He arrived later than she’d expected. He reeked of dwarf spirits but did not appear to be drunk. He greeted her with his usual charming smile and kissed her on the cheek. She shut the door behind him and bolted it.
Lleu stood in the center of the room with his arms held out. “Come to me, my sweet,” he said gaily.
She gave herself to his embrace. His kisses were ardent and impassioned. When his hot hands began to explore her body, however, Camille drew away from him.
“Lleu, we need to talk. You promised to marry me. I love you so, I don’t want to wait. Promise me you will marry me tomorrow.”
“I will marry you, but you must promise me something in return,” Lleu said, laughing.
“You will marry me?” Camille cried, ecstatic. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, the day after, whenever,” Lleu said carelessly.
“What is it you want of me?” Camille asked, drawing near to him.
She thought she knew the answer and was prepared to give her body to the man who was going to be her husband. Lleu’s reply caught her by surprise.
“I am a follower of Chemosh,” he said. “I want you to join me in his worship. That is all I ask. Do that, and you will be my wife.”
“Chemosh?” Camille repeated. She drew back, startled and uneasy. “You never said anything before about a god called Chemosh. Who is he?”
“The Lord of Life Unending,” Lleu replied. “You have but to swear to him that you will serve him, and in return, he will grant you endless youth, endless beauty, endless life.”
His words sounded glib, a speech he had memorized and was speaking by rote, like a bad actor in a bad play. The monk’s warning came back to Camille.
“Come now, Lleu. Intelligent people don’t believe in the gods,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Worshipping gods is for the weak-minded, the superstitious.”
“My wife must believe in my god, Camille,” said Lleu and his charming smile was gone. “If I am to marry you, you must swear to follow Chemosh. He will reward you with endless youth, endless—”
“Yes, you said all that,” Camille snapped. She temporized. “After I am your wife, I will gladly learn about Chemosh. You will teach me.”
“I will teach you now,” said Lleu, and he bent over her and nuzzled her neck, kissing her.
His kisses were sweet, and he had promised to marry her. What would it hurt to give in to his silly demand? Swear to Chemosh. She was saying only words anyway. She slid her hands inside his open collar and saw, beneath her fingers, the mark of a woman’s lips burned into his flesh.
Camille pushed him away.
She looked at him, looked into his eyes.
There was nothing there. No love. No desire. No life. Fear wrung her, twisted inside her.
“Get out!” Camille ordered shakily. “Go away! Whatever you are! Leave my house!”
“I can’t,” Lleu returned, his voice harsh. “Mina won’t let me. The pain is too much to bear. You must swear to Chemosh. He will give you endless youth, endless beauty—”
Camille was trapped. He was between her and the door, and even if she could escape, she would not leave him alone with her children.
“Lleu, just go, please go,” she begged.
“Endless life,” said Lleu. “Endless youth—”
If she could reach the door, she could open it and shout for help.
Camille tried to dart around him. He was too quick for her. He seized hold of her wrists and dragged her close.
“Swear to Chemosh!” he ordered her.
He squeezed her wrists, so that the joints cracked and she cried out in pain. He threw her to the floor and flung himself on top of her, pinning her with his knees. He ripped off her blouse, exposing her breasts, and bent over her to kiss her. She writhed beneath him, trying to push him off her, but he was incredibly strong.
“Mommy?” Her little boy’s quavering voice came from somewhere behind her.
“Jeremy!” she gasped. “Please, Lleu, no. Don’t hurt me … not while my child is watching …”
“Swear to Chemosh!” he said again, his breath hot on her face. He squeezed her arms with crushing force. “Or I’ll kill your brat.”
“I’ll swear!” Camille moaned. “Don’t hurt my child.”
“Say it!”
Pain and her fear were too much for Camille to bear.
“I swear my soul—”
A blow struck the door. A dog barked ferociously.
A voice shouted, “Mistress, it is Brother Rhys Mason. Are you all right?”
