Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [55]
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 tried 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?