Amber and Ashes

by Margaret Weis

  It was late afternoon by the time Rhys was finished with his chores. Nightshade had not yet returned. Rhys asked the cook directions to the Trough. He received a startled look. The cook was certain Rhys must be mistaken. Rhys persisted and eventually the cook told him, even going so far as to walk to the top of the stairs to point out the road he should take.

  Before he left, Rhys took Atta to the stables and gave her the command to wait for him. She flopped down on her belly in the straw, put her head between her paws, and gazed up at him. She was not happy, but she was prepared to obey.

  He had considered bringing her with him. Atta was an obedient dog, one of the best that Rhys had ever trained, but she had taken against Lleu from the very start, and after his violent attack on her master, Rhys was afraid that if the two came in contact again, Atta would not wait for her master’s command but would go for Lleu’s throat.

  Rhys gave her a pat and some meat scraps by way of apology and to assure her she was not being punished, then he departed, heading for the Trough, which sounded just like the kind of place his brother tended to frequent.

  hys did not go immediately to the Trough as he had planned. Discovering that God’s Row was not far from the main square, he decided to visit the ruined temple on his way out of town, perhaps gaining information that might prove useful in dealing with his brother, should he chance to find him.

  The end of the War of Souls brought the return of the gods, and the return of their clerics, performing miracles in the name of their gods and gaining followers. They built new temples dedicated to the various gods, and here in Solace, as in other cities, the temples tended to be clustered in the same general part of town, much as sword dealers located in Sword Street, cloth merchants in Clothier’s Street, and mageware shops in Magi Alley. Some said this was so that the gods, who’d been duped once by one of their own, could keep a closer eye on each other.

  Gods’ Row was located near the Tomb of the Last Heroes. Rhys paused for a look at this monument, which—he was thankful to see—remained faithful to childhood’s memory. Solamnic knights posted honorary guard in front of the Tomb. Kender picnicked on the lawn and celebrated their hero, the famous Tasslehoff Burrfoot. The tomb was graced with a reverence and a solemnity that Rhys found restful. After paying a moment of silent respect for the dead who slumbered within, he continued on past it to the street where the gods lived.

  Gods’ Row was bustling with activity, with several new temples under construction. The temple to Mishakal was the largest and most magnificent, for it was in Solace that her disciple, Goldmoon of the Que-Shu, had come bearing the miraculous blue crystal staff. Because of this, the people of Solace always claimed that the goddess took a personal interest in them. The temple to Kiri-Jolith was almost as large and stood side-by-side with Mishakal. Rhys saw several men wearing tabards that marked them as Solamnic knights emerging from this temple.

  Next to these two, Rhys was nonplussed to see a temple dedicated to Majere. He had not expected to find such a temple, though, on second thought, he supposed he should have been prepared for it. Solace was a major cross-roads in the region. Locating a temple here provided the clerics of Majere with easy access to a major portion of western Ansalon.

  Rhys crossed the street to walk on the opposite side of the temple, keeping to the shadows. If ordinary laymen mistook him for a monk of Majere, Majere’s clerics would do the same and they would find out the truth immediately, for Rhys would not think of trying to lie to them. He might well be waylaid and questioned and brought before the temple’s High Abbot for a “talk.” They might have even heard about the murders from the Prophet of Majere and want to discuss that. The clerics would be well-meaning, of course, but Rhys did not want to waste time answering their questions, nor did he think he was up to the task.

  Several clerics in their orange and copper robes were working in the temple garden. They paused in what they were doing to regard him curiously. He continued on his way, his gaze straight ahead.

  A blast of wind, the scent of the sea, and the feel of an arm entwined through his arm announced the presence of his goddess.

  “Keep close to me, monk,” Zeboim ordered peremptorily. “Majere’s busy-bodies will not notice you this way.”

  “I do not need your protection, Majesty,” Rhys said, trying unsuccessfully to withdraw from her embrace. “Nor did I ask you for it.”

  “You never ask me for anything,” Zeboim returned, “and I would be so happy to accommodate you.”

