Amber and Blood

by Margaret Weis

  Laura, the proprietor of the Inn, was vastly pleased to see Rhys again. She gave him a hug and told him he could have his old job back if he wanted it, and added that he and Nightshade could stay as long as they liked. Laura had another hug for Nightshade, and she was charmed when Rhys introduced Mina, whom Rhys described vaguely as an orphan they had befriended along the way. Laura clucked in sympathy.

  “What a state you’re in, child!” Laura exclaimed, looking with dismay at Mina’s dirt-streaked face and tangled hair, her tattered filthy clothes. “And those rags you’re wearing! Mercy’s sake, that chemise is so threadbare you can see right through it.”

  She cast Rhys a reproachful glance. “I know you old bachelors don’t know anything about raising little girls, but you could at least have seen to it that she took a bath! Come along with me, Mina dear. We’ll have a nice meal and a hot bath and then off to bed with you. And I’ll see to it that you’re dressed properly. I have some of my niece Linsha’s old clothes packed away. I think they should just about fit you.”

  “Will you brush my hair for me before I go to sleep?” Mina asked. “My mother used to brush my hair every night.”

  “You sweet thing,” said Laura, smiling. “Of course, I’ll brush your hair—such pretty hair. Where is mother, dear?” she asked, as she led Mina away.

  “She’s waiting for me at Godshome,” Mina replied solemnly.

  Laura looked considerably startled at this pronouncement, then her face softened. “Ah, you sweet child,” she said gently, “that’s a lovely way to remember her.”

  Nightshade had already found a table and was discussing the evening’s offerings with the waitress. Rhys looked about for Gerard, but his usual table was empty. Nightshade tucked blissfully into a large plate of corned beef and cabbage. Rhys ate a small amount, then gave the rest to Atta, who sniffed disdainfully at the boiled cabbage, but wolfed down the corned beef.

  Rhys insisted on paying for their room and board by helping in the kitchen. As the night went on, he continued to look for Gerard, but the sheriff never came.

  “Small wonder,” said Laura, when she returned to inspect her kitchen and make preparations for tomorrow’s breakfast. “There’s been trouble in Temple Row lately. Oh, nothing serious, mind you. The clerics of Sargonnas and Reorx got into a shouting match and nearly came to blows. Someone threw rotten eggs at the temple of Gilean, and lewd pictures and bad words were scrawled on the walls of Mishakal’s temple. Feelings are running high. The sheriff’s likely out talking to people, trying to keep things calm.”

  Rhys listened to this in dismay. He tried to tell himself that this rivalry among the gods could not possibly have anything to do with him or his companions, but he knew otherwise. He thought of Zeboim and Chemosh, both gods trying to lure Mina to join them. Whichever side she chose—darkness or light—she would upset the balance between good and evil, tilt the scales to one side or the other.

  “She’s a beautiful child,” said Laura, bending down to kiss the girl’s forehead, as she and Rhys checked on her before going to their rest. “She does say some strange things, though. Such a vivid imagination! Why, she said that yesterday you’d been in Flotsam!”

  Rhys went thankfully to his bed, which Laura had made up in the room next to Mina’s. Atta was just settling herself at his feet, when a shrill scream roused Rhys. He lit his bedside candle and hurried to Mina’s room.

  Mina was thrashing about the bed, arms flailing. Her amber eyes were wide open and staring.

  “—your arrows, Captain!” she was crying. “Order your men to shoot!”

  She sat up, gazing at some horror only she could see. “So many dead. All stacked up … Beckard’s Cut. Killing our own men. It’s the only way, you fool! Can’t you see that?”

  She gave a wild shout. “For Mina!”

  Rhys took hold of her in his arms, trying to calm her. She fought against him, struck at him with her fists. “It’s the only way! The only way we win! For Mina!”

  She fell back suddenly, exhausted. “For Mina …” she murmured as she sank into the pillow.

  Rhys remained at her side until he was certain she was once more sleeping peacefully. He asked Majere’s blessing on her and then he went back to his bed.

  He lay there a long time, trying to recall where he’d heard the name “Beckard’s Cut” and why it struck a chill to his heart.

  “Where are you going this morning?” Nightshade asked Rhys between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and spiced potatoes.

  “The Temple of Majere,” Rhys replied.

  “What about Mina?”

