Amber and Iron

by Margaret Weis

  He didn’t know what to do. Should he saunter jauntily past them with a merry “heigh-ho,” or should he turn and run? Instinct voted for turning and running. He was about to obey, when he saw one of the men draw a knife.

  “What are you doing?” asked his companion. “It’s a kender.”

  “Yes,” said Nightshade, backing up. “I’m a kender.”

  “I don’t care,” the man said in a nasty voice. “I’m going to send him to Chemosh.”

  “He’s a kender,” his companion reiterated in disgust. “Chemosh doesn’t want kender.”

  “He’s right, you know,” Nightshade assured the knife-wielder. “Like they say in the inns, ‘We don’t serve kender. No kender in the Abyss.’ I’ve seen the signs. They’re posted all over.”

  He looked around uneasily, but no help was in sight, nothing but empty road. He continued to edge backward.

  “Chemosh doesn’t care,” the Beloved returned. “Dead’s dead to him, and killing makes the pain go away.”

  He advanced on Nightshade, brandishing the knife. Nightshade could see dark stains on the blade.

  “I murdered a woman last night,” the Beloved continued in a conversational tone. “Gutted the bitch. She wouldn’t swear to Chemosh, but my pain eased. Try it yourself. Help me kill this runt.”

  Shrugging, the other Beloved picked up a piece of driftwood to use as a club, and both of them walked toward Nightshade.

  The Beloved weren’t killing to gain converts to Chemosh anymore, Nightshade realized in dismay. They were just killing!

  He was in the act of pointing his finger at the Beloved, ready to drop them like he’d dropped that minotaur, when he remembered suddenly his magic wouldn’t work against them. His heart, which had been in his shoes, now scrambled up his innards to seize him by the throat and shake him.

  Nightshade had lost precious fleeing time with his almost spell-casting. He made up for it by whipping around and running for all he was worth—and then some.

  “Atta, come!” he gasped, and the dog dashed after him.

  Nightshade was good at sprinting; he’d had lots of practice outrunning sheriffs, angry housewives, furious farmers, and irate merchants. His sudden burst of speed caught the Beloved off-guard, and he outdistanced them for a bit, but he was already tired from slogging through sand and cutting his hands on boulders. His sprint didn’t have any staying power. His strength began to flag. The ruts in the road and the occasional large clumps of dry weeds, grass, and his pork-slick boots didn’t help.

  The Beloved, meanwhile, had picked up speed. Being dead, they could run all month if they wanted to, while Nightshade figured he was good for just a few more moments. He didn’t dare take time to look back, but he didn’t need to—he could hear harsh breathing and thudding footfalls, and he knew they were catching up.

  Atta was barking furiously, half-running after Nightshade and half-turning around to threaten the Beloved.

  Nightshade’s breath began coming in painful, ragged gasps. His feet lurched and stumbled over the uneven ground. He was about done for.

  One of the Beloved seized the kender’s flapping shirttail. Nightshade gave a wrench, trying to free himself, but ended up tumbling head-long into a large patch of weeds. He was ready to fight for his life, when suddenly he was in the middle of what could only be described as an explosion of grasshoppers.

  Clouds of the flying, jumping insects whirred into the air. They had been living in the weed patch, and they were furious at being thus rudely disturbed. Grasshoppers were in Nightshade’s eyes, up his nose and crawling down his neck and into his pants. He rolled away from the weed patch, swatting, slapping and squirming. Atta was racing about in circles, snapping and biting at the insects. Nightshade frantically brushed several out of his eyes and then saw, to his astonishment, the hoppers had the Beloved under assault.

  The two men were literally crawling with insects. Grasshoppers clung to every part of them. The grasshoppers were inside their mouths and swarming around their eyes and clogging up their nostrils. The buzzing, frantic insects crawled through their hair and festooned their arms and covered their legs, and still more grasshoppers were converging on the Beloved, flying up with angry, whirring sounds from the weeds all along the side the road.

  The Beloved flailed their arms and did their own hopping as they fought to drive off the insects but, the more they fought, the more the grasshoppers seemed to take offense and attack them in a frenzy.

