return, she would be a good wife to him. The notion that he might be playing her false had never entered her mind. Though she’d known him only a couple of days, he had seemed to dote on her and her children. When she heard from the monk that Lleu had booked passage on a ship, Camille felt the blow in the pit of her stomach and found it easy to convince herself the monk had been lying.
She fed her children the meager amount of food that there was in the house, going without a meal herself. She put the baby to bed, then spent some time talking to her little son, a child of four, promising him he would soon have a new daddy, who would love him dearly, and that there would be lots to eat and warm clothes to wear and a fine new house where they would all live together.
The little boy fell asleep in her arms, and she carried him to the straw pallet in the corner of the one room dwelling and laid him down. She tucked a blanket around him, then did what she could to make herself pretty. She sat in the lone rickety chair to wait for Lleu.
Amber and Iron Page 18