  “She’s in the kitchen with Laura learning to make bread. Keep an eye on her. Give me an hour or so and then bring her to me in the Temple.”

  “Will the monks let us in?” Nightshade asked dubiously.

  “All are welcome to Majere’s temple. Besides”—Rhys reached out to lightly tap the golden grasshopper the kender wore pinned to his shirt—“the god has given you his talisman. You will be an honored guest.”

  “I will?” Nightshade was awed. “That’s really nice of Majere. Be sure and thank him for me. What are you going to tell your Abbott about Mina?” he asked curiously.

  “The truth,” Rhys said.

  Nightshade shook his head dolefully. “Good luck with that. I hope Majere’s monks aren’t too mad at you for being Zeboim’s monk for a while.”

  Rhys could have explained that while the monks might be sad and disappointed at his failings, they would never be mad. He realized that this concept could be difficult for his friend to understand, and he didn’t have time to explain. He was in haste to go the Temple, to beg for forgiveness for his sins and turn for help to those wiser than himself. He was looking forward to being able to rest and find peace in the blessed, contemplative quiet.

  Rhys had not forgotten Gerard, however, and as he was walking down the town’s main street, cool beneath the dappling shadows of the vallenwood’s leaves, he stopped to speak to one of the town guards.

  Rhys asked where he could find the sheriff and was told that Gerard was most likely in Temple Row.

  “Some sort of trouble broke out there this morning, or so I heard,” the guard added.

  Rhys thanked the guard for the information and continued on. Rounding a corner, he saw crowds of people—many of them bruised and bloodied—being escorted out of Temple Row by the city guard, who were pushing and shoving at stragglers and yelling at gawkers to “move along.” Rhys waited until the crowds had thinned, then he made his way toward the entrance to Temple Row. Several guards eyed him askance, but, seeing his orange robes, they permitted him to pass.

  He found Gerard assigning guards, giving them orders. Rhys waited quietly until Gerard had finished and was starting to move off, before addressing him.

  “Sheriff—” Rhys began.

  “Not now!” Gerard snapped brusquely, and kept walking.

  “Gerard,” Rhys said, and this time Gerard recognized his voice and, halting, turned to face him.

  The sheriff was red in the face; his corn colored hair was standing all on end, for he was in the habit of running his hands through it when under duress. His intense blue eyes were narrow, their expression grim. That expression did not change when he saw Rhys. Rather it intensified.

  “You,” Gerard growled. “I might have known.”

  “It is good to see you, too, my friend,” said Rhys.

  Gerard opened his mouth, then shut it again. His face flushed redder. He looked ashamed and reached out his hand to clasp Rhys’s hand and give it a remorseful shake.

  “Forgive me. It is good to see you, Brother.” Gerard gave Rhys a rueful smile. “It’s just whenever there’s trouble involving the gods, you always seem to turn up.”

  Rhys was trying to think how to answer this, but Gerard didn’t wait for a reply.

  “Have you had breakfast?” The sheriff sounded and looked tired. “I’m on my way to the Inn. You could join me.” He glanced around. “Where’s your friend
Nightshade? And Atta? Nothing’s happened to them, has it?”

  “They are both fine. They are at the Inn. I just came from there. I was on my way to the Temple of Majere to pay my respects, but I saw the turmoil and I find you here. You say there has been trouble. What happened?”

  “Only a small riot,” said Gerard dryly. “There’s been discord brewing for some time now. The clerics and priests of all the gods have started snarling and snapping at each other like dogs over a bone. This morning a cleric of Chemosh got into a knock-down drag-out with a priest of Zeboim. Supporters from both sides rushed to help, and before long there was a pitched battle. To make matters worse, three of Kiri-Jolith’s paladins took it upon themselves to try to break up the fight. At the sight of the paladins, the clerics of Zeboim and Chemosh stopped fighting each other and turned on the paladins. That brought the clerics of Mishakal to their aid. And since Reorx’s worshippers like nothing better than a good brawl, they got into it, whaling on anyone they could find.

  “Finally, that got boring, apparently, and someone suggested this was all Gilean’s fault and they should set fire to his temple. They were headed that direction with torches blazing when I arrived with my guards. We cracked a few heads and arrested the rest and that ended the altercation. I’ll let the holy fathers cool their heels in jail, then set them loose with a fine for disturbing the peace and destruction of property.”