  She pressed up against him, so that he could feel the softness and the warmth of her.

  “What a hard, firm body you have,” Zeboim continued in admiring tones. “All the walking you do, I suppose. Make a scene,” she added, her voice soft as a summer breeze with just a hint of thunder, “and you will spend the rest of the night discussing the good of your soul, when you might be talking to your brother.”

  Rhys cast her a sharp glance. “You know where Lleu is?”

  “I do, and so do you,” she returned with a meaningful look.

  “The Trough?”

  “He is there now, tossing down tumbler after tumbler of dwarf spirits. He is drinking so much, one would imagine the makers are about to go extinct. They would, if I had anything to say about it. Hairy little bastards—dwarves.”

  “Thank you for the information, Majesty,” said Rhys, once more trying to disentangle himself. “I must go to Lleu—”

  “Certainly, you must. You will. But not before you pay a visit to my shrine,” said Zeboim. “It’s just down the road. That is where you were bound, I presume?”

  “In truth, Majesty—”

  “Never tell a woman the truth, monk,” Zeboim warned.

  Rhys smiled. “Then, yes, that is where I was bound.”

  “And you have some little gift for me?” the goddess asked archly.

  “My possessions consist of my scrip and my emmide,” said Rhys, smiling. “Which would you like, Majesty?”

  Zeboim regarded the proffered objects with disdain. “A smelly leather sack or a stick. I want neither, thank you.”

  They passed the temple of Majere. Seeing Rhys walking with a woman, the clerics knew he was not one of theirs and went back to the chores. Ahead was the temple to Zeboim, a modest structure made of drift wood hauled here from the shores of New Sea, decorated with sea shells. Before they reached the doorway, Zeboim halted and turned to face him.

  “Your gift to your goddess will be a kiss.”

  Rhys took hold of her hand, and respectfully pressed it to his lips.

  Zeboim slapped him across the cheek. The blow was hard, left him with burning skin and an aching jaw.

  “How dare you mock me?” she demanded, seething.

  “I do not mock you, Majesty,” Rhys returned quietly. “I show my respect for you, as I would hope you have respect for me and the vows I have taken—vows of poverty and chastity.”

  “Vows to another god!” Zeboim said scornfully.

  “Vows to myself, Majesty,” said Rhys.

  “What do I care about your silly vows? Nor do I want your respect!” Zeboim raged. “I am to be feared, adored!”

  Rhys did not flinch before her, nor did he touch his stinging cheek. Zeboim grew suddenly calm, dangerously calm, as the seas will go smooth and flat before the storm.

  “You are an insolent and obdurate man. I put up with you for one reason, monk. Woe betide you if you fail me!”

  The goddess departed, leaving Rhys feeling as drained as if he’d come from the field of battle. Zeboim did not want a follower. She wanted to capture him, take him prisoner, force him to work for her like a chained-up galley-slave. Rhys had one weapon to use to keep her at a distance and that was discipline—discipline of body, discipline of mind. Zeboim had no understanding of this and did not know how to fight it. He infuriated her, yet he intrigued her. Rhys knew, however, that the time would come when the fickle goddess would cease to be intrigued and would give way to her fury.

  At t
he far end of the street, Rhys could see the broken-down temple of Chemosh, the ruins of which were strewn among a patch of weeds. Rhys had no need to go there, since he now knew where to find Lleu, but he decided to pay a visit to the temple anyway. Rhys had all night to find Lleu, who would not soon leave the tavern. He turned his steps toward the temple of the God of Death.

  Perhaps it was the influence of the god, or perhaps it was merely Rhys’s imagination, but it seemed to him that the shadows of coming night clustered more thickly around the temple than other parts of the street. He would need a light to investigate and he had no lantern with him. He returned to the shrine of Zeboim. He saw no sign of priest or priestess. No one answered his repeated calls. Several candles, standing in holders fashioned to look like wooden boats, burned on the altar—gifts to Zeboim made in hopes that she would watch over those who sailed the seas or traveled the inland waterways.

