Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [63]
“You know what you must do, Rhys,” said the god calmly. “First you must bury the dead and then you must cleanse this room of death, so that all is clean in my sight. On the morrow, you will rise with the morning sun and make your prayers to me, as usual. Then you must water the livestock and turn the cows and horses out to pasture and take the sheep to the fields. Then weed the garden …”
“Pray to you, Master? Pray for what? All of them died and you did nothing!”
“Pray for what you always pray for, Rhys,” said the god. “Perfection of the body and the mind. Peace and tranquility and serenity …”
“As I bury the dead bodies of my brethren and my parents,” Rhys returned angrily, “I pray to you for perfection!”
“And to accept with patience and understanding the ways of your god.”
“I don’t accept it!” Rhys retorted, his rage and anguish knotted inside him. “I will not accept it. Chemosh has done this. He must be stopped!”
“Others will deal with Chemosh,” said Majere imperturbably. “The Lord of Death is not your concern. Look inside yourself, Rhys, and seek the darkness within your own soul. Bring that to the light before you try to wrestle with the darkness of others.”
“And what of Lleu? He must be brought to justice—”
“Lleu speaks truly when he claims that Chemosh has made him invincible. You can do nothing to stop him, Rhys. Let him go.”
“And so you would have me skulk here, safe inside these walls, tending to sheep and mucking out the barn while Lleu goes forth to commit more murders in the name of the Lord of Death? No, Master,” said Rhys grimly. “I will not turn away and let others take on what is my responsibility.”
“You have been with me fifteen years, Rhys,” said Majere. “Every day, murder and worse has been done in this world. Did you seek to stop any of them? Did you search for justice for these other victims?”
“No,” said Rhys. “Perhaps I should have.”
“Look inside your heart, Rhys,” said the god. “Is what you seek justice or vengeance?”
“I seek answers from you!” Rhys cried. “Why didn’t you protect your chosen from my brother? Why did you forsake my them? Why am I alive and they are not?”
“I have my reasons, Rhys, and I do not need to share those reasons with you. Faith in me means that you accept what is.”
“I cannot,” said Rhys, glowering.
“Then I cannot help you,” said the god.
Rhys was silent, his inward battle raging. “So be it,” he said abruptly and turned away.
hys woke from a profoundly disturbing dream in which he denied his god to throbbing pain and flickering light and a rough, wet tongue licking his forehead. He opened his eyes. Atta stood over him, whining and licking his wound. He gently pushed the dog away and tried to sit up. Rhys’s stomach heaved, and he was sick. He lay back down with a groan. The monks’ rigorous practice session often resulted in injuries. Learning how to treat such injuries and how to bear pain was considered an important part of their training. Rhys recognized the symptoms of a cracked skull. The pain was acute and he longed to give into it, to sink back into the darkness, where he would find relief. Victims who did that, however, often did not ever wake up. Rhys might not have awakened, if it hadn’t been for Atta.
He fondled her ears, mumbled something unintelligible, and was sick again. His head cleared a little and a wave of bitter memory washed over him, along with the realization of his own danger.
He sat up swiftly, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain, and looked for his brother.
The room was dark, too dark to see. Most of the thick beeswax candles had gone out. Only two remained burning and their flames wavered in the melting wax.
“I’ve been unconscious for hours,” he murmured dazedly. “And where is Lleu?”
Blinking through the pain, trying to bring his eyes into focus, he cast a swift glance around the room but saw no sign of his brother.
Atta whined, and Rhys petted her. He tried to recall what had happened, but the last thing he remembered was his brother’s charge against Majere: He