Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

  His father’s face flushed red in anger. “After fifteen years, is that all you have to say to your own parents?”

  “Hush, Petar,” soothed his mother, resting her hand on her husband’s arm. “What should Rhys say? We are strangers to him.”

  She smiled tenuously at Rhys. She was not angry, like his father, only weary from the journey, and distraught over whatever troubles had brought her all this distance to seek out a son she barely remembered, a son she had never understood.

  Bran, her first born, had been her darling. Little Lleu, her pet. Rhys was the middle child who never quite fit in. He was the quiet child, the child who was “different.” He even looked different, with his dark eyes and black hair and slender, wiry body; a stark contrast to his blonde, big-boned brothers.

  His father glanced at Rhys from beneath lowering brows. Rhys met his gaze steadily and his father lowered his eyes. Petar Mason, who was gray-haired now, but who had been a tow-head in his youth, had never been comfortable around Rhys. Although Petar adored his wife, perhaps there was some lingering doubt inside him, maybe not even recognized, that this middle son, who was so very different from the other two, was not actually his progeny. Rhys was obviously his mother’s son, for he took after her side of the family. His uncles were all dark, wiry men. He had nothing in him of his father. For all that, his mother found it difficult to love the child, who rarely spoke, never laughed.

  Rhys held no animosity toward his parents. He understood. He’d always understood. He waited in patient silence for them to explain the reason for their visit. The Master also waited in silence, for he had said all that was necessary. Rhys’s mother looked anxiously at his father, who was flustered, unnerved. The silence grew uncomfortable, at least for the visitors. The monks sometimes went for days without speaking, and neither the Master nor Rhys were bothered. It was his younger brother who finally spoke.

  “They want to talk about me, Rhys,” Lleu said in an easy, overly familiar tone that was jarring. “And they can’t do that with me here. I’ll go take a walk around the grounds. With your permission, of course,” he added, turning with a grin to the Master. “Though I don’t suppose you lot have much to hide. Any chance of your Bug God finding me a glass of dwarf spirits?”

  “Lleu!” exclaimed his father, aghast.

  “Guess not.” Lleu winked at Rhys and sauntered out of the library, whistling a bawdy tune.

  Rhys and the Master exchanged glances. Majere was known as the Mantis God by some, for the praying mantis was sacred to Majere and used by the god as his symbol, the mantis appearing to be always in the aspect of prayer, keeping still and quiet, but with the capacity to swiftly attack its prey. The young man was, by his attire, a cleric of Kiri-Jolith. He was certainly not acting like a cleric of Kiri-Jolith, who was stern and serious and would not countenance such sacrelige as referring to Majere as the “Bug God.”

  “I am sorry, Master,” said Petar, the red color in his face deepening, except that now it was from embarrassment, not anger. He wiped his face with his sleeve. “No son of mine was brought up to speak to clergy in that tone. You know that, Rhys.”

  Rhys did know it. His father, whose mother had been a cleric of Paladine, had always been deeply respectful of the gods and any man of god. Even in the days when the gods were gone, Petar had taught his boys to keep them in their hearts.

  “Lleu’s changed, Rhys,” said Brandwyn, her voice trembling. “That’s why we came here. We … we don’t know him anymore! He spends his time in the taverns, drinking and carousing and hanging out with a group of young ruffians and whores. Forgive me, Father,” she added, blushing, “for speaking of such things.”

  The Master’s dark eyes flickered with amusement. “We monks of Majere take vows of chastity, but we are not ignorant of life. We understand what goes on between a man and a woman, and in most instances, we approve of it. We would soon run out of monks otherwise.”

  Rhys’s parents did not seem to know what to make of this speech. They found it vaguely shocking.

  “Your son is, by his attire, a cleric of Kiri-Jolith,” the Master observed.

  “Not for long,” Petar said heavily. “The clerics cast him out. He broke too many of their laws. He should not be wearing those robes now, but he seems to take pleasure in making a fool of himself.”

  “We don’t know what to do,” Brandwyn added with a catch in her throat. “We thought maybe Rhys could talk to him …”

  “I doubt I will have much influence on a brother who obviously has no memory of me,” said Rhys mildly.

