Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [67]
The last time he had walked this road was fifteen years ago, when he’d been on his way to the monastery. He had not been on it since. He had not left the monastery in fifteen years. He looked at the world to which he was returning and found it wet, sodden, gray, and not much changed. Trees were taller. Hedges were thicker. The road appeared to be more traveled than it had been, which meant that the village must be prospering. He passed a few people on the road, but they were full of their own concerns and said nothing to his greeting, although several cursed at him and his flock for blocking their way, holding them up. Rhys remembered why he’d left the world and he was sorry to be going back. Sorry, but determined.
The villagers gratefully accepted the monk’s gift, although they were somewhat alarmed when Rhys told them that he was doing this because the other monks had died of disease, leaving him the sole survivor. He assured the people that there was no danger of contagion. That and the well-fed milk cows and the healthy sheep went far to persuade the villagers that they could safely accept this unlooked-for wealth.
Rhys lingered on the outskirts of the village to watch the villagers herd the sheep to the meadows. He’d given them the herd dogs as well. Atta’s brothers and sisters ranged behind, keeping the flock together, guiding them up the hillside.
Atta sat at Rhys’s side, watching with doleful eyes the pack into which she’d been born going off and leaving her behind. She kept looking questioningly at Rhys, waiting for him to give the command for her to rush off to join them. Rhys stroked her ears, bid her quietly, “Stay.”
He had never thought of giving her up, not even at the command of the goddess. Atta had defended him when he could not defend himself. She had risked her life to protect his. There was a bond between them that he could not bear to break. He needed at least one companion in whom he could put his trust. Trusting Zeboim was out of the question.
Rhys returned to the monastery. He scrubbed the dining hall clean of all the terrible traces of the murders. This done, he scoured the kitchen. He was not certain if the poison would wash away or not and decided not to chance it. He smashed all the crockery. He hauled the pots and kettles to the stream, weighted them down with rocks and sank them in the deepest part of the water. He left no trace behind.
That final, terrible task done, he made a last tour of the buildings that were horribly, achingly silent. The monks’ most valued possessions were their books, and these he locked away in a safe place until a representative from the Prophet of Majere could be found who would come to take over. Rhys would stop at the first temple of Majere to send a message to the prophet. In the meantime, he trusted that the god would watch over his own.
Rhys had no personal possessions, other than his emmide that had been a gift from the Master seven years ago. The emmide was a holy artifact, made of the wood of a holly tree, said to be sacred to Majere. Since Rhys had turned his back on the god, he did not feel right about keeping the god’s gift. He left the emmide in the library with the books, propping it up against the wall. As he walked away, he felt as if he were leaving behind one of his arms.
He went to his bed, but sleep would not come to him this night, despite the fact that he was bone-tired. No ghosts of his murdered brethren haunted him. They were in his heart, however. He saw their faces before him, heard their voices. He heard, too, the impatient goddess pounding her hand on the roof. The rain fell steadily all night.
He had planned to set out before daylight, but since he couldn’t sleep, he might as well start walking. He packed bread and dried meat and