“Help, Brother!” Camille screamed, hope giving her renewed strength. “Help me!”
“Break it down!” the monk ordered, and there was a rush of feet and a crashing thud. The wooden door shivered.
Lleu still straddled her, still hurt her. He seemed unaware of the commotion.
“Swear!” He slavered at the mouth. His saliva dripped on her.
“Once more should do it!” the monk said.
Again the thud, and this time the door burst asunder.
The monk and a kender came tumbling inside. The monk sprang at Lleu, but her little boy, Jeremy, reached him first.
“Stop hurting my mam!” cried the child, and he struck Lleu with his small fist.
Lleu gave a hideous shriek. His flesh blackened and withered. His eyeballs dried up and fell from the sockets. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a rictus grin. The hands holding Camille were the rotting hands of a corpse. The sickening stench of death filled the small room, but Lleu would not die. His corpse kept hold of her. His skull leered at her. His mouth kept moving.
“Swear to Chemosh!”
Camille went mad with terror. She shrieked hysterically and flailed about in panic, trying to fling the corpse off her.
The little boy, after one paralyzed moment of shock, grabbed hold of the corpse intending to tear it off his mother. At his touch, Lleu burst into flames. The fire consumed his body in an instant. Greasy soot and ash drifted horribly about the room, falling on the little boy, coating his hair and his skin.
The child made no sound. He began to shake and then his eyes rolled back in his head. His body went stiff.
“Jeremy!” Camille wept and tried to crawl to her son, but everything went dark, and she fainted.
Rhys witnessed the dreadful end of the Beloved, his mind and soul consumed in horror, as his brother’s body was consumed in the unnatural fire. He heard Patrick, standing in the door behind him, suck in a breath, heard one of the guardsmen retching. Nightshade stared, dumbfounded. The little boy stood stock-still. The young woman lay in a pile of black ash. Nothing seemed to move except the soot floating about the room.
Then the little boy collapsed. He fell to the floor, his limbs writhing and jerking, his tongue protruding from his mouth.
“He’s having some sort of fit! Rhys, what do I do?” Nightshade cried, hovering over him.
“Get out of my way,” Patrick ordered, elbowing Nightshade aside. “I will take care of him.”
Patrick took hold of the child, prized open his mouth, and stuffed a wadded handkerchief inside to keep him from biting his tongue. Gathering the twitching little body in his arms, he spoke soft words, praying to Mishakal.
Seeing the child in good hands, Rhys went to the aid of the unconscious mother while Galena ran to pick up the baby.
“We must get them out of this accursed place!” Patrick said urgently, and Rhys whole-heartedly agreed.
Handing his staff to Nightshade, Rhys lifted up the young woman in his arms and carried her out the door. Patrick followed with the little boy, and Galena came after them with the baby. Rhys gave the young mother into the care of the clerics and then forced himself to go back into the shack.
The Sheriff of New Port, a grizzled veteran of the last war, accompanied him. They both stood in the center of the room looking about the place with its gruesome coating of black, greasy ash.
“I’ve never seen the like,” the sheriff said in awe. “What
did you use to destroy that monster, Brother? Is that staff of yours magical, or have you got a holy touch … or what?”
“It wasn’t me,” said Rhys.
He was just now coming to grips with what he’d seen, with what he’d found out, and the knowledge sickened him. He remembered Cam’s words, about how the price they would have to pay to destroy one of the Beloved would be more than they could stomach.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the little boy who lay on the street, twitching spasmodically, while Patrick prayed over him.
“It was the child.”
“What do you mean—it was the kid? You’re saying a kid did this?” The sheriff pointed to a few charred bones mingled with ash. “A kid caused that thing to burst into flames?
“The touch of innocence. The Beloved can be destroyed … but only by the hand of a child.”
“Gods save us!” muttered the sheriff. “If what you say is true … Gods save us.” He squatted down on his haunches to stare at the blackened mess on the floor.