  “You said I never asked you for anything, Majesty,” Rhys said to the goddess. “I ask you now. Grant me the gift of light.”

  Rhys removed one of the candles from the altar and carried it outdoors. A puff of wind caused the flame to waver and nearly go out, but the goddess relented, and candle in hand, Rhys went to investigate the temple of Chemosh.

  Chunks of fallen stone lay upon crumbling stairs. Rhys had to climb over them to gain the door, only to find that it was blocked by a pillar. He squeezed his way inside through a crack in the wall. The temple floor was littered with debris and dust. Weeds and grass poked up through the cracks. The altar was cracked and overgrown with bind-weed. Any objects sacred to the god had been carried off either by his priests or looters or both. The prints of Rhys’s bare feet were the only prints in the dust. He held the flame high, looked searchingly all around the temple. No one had been here in a long, long while.

  Carrying the candle back to the shrine of Zeboim, Rhys placed it in its little wooden boat and gave his thanks to the goddess. He turned his footsteps toward the path that would take him to the Trough.

  “Whatever Chemosh is doing in the world, he is not interested in building monuments,” Rhys remarked to himself as he walked past the beautiful temple, all done in white marble, of Mishakal.

  He found that thought disturbing, more disturbing than if he’d come upon a group of black-robed priests skulking about inside the temple walls, raising up corpses by the score. The Lord of Death was no longer hiding in the shadows. He was out in the sunlight, walking among the living, recruiting followers like the wretched Lleu.

  But to what end? To what purpose?

  Rhys had no idea. Once he found his brother, he hoped he would gain answers.

  “Rhys, hullo!” Nightshade appeared out of the twilight, came running up to him. “They told me back at the inn where you were going so I thought I’d come with you. Where’s Atta?”

  “I left her at the Inn,” said Rhys.

  “The people are nice there,” Nightshade commented. “A lot of places won’t let me in, but the lady who runs the Inn—you know, the plump, pretty woman with the red hair—anyway, she told me that she’s partial to kender. One of her father’s best friends was a kender.”

  “Were you able to help the widow contact her husband?” Rhys asked.

  “I tried.” Nightshade shook his head. “His soul had already passed on to the next part of his journey. If you’ll believe it, she was hopping mad. She said she figured he’d gone off with some floozy. I tried to explain that it didn’t work that way, that his soul was off broadening its horizons. She said ‘broad’ was the right word for it; he’d always been one for the ladies. She’s going to marry the baker and that would fix him. She didn’t give me any money, but she did take me to meet the baker and he gave me a meat-pie.”

  The two made their way through the streets, leaving behind the bustling and busy part of Solace and entering into a part that was dark and dismal. There were no shops and only a scattering of tumble-down houses from which dim lights shone. Few people walked in this part of town by night. Occasionally they met some straggler, hurrying along the deserted street, keeping his head low and looking neither to the right nor the left, as if fearful of what he might see. Rhys was just starting to think that perhaps he’d taken a wrong turn, for it seemed they had reached the end of the civilized world, when he smelled wood smoke and saw flickering firelight streaming through a window. Loud voices raised in a bawdy song.

  “I think we found it,” said Nightshade.

  The original Trough was long gone. It and several later incarnations of the tavern had burnt to the ground. First the kitchen had caught fire. The next time it had been the chimney. Once a band of drunken draconians had set fire to the tavern when confronted with what they considered to be an unreasonable bill, and once the owner had set fire to it himself for reasons that were never very clear. Each time it had been rebuilt, using money said to be supplied by the hill dwarves, for it was one of the few places remaining in Abanasinia where one could buy the potent liquor known as dwarf spirits.

  The tavern lurked in the thick shadows of a grove of trees near the edge of the road and had few distinguishing characteristics. Even when Rhys was close to it, he could get no clear impression of the building, except that it was long and low, rickety and unstable. It did boast a single window in the front. The glass for the window must have cost more than the entire building and Rhys wondered why the owner bothered. As it turned out, the window was not there for aesthetic purposes, but so those inside could keep on an eye on those outside and if necessary make a quick dash for the back door.