  “How did the fight start?” Rhys asked. “Do you know what the quarrel was about?”

  “The clerics of Chemosh refused to say. Creepy bastards. I think it was a mistake to allow them to build a temple here, but Palin Majere insisted that it is not up to us to decree which gods people choose to worship. He said that so long as Chemosh’s clerics and followers don’t break the law they can have their temple. So far, they’ve behaved. Chemosh’s clerics haven’t been raising the dead or raiding graveyards—at least that I know of.

  “As for Zeboim, her priests were eager to talk. They’re telling everyone that Chemosh is trying to take over as leader of the Gods of Darkness. What beats me is that all the clerics, even those of Kiri-Jolith, harbor resentment against Gilean. I have no idea why. His Aesthetics never take their noses out of their books.”

  Gerard eyed Rhys. “For months, these priests and clerics have gone about their business peacefully enough and then within the space of a fortnight, they’re at each other’s throats. And now you show up. You’re personally acquainted with Zeboim. Something’s amiss in Heaven. What is it—another War of Souls?”

  Rhys was silent.

  “Uh, huh. I knew it.” Gerard heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his hair. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I would, my friend, and gladly, but it is extremely complicated—”

  “More complicated than the goddess hauling you off to fight a death knight?” Gerard asked, half-joking and half-not.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Rhys. “In fact, I am on my way to discuss the situation with the Abbot of my order to seek his advice and counsel. If you would like to accompany me—”

  Gerard shook his head emphatically. “No thank you, Brother. I’ve had my fill of priests today. You go pray, and I’ll go eat. I suppose Atta’s keeping an eye on that kender of yours? I don’t want a riot to break out in the Inn.”

  “Atta is with him, and I told Nightshade to meet me at the Temple.” Rhys glanced uncertainly at the guards patrolling the temple district. “Will your men let him pass?”

  “The guards are here to keep an eye on things, not to prohibit anyone from going to the temples. Though if this violence breaks out again …” Gerard shook his head. “Let’s meet at my home tonight, then, Brother. I’ll fix my famous stewed chicken, and you can tell me what your Abbot says.”

  “I would like that,” said Rhys. “Thank you. One other thing,” he added, as Gerard was about to depart. “What do you know of the name ‘Beckard’s Cut’?”

  Gerard’s face darkened. “Don’t you recall your history lessons, Brother?”

  “Not very well, I am afraid,” Rhys replied.

  “Beckard’s Cut was a dark day in the annals of Krynn,” Gerard said. “The forces of the Dark Knights of Neraka were about to lose the siege of Sanction. They were in full retreat, heading into a narrow mountain pass called Beckard’s Cut. The leader of the Dark Knights gave orders for the archers to fire on their own men. They obeyed the command, firing hundreds of arrows at point blank range into their own comrades. The bodies of the fallen stacked up like cordwood, so they say, blocking the pass. The Solamnics were forced to retreat and that was the beginning of the end for us.”

  “Who was the leader of the Dark Knights?” Rhys asked, though he knew the answer.

  “That female fiend, Mina,” Gerard replied grimly. “I’ll see you tonight, Brother.”

  Gerard went on his way, heading back down the street toward the Inn of the Last Home.

  Rhys watched him go. He wondered if the sheriff would run into Mina and, if so, would he recognize her and what would happen if he did?

  I was a fool to bring up Beckard’s Cut, Rhys chided himself. Now he will be thinking about Mina. Perhaps I should go back …

  Rhys looked at the green, tree-shaded grounds of Majere’s temple and he felt strongly impelled to go there, as if Majere’s hand had hold of his sleeve and was pulling him in that direction. Still Rhys stood undecided. He feared his own heart was leading him, not the hand of the god.

  Rhys longed for the peaceful solitude, the tranquil serenity. At last he gave in, either to the command of the god or the wishes of his soul. He was in need of the Abbot’s advice. If Gerard did recognize Mina and came to Rhys, demanding to know what in the name of heaven was going on, Rhys trusted the Abbot would be able to explain.