  The grasshoppers that had been annoying Nightshade seemed to realize they were missing out on all the sport, for they buzzed off to join their fellows. Within moments, the Beloved were lost to sight, trapped inside a whirling cloudburst of insects.

  “Golly!” said Nightshade in awe, and then he added, speaking to Atta, “Now’s our chance! Run for it!”

  He had one more little burst of energy left in him, and he put his head down, pumped his feet, and went haring off down the road.

  He was running, running, running, not watching where he was going, and Atta was panting along beside him when he ran headlong into something—blam!

  The kender bounced off and went head over heels to land on his back on the road. Shaking his head groggily, he looked up.

  “Golly,” said Nightshade again.

  “I am sorry, friend,” said the monk, and he reached down a solicitous hand to assist Nightshade to his feet. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

  The monk looked at Nightshade, then the monk looked down the road to where the Beloved were fleeing in the opposite direction, trying to rid themselves of the grasshoppers, which were still attacking them. The monk smiled slightly, and he regarded the kender in concern.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Did they harm you?”

  “N-no, Brother,” Nightshade stammered. “It’s a lucky thing those hoppers came along.…”

  The kender had a sudden thought.

  The monk was gaunt, slender, and all muscle, as Nightshade had reason to know, for crashing into the monk had been like crashing into the side of a mountain. The monk had iron-gray hair that he wore in a simple braid down the back of his neck. He was dressed in plain robes of a burnished orange color, trimmed with a rose motif around the hem and the sleeves. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw and dark eyes that were smiling now, but which could probably be very fierce if the monk chose.

  Nightshade allowed the monk to lift him to his feet. He let the monk brush the dust off his clothes and pluck an errant and stubborn hopper from his hair. He saw that Atta was hanging back, cringing, not approaching the monk, and then and only then did the kender free his voice, which had gotten stuck in his throat.

  “Did Majere send you, Brother? What am I saying? Of course, he sent you, just like he sent those hoppers!” Nightshade grabbed hold of the monk’s hand and tugged. “C’mon! I’ll take you to Rhys!”

  The monk stood immoveable. Nightshade couldn’t shift him and ended up nearly yanking himself off his feet.

  “I am searching for Mina,” said the monk. “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “Mina! Who cares about her?” Nightshade cried.

  He fixed the monk with a stern look. “You’ve got this mixed up, Brother. You’re not looking for Mina. I never asked Majere about Mina. You’re looking for Rhys. Rhys Mason, follower of Majere. Mina works for Chemosh—another god entirely.”

  “Nevertheless,” said the monk, “I am searching for Mina and I must find her quickly, before it is too late.”

  “Too late for what? Oh, too late for Rhys! That’s why we should hurry! C’mon, Brother! Let’s go!”

  The monk did not move. He cast a frowning glance skyward.

  “Yeah, peculiar color, isn’t it?” Nightshade craned his head. “I was noticing that myself. Kind of a weird amber glow. I think it must be the Aura Booly-ris or whatever they call it.”

  The kender grew stern and quite serious. “Now see here, Brother Monk, I’m grateful for the grasshoppers and all, b
ut we don’t have time to stand around blathering about the strange color in the night sky! Rhys is in danger. We have to go! Now!”

  The monk did not seem to hear. He gazed off into the distance, as though he was trying to find something, and then he shook his head.

  “Blind!” he murmured. “I am blind! All of us … blind. She is here, but I can’t see her. I can’t find her.”

  Nightshade heard the agony in the monk’s voice, and his heart was wrung. He saw something else, too, something about the monk that, like the Beloved, he should have noticed before now. He looked at Atta, cringing and cowering—something the gallant dog never did.

  No life light shone from the body of the monk, but unlike the Beloved, the body had an ethereal, insubstantial quality about it, almost as if the monk had been painted on night’s canvas. The pieces of the puzzle started to fall together for Nightshade, falling so hard they smacked him a good one to the side of the head.

  “Oh, my god!” Nightshade gasped, then, realizing what he’d said, he clapped his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, sir!” he mumbled through his fingers. “I didn’t mean to take your name in vain. It just slipped out!”

