Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [58]
“I got carried away, that’s all,” Lleu continued. “I forgot where I was, thought I was on the field of battle.” He added stiffly, “May I have my sword and my knife back? I promise I’ll restrain myself.”
Rhys handed over the knife. Retrieving the sword from the watchful dog, he gave it to his brother, who took hold of it with his left hand. Lleu eyed it, frowning. “I still think I should have cut through that stick of yours. Damn blade must be dull. I’ll have it sharpened when I return home.”
“There is nothing wrong with the blade,” said Rhys.
“Bah! Of course, there is!” Lleu said, scoffing. “You can’t tell me that twig stood up to a long sword!”
“This ‘twig’ has gone up against countless swords for five hundred years,” Rhys replied. “See these tiny nicks?” He held up the stick for Lleu to examine. “Those were made by sword and mace and all manner of steel weapons. None broke it or even harmed it much.”
Lleu looked put out. “You might have told me the blasted stick was magic. No wonder I lost!”
“I didn’t know it was a question of winning or losing,” Rhys returned mildly. “I thought I was demonstrating a fighting technique.”
“Like I said, I got carried away,” Lleu muttered. He wiggled his right hand. He could the move the fingers now and he thrust his sword back into the scabbard. “I think that’s enough demonstrating for today. When do you eat around here? I’m starved.”
“Soon,” said Rhys.
“Good. I’ll go wash up. I’ll see you at supper.” Lleu turned away, then thought of something else and turned back. “I heard that you monks live on nothing but grass and berries. That’s not true, I hope?”
“You will have a good meal,” Rhys assured him.
“I’ll hold you to that!” Lleu waved at him and walked off. Apparently all was forgotten, forgiven.
Lleu even paused to apologize to Atta, scratch her on the head. The dog submitted to his touch, but only after a nod from Rhys, and she shook herself all over the moment Lleu departed, as though to remove any trace of him. Trotting over to Rhys, she pressed her muzzle against his leg and looked up at him with her expressive brown eyes.
“What is it, girl?” Rhys asked, frustrated. He rubbed her behind the ears. “What have you got against him, besides the fact that he is young and feckless and thinks far too well of himself? I wish you could let me know what you are thinking. Still, there is a reason the gods made animals dumb.”
Rhys’s troubled gaze followed the figure of his brother, strolling over the meadow. “We could not bear to hear the truths you might tell us.”
hys did not immediately return to the monastery. He and Atta walked to the stream that provided water for both man and beast and sat down on the grass beneath the willow trees. Atta rolled over on her side and went to sleep, worn out from the rigors of a day spent guarding first sheep and then her master. Sitting cross-legged on the bank, Rhys closed his eyes and gave himself to the god, Majere. The sighs of the wind through the willow branches and the soft evening song of the finches mingled with the chuckling laughter of the stream to soothe away worried speculation about his brother’s odd behavior.
Despite the fact that he had not lectured his brother and instantly turned his life around, as his father had hoped would happen, Rhys did not feel he had failed. The monks of Majere do not view life in terms of success and failure. One does not fail at a task. One merely does not succeed. And since one is always striving for success, so long as one continues striving, one can never truly fail.
Nor did Rhys resent his parents thrusting this responsibility upon him—a son they had likely given no thought to for fifteen years. He could see they were desperate. He did feel badly in that he was going to have to tell them there was nothing he could do. He would speak to the Master first, of course, but Rhys knew what the elderly monk would tell him. Lleu was an adult. He had chosen his own path to walk. He might be persuaded through wise counsel and example,