  The Temple of Majere was a simple structure made of blocks of polished red-orange granite. Unlike the grand temple of Kiri-Jolith, there were no marble columns or ornate ornamentation. The door of Majere’s temple was made of oak and had no lock upon it, as did the door to the temple of Hiddukel, who, being a patron of thieves, was constantly fearful that someone would steal from him. There were no stained glass windows, as in the beautiful temple of Mishakal. The windows of Majere’s temple had no glass at all. The temple was open to the air, open to the sun and the sound of birdsong, open to the wind and rain and cold.

  When Rhys set foot upon the well-worn path that led through the temple gardens, where the priests grew their own food, to the plain wooden door, the strength that had kept him going for so long suddenly drained out of him. Tears flowed from his eyes, as love and gratitude flowed from his heart for the god who had never lost faith in him, though he had lost faith in his god.

  As Rhys entered the Temple, the cool shadows washed over him, soothing and blessing him. He asked a priest if he could beg an audience with the Abbot. The priest carried his request to the Abbot, who immediately left his meditation and came to invite Rhys to his office.

  “Welcome, Brother,” said the Abbot, clasping his hand. “I understand you want to speak to me. How may I help?”

  Rhys stared, struck dumb with amazement. The Abbot was an older man, as Abbots tended to be, for with age comes wisdom. He was well-muscled and strong, for all priests and monks of Majere—even Abbots—are required to practice daily the martial arts skills termed “merciful discipline.” Rhys had never been in this temple or any other temple of Majere besides his own, he had never been met this man, yet Rhys knew him, recognized him from somewhere. Rhys glanced down at the Abbot’s hand, which was holding his own, and noticed a white, jagged scar marring the brown, weathered skin.

  Rhys had a sudden vivid memory of a city street, of priests of Majere accosting him, of Atta attacking them with slashing teeth and a priest drawing back a bleeding hand …

  The Abbot stood quietly, patiently, waiting for Rhys to speak.

  “Forgive me, Holiness!” Rhys said, guilt-stricken.

  “I do forgive you, of course, Brother,” said the Abbot, then
he added with a smile, “but it would be good to know what for.”

  “I attacked you,” said Rhys, wondering how the Abbot could have forgotten. “It was in the city of New Port. I had become a follower of the Goddess Zeboim. You and the six brothers who were with you sought to reason with me, to bring me back to the Temple and my worship of Majere. I … could not. A young woman was in terrible danger and I had pledged to safeguard her and …”

  Rhys’s voice faltered.

  The Abbot was gently shaking his head. “Brother, I have traveled over much of Ansalon, but I have never been in New Port.”

  “But you were, Holiness,” Rhys insisted, and he pointed. “That scar on your hand. My dog bit you.”

  The Abbot looked down at his hand. He seemed mystified for a moment, then his expression cleared. He gazed at Rhys intently. “You are Rhys Mason.”

  “Yes, Holiness,” said Rhys, relieved. “You do remember …”

  “Quite the contrary,” said the Abbot mildly, “I have long wondered how I came by this scar. I woke one morning to find it on my hand. I was puzzled, for I had no memory of having injured myself.”

  “But you know me, Holiness,” said Rhys, bewildered. “You know my name.”

  “I do, Brother,” said the Abbot, and he extended his scarred hand to clasp Rhys by the shoulder. “And this time, Brother Rhys, if I urge you to pray to Majere and seek his counsel and forgiveness, you won’t set your dog on me, will you?”

  In answer, Rhys sank to his knees and opened his heart to his god.

  he riot in Temple Row that morning had been staged. The fight had been carefully planned by the clerics of Chemosh on orders from the Bone Accolyte, Ausric Krell, in order to test the reaction of the sheriff and the town guard. How many men would be sent in, how would they be armed, where would they be deployed? Krell learned a great deal, and he now made ready to put his knowledge to good use in the service of his master.

  Chemosh had been considerably disconcerted to discover that Mina had transformed her aspect into that of a little girl. True, Krell had told him that she was now a child, but then, Krell was an idiot. Chemosh still believed Mina was acting a part, behaving like some spurned bar wench lashing out at a faithless lover. If he could just take her away some place private, some place where she wasn’t being hounded by monks or other gods, he was certain he could convince her to come back to him. He would admit to her that he’d been wrong—isn’t that what mortal men did? There would be flowers and candlelight, jewelry and soft music, and she would melt in his arms. Mina would be his consort, and he would be the head of the Dark Pantheon.