  He sank down on his knees and hung his head.

  “It’s all right about Rhys, Your Godship,” the kender said miserably. “I know now why you have to go to Mina. Well, maybe I don’t know, but I can guess.” He lifted his head to see the monk regarding him strangely. “It’s all so sad, isn’t it? About her, I mean.”

  “Yes,” said the monk quietly. “So very sad.”

  Majere knelt down beside Nightshade and rested his hand on his head. He put his other hand on Atta, who lowered her head at the god’s gentle touch.

  “You have my blessing, both of you, and Rhys Mason has my blessing. He has faith and he has courage, and he has the love of true friends. Go back to him. He needs your help. My duty lies elsewhere this night, but know that I am with you.”

  Majere stood up and looked toward the castle, its walls bathed in the eerie, lurid glow. He began to walk toward it.

  Nightshade leaped to his feet. He felt refreshed, as though he’d slept for a week and eaten fourteen enormous dinners into the bargain. His body hummed with renewed strength and energy. He cast a glance down the ridgeline in the direction of the cave, and his joy slipped.

  “Brother God!” Nightshade cried. “I’m sorry to bother you again, after everything you’ve done for us. Thank you for the hoppers, by the way, and for your blessing. I feel lots better. There’s just one more thing.”

  He waved his hand. “These boulders are difficult to climb over and they’re awfully hard, sir,” he said meekly, “and sharp.”

  The monk smiled, and as he smiled, the boulders disappeared and the hillside was awash in lush green grass.

  “Wahoo!” Nightshade cried. Waving his arms and shouting, he dashed down the hill. “Rhys, Rhys, hold on! We’re coming to save you! Majere blessed us, Rhys! He blessed me, a kender!”

  Atta, glad to be finally heading the right direction, skimmed over the ground, passing the whooping kender with ease and soon leaving him far behind.

  hys sat in the darkness of the grotto, and as death approached, he thought about life. His life. He thought about fear and about cowardice, about arrogance and pride, and, holding fast to the splinter of wood that had cut his flesh, he knelt to Majere and humbly asked his forgiveness.

  Majere asks each of his monks to leave his cloistered life and journey into the world at least once in a lifetime. The undertaking of this journey is voluntary—it is not mandatory. No monk is forced to make it, just as no monk is ever forced to do anything. All vows the monks take are taken out of love and are kept because they are worth the keeping. The god wisely teaches that promises made under duress or from fear of punishment are empty of meaning.

  Rhys had chosen not to leave the monastery. He would never have admitted this at the time, but he realized now the reason why. He had thought, in his pride and arrogance, that he had attained spiritual perfection. The world had nothing more to teach him. Majere had nothing more to teach him.

  “I knew it all,” said Rhys softly to the darkness. “I was happy and content. The path I walked was smooth and easy and went round and round in a circle. I had walked it so long I no longer saw it. I could have walked it blind. I had only to keep going and it would always be there for me.

  “I told myself the path circled Majere. In truth, it circled nothing. The center was empty. Unknowing, I walked the edge of a precipice, and when disaster struck and the path shattered beneath my feet, I had nowhere to go. I fell into darkness.

  “Even then, Majere tried to save me. He reached out to me, but I rebuffed him. I was afraid. My sunlit, comfortable life had been snatched away from me. I blamed the god, when I should have blamed myself. Perhaps I could not have prevented Lleu from killing my parents if I had been there, but I should have been more understanding of my parents’ pain. I should have reached out to them when they came to me for help. Instead, I repulsed them. I resented them for intruding their pain and their fear into my life. I had no feelings for them. Only for myself.”

  Rhys raised his eyes to the heavens he could not see. “It was only when I lost my faith that I found it. How can such a miracle happen? Because you, my god, never lost faith in me. I walk the darkness unafraid, because I have within me your light—”

  A chill, pale radiance illuminated the cave, like the light called corpse-candle—the lambent flame that can sometimes be seen burning above a grave and is believed by the superstitious to be an omen presaging death.