  “It can’t hurt,” said his father, starting to grow angry again.

  “Please, Rhys,” his mother begged. “We are desperate. We have nowhere else to turn!”

  “Of course, I will speak to him,” said Rhys gently. “I just wanted to warn you not to expect too much. But I will do more than speak to him. I will pray for him.”

  His parents looked relieved, hopeful. The Master offered them a room for the night and invited them to share the monks’ simple evening meal. His parents accepted gratefully and went to the room to rest, worn out from the trip and their anxiety.

  Rhys was about to depart in search of his brother, when he felt a touch upon his spirit, as clear to him as a touch on the arm.

  “Yes, Master?” he said.

  “Lleu is his own shadow,” said the Master.

  Rhys was startled, troubled. “What do you mean, Honored One?”

  “I don’t know,” said the Master, his brow puckering. “I am not certain. I have never seen the like. I must think this over.” He turned his gaze on Rhys, and it was serious, penetrating. “Speak to him, Brother, by all means. But be careful.”

  “He is a young man and full of high spirits, Master,” said Rhys. “The life of a cleric is not for everyone.”

  “There is more to it than that,” the Master cautioned. “Much more. Be careful, Rhys,” he said, and it was unusual for him to speak Rhys’s name. “I will be at my prayers, if you have need of me.”

  The Master sat down, legs crossed, on the floor of the office. Resting his hands on his knees, he closed his eyes. A look of peaceful repose came over the old man’s face. He was with the god.

  Majere had no formal places of worship, no temples filled with pews, no altars. The world is the temple of Majere, the sky his grand vaulted ceiling, the grassy hills his pews, the trees his altars. One did not seek the god inside a formal setting but looked inward, wherever one was.

  Rhys left the Master to his prayers and went out to find his brother. He saw no sign of him, but hearing the dogs barking, Rhys headed in that direction. As he rounded the corner of the storage shed, the sheep fold came into view and there was his brother.

  The sheep were all huddled together at the far end of the pen. Atta stood between Lleu and the sheep. The dog’s ears were back, her tail moving slowly side to side, legs rigid, teeth bared.

  “Foul beast!” Lleu cursed at her. “Get out of my way!”

  He aimed a savage kick at the dog. Atta made a light leap sideways, easily avoiding the man’s boot. Furious, Lleu struck at her with his hand.

  Atta snapped and Lleu let out a yelp. He jerked his hand away, staring angrily at a red slash that ran across the back.

  “Atta, lie down,” Rhys ordered.

  To his astonishment, Atta remained standing, brown eyes fixed on Lleu. The dog growled. Her lip curled.

  “Atta, down!” Rhys said again, sternly.

  Atta dropped onto her belly. She knew by his unusually loud tone that Rhys was displeased. The dog cast her master a pleading glance as though to say, “You wouldn’t be angry if you understood.” She shifted her watchful gaze back to Lleu.

  “That demon dog attacked me!” Lleu yelled, his face twisted in a scowl. He held one hand over his injured hand, cradled it. “The beast is vicious. It should have its throat cut.”

  “The dog’s job is to protect the sheep. You should not have been bothering them, nor should you have trie
d to kick her or hit her. That nip was a warning. Not an attack.”

  Lleu glowered at the dog, then muttered something and looked away. Atta continued to watch him warily, and the other dogs were roused and stood on the alert, hackles raised. The mother dog snapped at her pups, who wanted to play, letting them know that this was a time to be serious. Rhys found the reaction of the dogs odd. One would have thought the wolf was on the prowl.

  He shook his head. This was not a propitious beginning to a confiding conversation between two brothers.

  “Let me take a look at where she bit you,” Rhys offered. “The infirmarer has salve we can put on it to keep it from putrefying, although generally dog bites heal quite cleanly. More cleanly than human bites.”

  “It’s nothing,” said Lleu in sulky tones. He continued to press his hand over the wound.

  “Her teeth are sharp,” said Rhys. “The cut must be bleeding.”

  “No, really. It’s just a scratch. I overreacted.” Lleu thrust his hands into the sleeves of the clerical robes he no longer had a right to wear. He added, with a grimace, “I suppose Father sent you out to lecture me on my sins.”

