Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [61]
He had only to look at the elderly monk’s twisted body, the frightful contortion of the facial muscles, the swollen tongue and the purged contents of his stomach to know that the Master was dead and that he had died in agony.
All the monks had died the same horrible death. Some, it seemed, had risen the moment they felt the first symptoms and tried to reach the door. Others lay near the bench where they had been seated. The bodies of all the monks were hideously contorted. The floor was foul and slimy with vomit. That and the swollen tongues revealed the cause of their death—they had been poisoned.
Rhys’s parents were dead, as well. His mother lay on her back. The expression frozen on her dead face was one of sudden, horrendous knowledge. His father lay on his stomach, one arm thrust out, as though in his final moments, he had tried to seize hold of someone.
His son. His youngest son.
Lleu was alive, and to all appearances, hale and healthy. His was the voice Rhys had heard mumbling and muttering.
“Lleu!” Rhys said, his mouth dry, his throat so tight that he did not recognize the sound of his own voice.
Hearing his name, Lleu ceased to mumble. He turned to face his brother.
“You didn’t come to dinner,” said Lleu.
He eased himself up off the bench, stood up. His voice was calm. He might have been in his own kitchen, chatting with a friend. Not standing in the midst of mayhem.
He’s mad, Rhys thought. The horror has driven him insane.
Yet, for all that, Lleu didn’t have the look of madness.
“I didn’t feel like eating,” said Rhys. He needed to remain calm, try to find out what was going on.
Lleu lifted a bowl of soup and held it out to his brother. “You must be hungry. You had better have some dinner.”
Rhys’s heart constricted. He knew in that moment what had happened, just as his mother and father had known before they died. But the why of it was as far beyond Rhys’s reach as the dark face of Nuitari. Behind him, he heard Atta growl, and he put out his hand in a warding gesture, commanding her to stay where she was.
Rhys kept his gaze fixed on his brother. Lleu’s robes were in disarray; he had scratches on his face and chest. Perhaps his father had managed to lay hands on his murderous son before death took him.
Lleu’s chest was bare and there was a curious mark on it—the imprint of a woman’s lips branded into his flesh. Rhys noted the mark as being strange, and that was all. Horror drove it out of his mind, and he forgot about it.
“You did this,” said Rhys, his voice cracking. He gestured at the dead.
Lleu glanced around at the bodies, turned his gaze back to his brother. Lleu shrugged, as if to say, “Yes. So what?”
“And now you want to poison me.” Rhys’s hand clasped his stiff so tightly that his fingers began to cramp. He forced himself to relax his grip.
Lleu considered the matter. “It’s not so much a question of ‘want’ as ‘need’, brother.”
“You need to poison me.” Rhys worked to keep his tone cool and level. He knew now that his brother was not insane, that there was some sort of terrible rationale behind the killings. “Why? Why have you done this?”
“He would have stopped me,” said Lleu. He turned his gaze to the body of the Master. “The old man there. He knew the truth. I saw it in his eyes.”
Lleu looked back at Rhys. “I saw it in your eyes. All of you were going to try to stop me.”
“Stop you from doing what, Lleu?” Rhys demanded.
“From bringing disciples to my god,” Lleu answered.
“Kiri-Jolith?” Rhys asked in shocked disbelief.
“Not that prattling killjoy,” Lleu scoffed. An expression of awe softened his face. His voice was reverent. “My lord Chemosh.”
“You are a follower of the God of Death.”
“I am, brother,” said Lleu. He tossed the bowl of soup back down on the table and rose from the bench. “You can be one of his followers, as well.”
Lleu opened his arms. “Embrace me, brother. Embrace me and embrace endless life, endless youth, endless pleasure.”
“You have been deceived,