  Rhys placed his hand on the iron door handle, noting it had a greasy feel to it, and leaned down to say in a low voice to the kender, “I do not think you’re going to find much work here. It would be best if you did not seek to offer your services for contacting the dead.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Nightshade returned.

  “Nor do I think this would be a good time for you to borrow anything from anyone.”

  “There never does seem to be a good time,” Nightshade said cheerfully. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my hands in my pockets.”

  “And,” Rhys added, “if my brother is here, let me do the talking.”

  “I’m to be seen and not heard,” said Nightshade. He looked a little daunted. “I miss Atta.”

  “So do I,” said Rhys. He opened the door.

  A fire burning sullenly in a fire pit at the back of the tavern was the only source of light, and it was smoking so much that it wasn’t doing a very good job of that. Rhys peered through the murky interior of the tavern. The song fell silent in midnote when he and the kender entered, except for one drunk who was not singing the same song anyway and who droned on without pause.

  Rhys saw Lleu immediately. His brother sat at a table by himself in the middle of the tavern. He was in the act of taking a swig from an earthenware jug when Rhys entered. Wiping his mouth, Lleu set the jug back on the table. He glanced at the new visitor, then glanced away, not interested.

  Rhys crossed the room to the table where his brother sat. He was afraid that his brother might try to run, once he recognized him, so he spoke to him first.

  “Lleu,” said Rhys calmly, “do not be alarmed. I’ve come to talk with you. Nothing more.”

  Lleu looked up. “Fine with me, friend,” he said with a smile that was meant to be genial but which had a strained quality to it. “Sit down and talk away.”

  Rhys was disconcerted. This was not the reaction he had expected. Rhys stared at Lleu, who stared right back, and Rhys realized that his brother did not recognize him. Given the shadowy, smoky atmosphere of the tavern and the fact that he was no longer wearing orange robes, this was perhaps understandable. Rhys sat down at the table with his brother. Nightshade plunked down beside him. The kender regarded Lleu with a round-eyed gaze, then glanced at Rhys and seemed about to say something. Rhys shook his head and Nightshade remembered that he was supposed to keep quiet.

  “Lleu,” said Rhys, “it’s me, Rh
ys. Your brother.”

  Lleu cast him a bored glance, went back to his jug. “If you say so.”

  “Don’t you recognize me, Lleu?” Rhys pressed. “You should. You tried to kill me.”

  “Obviously I failed,” Lleu grunted. He lifted the jug, took a long pull at the liquor and set it back down again. “So you’ve got nothing to complain about, that I can see. Have a drink?”

  Lleu held out the jug to his brother. On Rhys’s refusal, Lleu offered it to the kender. “How about you, little fella?”

  “Yes, thank … uh, no, that’s all right,” said Nightshade, catching Rhys’s eye.

  “Just as well,” Lleu continued, shoving the jug away in disgust. “Damn spirits must be more than half water. This is my second jug and I can still see just one of you, monk, and just one of your little friend there. Usually after three tips, I’m seeing six of everything and pink goblins to boot.”

  He turned his head, yelled over his shoulder, “Hey, where’s my supper?”

  “You ate already,” said a voice from the vicinity of the bar, that was lost in a gloom of smoky haze.

  “I don’t remember eating,” Lleu said angrily.

  “Well, you did,” said the voice dourly. “Yer empty plate’s sittin’ in front of you.”

  Lleu frowned down at the table to see a battered pewter plate and a bent knife.

  “Then I’m hungry again. Bring me some more of whatever that slop was.”

  “Not ’til you pay for the last meal you ate. And them two jugs of spirits.”

  “I’m good for it,” Lleu snarled. “I’m a cleric of Kiri-Jolith, for gods’ sake.”

  A snort came from out of the smoke.

  “I have part of a meat pie I couldn’t finish,” said Nightshade, and he brought out the pie wrapped in a grease-spotted handkerchief.

  Lleu snatched up the pie and devoured it hungrily, as if he’d not eaten in days. “Any more where that came from?”

  “Sorry,” said the kender.