  “If he did, he will be disappointed. It is not up to me to tell another how to live his life. I will give advice, if my council is sought, but that is all.”

  “Well, then, brother, your council is not sought,” said Lleu.

  Rhys shrugged, accepting.

  “What do you fellows do for fun around here?” Lleu asked, casting a restless glance around the compound. “Where’s the wine cellar? You monkish types all make your own wine, or so I hear. Let’s go split a bottle.”

  “What wine we do make we use for medicinal purposes,” said Rhys, adding, as Lleu rolled his eyes in disgust, “I seem to remember that you enjoyed hearing tales of battle and warriors when you were small. As a cleric of Kiri-Jolith, you are a trained warrior. Perhaps you would be interested in learning some of our methods of combat?”

  Lleu’s face brightened. “I have heard that you monks have an unorthodox style. You don’t use weapons, just your hands. Is that true?”

  “In a way,” said Rhys. “Come with me to the fields. I will demonstrate.”

  He made a gesture to Atta, dismissing her from duty, sending her back to join the pack. Lleu joined him and they headed for the compound. Rhys heard the soft patter of feet behind him and turned his head.

  Atta was following him. Again, she had disobeyed his command.

  Rhys halted. He said no word, only frowned, so that she could see by his expression that he was not pleased. He made an emphatic gesture, pointing at the pen.

  Atta held her ground. Her brown eyes met his. She knew she was disobeying him. She was asking him to trust her.

  Rhys recalled another instance when he and Atta had been searching for a lost sheep in the midst of a thick fog. He had ordered her to go down hill, thinking the animal would take the easiest route. Atta had refused, stubbornly insisted on going up the hill. He had trusted her and she had been right.

  Lleu was laughing. “Who’s trained who?” he asked with a sly grin.

  Rhys glanced at Lleu, recalled the Master’s remark. Lleu is his own shadow. Rhys still did not understand, but perhaps Atta could see more clearly through the fog than he.

  Rhys made the gesture that brought the dog to heel. He reached down and touched Atta lightly on the head, letting her know all was well.

  She thrust her nose into his palm, then fell back a pace, trotting along quietly at his heel.

  “You wear a sword, I see,” Rhys said to his brother. “Are you skilled in its use?”

  Lleu launched into an enthusiastic account of training with the Solamnic knights. Rhys watched his brother talk, observing him closely, only half-listening to his words, trying to see what the Master and Atta saw. He realized, as they walked, that he had already sensed something was wrong with Lleu. Otherwise, he would not have been taking him to the fields to show him the art of benevolent discipline. Rhys could have taken his brother to the practice yard, where the monks trained, but he’d chosen not to.

  The practice yard was not a sacred place, except as all places are sacred to Majere, nor was it secret. Yet Rhys felt more at ease with his brother out in the open, away from the monastery. Shadow or not, Lleu was a disturbing influence, one that perhaps would be dissipated in the freshening breeze, beneath the clear sky.

  “It is true that we do not use weapons made of steel,” Rhys explained, in answer to the earlier question. “We do use weapons, however, those that nature and Majere provide.”

  “Such as?” Lleu challenged.

  “This, for example.” Rhys indicated his emmide.

  “A stick?” Lleu cast a scathing glance at the long, slender wooden shaft. “Against a sword? Not a chance in the Abyss!”

  “Let us try,” said Rhys. He gestured to the long sword his brother wore at his side. “Draw your weapon and come at me.”

  “This is hardly fair …” Lleu protested. He gestured to the two of them. “We’re the same height, but I outweigh you. I’m bigger through the shoulders, more muscular. I might hurt you.”

  “I will risk it,” said Rhys.

  Dark-avised, slender, he did not carry any spare flesh. He was bone and sinew and muscle, whereas he could see the tell-tale signs left on his brother by his dissipated life. Lleu’s muscle were flaccid, his face an unhealthy, pasty color.

  “All right, then, brother.” Lleu grinned. “But never say I didn’t warn you—especially when I slice your arm off.”

  Relaxed and confident, Lleu drew his long sword and took up a warrior’s stance, the blade in his right hand. Atta had been lying on the ground in the shade of a tree. Seeing the man about to attack her master, she growled and rose to her feet.