Rhys walked back outside, into the fresh air. The young mother woke with a scream and stared about wildly, fighting Galena when she sought to comfort her. When she realized she was safe and her children were still alive, she clutched her baby to her chest and began to sob uncontrollably.
“How is he?” Rhys asked, squatting down beside Patrick and the little boy.
“His body is healed,” the cleric said softly, stroking the ash-filled hair. “Mishakal did that, but his mind … He has witnessed such horrors that he may never recover.”
Galena looked at Rhys, her eyes pleading. “I heard what you said to the sheriff, Brother. I can’t believe it. Surely you are mistaken. You think that only children can kill these Beloved. That’s too awful.”
“I know what I saw,” said Rhys. “The moment the child struck him, the Beloved ‘died’.”
“I saw it, too,” said Nightshade.
The kender looked very pale under the black streaks of ash. He stood with one arm around Atta’s neck, his other hand scrubbing at his cheeks.
“The little boy hit Lleu on the leg and—whoosh! Lleu rotted away on the spot and then went up in flames. It was pretty awful.” Nightshade’s voice quivered. “I wish I hadn’t seen it, and I hang around dead people all the time.”
“Innocence destroys, and in turn, innocence is destroyed,” Rhys said.
The sheriff left the shack, wiping his hands on his trousers. “The only way to test this theory is to try it again.”
Galena rounded on him angrily. “How could you even suggest that, sir? Would you put your own child through what this one has gone through tonight?”
“Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” said the sheriff, “but that thing meant to murder this young woman and maybe her children into the bargain. The gods know how many people the Beloved in there has murdered up to this point. Now we’ve found a way to stop it.”
Rhys thought back to Mistress Jenna. She might feel sorrow over forcing a child to slay one of the Beloved, but she would probably not hesitate to do so.
“We can’t keep such vital information to ourselves,” the sheriff was saying. “Patrick here tells me the kender saw ten of these Beloved today alone. Now, granting that the kender is probably exaggerating—”
“I am not!” Nightshade cried indignantly.
“—that’s still at least two or three walking around my city and murdering innocent people like this young woman here. If there’s a way to stop them, I have a right to try, and so do the officers of the law in other cities and towns.”
“I think we are all of us too shaken to make any decision right now,” said Patrick. “Let us meet in the morning, after the horror of this terrible scene has faded, then we can discuss it. In the meanwhile, we will shelter the mother and her children. You are welcome to return with us, as well, Brother Rhys. And you, too, Nightshade.”
“I thank you, but I must leave this night,” Rhys said. “My ship sails—”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Nightshade.
Rhys looked at the kender. He had no idea what he was talking about.
“Your ship doesn’t sail,” Nightshade repeated. “Well, yes, it probably does, but you don’t need to be on it. Lleu is gone, Rhys. You don’t have to chase after him anymore. That’s all over now.”
Nightshade took hold of Rhys’s hand and said quietly, “We can go home. You and me and Atta. We can go home.”
hys stood in the darkness, staring at Nightshade. He could feel the touch of the kender’s hand. He could hear the kender’s words, and to some part of him the words made sense. Another part kept thinking he had to go to that ship. He had to keep following his brother. He had to stop him from killing anyone else. He had to … He had to …
“It’s over,” he said. “Lleu is gone.”
Rhys felt no sadness over his brother’s death. His brother had died long ago. This thing had not been Lleu, though he still called it that.
“Yes, Rhys,” said Nightshade. He didn’t like the way his friend looked—sort of lost and dazed—and the kender held onto his friend’s hand tightly.
Rhys stared up the street and down, and he realized, suddenly, this street and all streets were no longer highways to bleak despair. They all led one place. As Nightshade said, they led home. Rhys’s grip on his staff strengthened. He longed to go back home, but he wasn’t ready to be received there. He could not show up on the doorstop in filthy, discolored robes, stained with the blood of innocents and the black ashes of death. He had to discard the world, cleanse his body, cleanse his soul. Naked as a babe, chastened and humbled, he would stand before his god and beg his forgiveness. Then he would go home.