  The man materialized in the grotto. He was pale and coldly handsome. He had long dark hair and was sumptuously dressed in black velvet and fine, white linen with lace at his cuffs. He regarded Rhys with eyes that had no end and no beginning.

  “I am Chemosh, Lord of Death, and who,” the god added, glowering, “are you?”

  Rhys rose to his feet, his chains rattling around him, and bowed reverently. He might loathe Chemosh for the evil he brought into the world, yet he was a god and before this god all mankind must one day come to stand.

  “I am called Rhys Mason, my lord.”

  “I don’t give a damn what you are called!” Chemosh said perversely. “You are Mina’s lover! That’s who you are!”

  Rhys regarded the god in amazement so profound he could not think of a reply to this astonishing accusation.

  Chemosh himself seemed to be having second thoughts. The Lord of Death looked about the bleak grotto, taking in the chains and the greasy remnants of salt pork, the fetid water and the foul stench, for there had been nowhere Rhys could go to relieve himself except in the cave.

  “This is not exactly what I would call a love nest,” Chemosh remarked. “Nor”—he eyed Rhys with distaste—“do you strike me as a lover.”

  “I am a monk of Majere, my lord,” said Rhys.

  “I can see that,” said Chemosh, his lip curling as he cast a glance at Rhys’s tattered robes that had taken on an orange cast in the eerie light. “The question then becomes—if you are not Mina’s lover, what are you to her? She brought you here—a spindly, flea-bitten monk.” Chemosh drew closer. “Why?”

  “You must ask her, my lord,” Rhys said.

  He spoke steadily, though that took an effort. Holding fast to the splinter of wood from his staff, Rhys silently asked Majere to give him courage. His spirit might accept the inevitability of death, but his mortal flesh shivered and his stomach clenched.

  “Why should you be loyal to her?” Chemosh demanded, irate. “Why is everybody loyal to her? I swear by the High God who created us and Chaos who would destroy us that I do not understand!”

  His fury blasted the cavern like a hot wind. Sweating, Rhys dug the splinter’s sharp point into his palm, using pain to keep himself from collapsing.

  “She chains you to a wall and torments you—I see the mark of her anger on your cheek. She has either left you here to starve to death or …”

&nbs
p; Chemosh paused, regarded Rhys intently. “She plans to come back. To torture you. Why? You have something she wants. That is the reason. What is it, Rhys Mason? It must be of great worth.…”

  Rhys could have given the explanation, but it went against all his convictions. A man’s soul is his own, Majere taught. Its mysteries are for each to reveal or not, as he chooses. Mina had, for whatever reason, chosen to keep her secret. She had not told Chemosh. Though her soul might be black with her crimes, that soul was her own. Her secret was hers, not his, to reveal.

  Rhys kept silent. Blood trickled down his palm and between his clenched fingers.

  “Your flesh can defy me,” Chemosh said, his breath chill as air flowing from the tomb. “But your spirit cannot. The dead cannot lie to me. When your soul stands before me in the Hall of Souls Passing, you will tell me all you know.”

  Then you will be in for a sad disappointment, my lord, Rhys thought ruefully. For, in truth, I know nothing.

  Chemosh drew near, his hand outstretched. “I will kill you swiftly. You will not suffer, as you would have done at Mina’s hands.”

  Rhys gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. His heart beat fast; his mouth was dry. He could no longer speak. He drew in a breath, undoubtedly his last, and braced himself. Closing his eyes, to blot out the terror of the awful god, he commended his spirit to Majere.

  He felt the god’s blessing flow through him, and with his blessing came an exalted serenity and a bark.

  A dog’s bark. Right outside the cave. And with Atta’s bark came Nightshade’s shrill voice.

  “Rhys! We’re back! Hey, I met your god! He gave me his blessing—”

  Rhys’s eyes opened. Serenity drained out of him.

  Chemosh half-turned, looked toward the grotto’s entrance. “What is this? A kender and a dog?”

  “My traveling companions,” Rhys said. “Let them go, my lord. They are innocents, caught up in this by accident.”

  Chemosh looked intrigued. “The kender claims he met your god.…”