  “Atta, sit,” Rhys commanded. “All is well,” he added in reassurance.

  Atta sat, but she obviously wasn’t happy, for she did not doze, as she would have done if he’d been out here practicing fighting technique with another monk. She remained awake, alert, her gaze fixed on her master. Rhys turned his attention back to his brother. Seeing Lleu holding the sword, Rhys recollected the dog bite. He looked with concern at his brother’s hand, hoping it wasn’t giving him too much pain.

  Lleu had struck at Atta with his right hand, the hand holding the weapon. Rhys could see quite clearly the marks made by Atta’s teeth. The dog had not bitten the man hard, just enough to make him think twice about accosting her. Still the wound looked deep, though it had not bled much, apparently, for there were no bloodstains on the skin or on the sleeve of his robe. Rhys could not see the wound well, for his brother’s hand kept moving, but he noted that it had a peculiar appearance, more like a bruise than a slash, for the wound was a strange color of bluish purple.

  Rhys was so puzzled by this that he kept staring at the wound, rather than watching his brother, and he was taken by surprise when Lleu made a sudden rush at him, bringing the sword down in a slashing motion, meant to cleave through helm or skull and finish the fight in a hurry.

  Lleu threw all his strength in the blow. Rhys, holding the emmide in both hands, lifted the staff above his head to meet the sword. The blade struck the emmide. The staff held, though the impact of the shattering strike jarred Rhys’s arms and sent vibrations resonating throughout his body. He could feel the force of the blow in his teeth. Rhys had misjudged his brother, apparently. Those muscles were not so flabby as they appeared.

  Lleu’s face twisted in a snarl. His arm muscles bulged, his eyes gleamed. He had expected his blade to chop the fragile stick into kindling and he was angry and frustrated that his attack had been thwarted. He lifted the sword over his head, intending to strike at the staff again.

  Rhys lashed out with his bare feet; first one, then the other, striking Lleu in the solar plexus.

  Lleu groaned and crumpled, dropping his sword.

  Rhys stepped back, waiting for his brother to recover.

  “You hit me with your feet!” Lleu gasp
ed, slowly straightening, massaging his gut.

  “I did,” said Rhys.

  “But …” Lleu floundered. “That’s not fair!”

  “Perhaps not in a knight’s tourney,” Rhys agreed politely. “But if I am fighting for my life, I will use every weapon at my disposal. Pick up your sword. Have another go at me if you like.”

  Lleu snatched up his blade and flung himself at Rhys. The sword’s blade flashed red in the waning sunlight. Lleu thrust and stabbed, fighting with more force than skill, for he was a cleric, who had only lately come to swordsmanship, not a knight who had been in training most of his life.

  Rhys was not in any danger. He could have ended the fight almost before it started with a jab to the gut, a thump to the head, or another well-placed kick. He did not want to hurt his brother, but he soon saw that Lleu was under no such constraint. Lleu was outraged, wounded in both pride and body. Patiently, Rhys parried Lleu’s blows, which were becoming increasingly wild and desperate, and watched for his chance.

  Ducking beneath one of Lleu’s arcing slashes, Rhys thrust the emmide between Lleu’s legs, tripping him. His brother came down hard on his backside. He held onto his sword, but a twitch of the emmide sent the weapon flying through the air to land in the grass near Atta.

  Lleu cursed and scrambled to his feet.

  “Atta, guard,” Rhys commanded, pointing at the sword.

  The dog jumped to her feet, positioned herself in front of the weapon.

  Lleu’s hand darted to his belt. Pulling a knife, he lunged at the dog.

  Rhys seized hold of the hand gripping the knife and squeezed Lleu’s forearm, pressing his fingers deep into the soft parts of the wrist.

  Lleu’s hand went suddenly limp. The knife fell to the ground.

  Rhys bent down, picked up the knife, and thrust it into his own belt.

  “The paralysis is only temporary,” Rhys advised his brother, who was staring at his hand in dumb-founded astonishment. “The feeling will return to your fingers in a few minutes. This was a friendly contest. Or so I thought.”

  Lleu scowled, then looked ashamed. Nursing his useless hand, he backed off, away from the dog.