“Thank you, Nightshade,” Rhys said. Bending down, he kissed the kender on the forehead. “You are a true friend.”
Nightshade swiped his hand across his eyes and hid a sniffle in his sleeve.
Gripping his staff tightly, Rhys looked searchingly around the street. A crowd had gathered. The story of what had gone on was being eagerly bandied about, and the tale was growing wilder with each telling. The sheriff ordered people repeatedly to go home, but no one listened, and the crowd grew larger and more unruly. Several young rascals decided they wanted to see the gruesome sight for themselves and tried to rush the dwelling, precipitating a fight with the guardsmen.
The sheriff, envisioning even more crowds once the sun rose, determined that the best way to end this would be to tear down the hovel and leave the curious nothing but a pile of lumber to stare at. He sent men racing off for tools. Some of the guardsmen couldn’t wait, but were already ripping down the shack, using their bare hands. Others were holding the crowd at bay. Patrick and Galena were nowhere to be found.
“I told them to take that poor woman and her children back to the temple,” the sheriff told Rhys. “They’ve been through enough without this.” He glowered around at the people standing in the street, craning their necks and pushing and shoving to get a better view.
“Thanks for your help in this, Brother,” the sheriff added. “Too bad we didn’t get here a little sooner, but what’s done is done and we’re rid of one of these monsters at least.” He turned back to the task at hand.
Rhys was quiet and thoughtful on his way back to the temple. Nightshade was quiet, too, and he glanced at Rhys every so often and then gave a deep sigh. Atta trotted after, looking from one to the other, not understanding.
They entered the temple that smelled strongly of fresh paint. The interior was quiet, after the hubbub of the street.
“How is the young woman?” Rhys asked,
“Galena has taken her to the kitchen and is urging her to eat something. On top of everything else, the poor woman is half-starved. She’ll feel better once she has some nourishment.”
“And the little boy?”
Patrick shook his head. “We will pray to Mishakal and leave the child in the blessed hands of the goddess. What will you do, Brother, now that your dark quest is ended?”
“You mean the one in Solace?” Patrick asked.
“No, Revered Son. The temple here in New Port.”
“There is no temple to Majere in New Port,” Patrick said. “Don’t you recall our conversation yesterday, Brother? There are only two temples to the gods in New Port—our temple and that of Zeboim’s.”
“You must be mistaken, Revered Son,” Rhys said earnestly. “Just this evening, I met a group of Majere’s priests, one of whom was an abbot. He spoke of a temple here …”
“You can ask the sheriff if you want, Brother, but as far as I know, the closest temple to Majere is the one in Solace. I have not heard of any priests of Majere hereabouts. If there were, they would have undoubtedly sought us out. You say you met these priests last night?”
“Yes,” Rhys replied. “Our meeting was not particularly cordial. That is what delayed me. The abbot recognized me, knew my name.”
He lapsed into silence, his feeling of peace and ease suddenly draining from him.
Patrick regarded him strangely. “Did you know this abbot?”
“No,” said Rhys. “I had never seen him before. I did not think about it at the time—I was too upset—but now that I look back on our meeting, I find it very odd he would have known me. How could he?”
Nightshade tugged on his sleeve.
“Rhys,” said the kender, and then he stopped.
“What is it?” Rhys asked somewhat impatiently.
“It’s just that … if you hadn’t been late, we would have reached the shack on time to stop Lleu before he could hurt the mother, then the little boy wouldn’t have had to hit the Beloved, and he wouldn’t have gone up in flames.”
Rhys stood in silence, gripping his staff.
“The priests kept you away just long enough, Rhys,” Nightshade persisted. “Just long enough for you to be late, but not long enough for you to be too late. Now Revered Patrick here tells us that there aren’t any priests of Majere for maybe a hundred miles in any direction and … well … I can’t help but wondering …”
Amber and Iron Page 19
