Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [68]
When she did not come, he went in search of her, thinking he knew where to look.
He found her lying beside the empty sheep pen, her eyes sad, wondering.
“I know how you feel, girl,” said Rhys.
He whistled again and she rose to her feet and came obediently after him.
He did not look back.
The rain ceased the moment they were on the road. A low ground fog blanketed the valley. The rising sun was an eerie red blur, its light strained through the gray mist as through a cheese cloth. Moisture dripped from the tree leaves to land with a dull plopping sound on the wet ground. All other sound was hushed and muted.
Rhys had much to think about as he walked. He gave Atta her freedom to roam, an unusual treat for the hard-working dog. She could dash into the brush in search of rabbits, bark at squirrels, frisk down the road ahead of him, come racing back with tongue lolling, her eyes bright. She did not do any of that today but trotted behind him, head down, tail drooping. He hoped she would perk up, once they were away from her familiar surroundings, away from the lingering scent of sheep and the other dogs.
When he had taken the livestock to the village he had questioned the inhabitants, asking if they had seen a cleric of Kiri-Jolith pass through recently. None of them had. Rhys did not find that surprising. The village lay north and east of the monastery, whereas the city of Staughton—Lleu’s home—was located to the south. There was no reason why Lleu should not return to Staughton. He could always concoct some plausible tale to explain his parents’ disappearance. Traveling these days was dangerous, particularly in Abanasinia, where lawless men roamed the countryside. Lleu had only to invent a tale of an attack by robbers, in which his parents had been killed and he himself wounded, and he would be believed.
Rhys walked along, so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not miss Atta until a cessrat skittered across his path and no dog bounded after it. He halted, called and whistled, but Atta did not appear. The thought came to him that she had gone back to her pack. That was only natural. She had made her choice, as he had made his. He had to see for himself, however, had to make certain she was safe. Turning around, his heart heavy, he almost stumbled over the goddess, who, with characteristic impetuosity, appeared with no warning to stand before him, blocking his path.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“I am going first to look for my dog, Mistress,” he said, “and then to Staughton to search for my brother.”
“Forget the dog. And forget your brother,” Zeboim commanded imperiously. “I want you to seek out Mina.”
“Mistress—”
“Majesty, to you, monk,” Zeboim said in haughty tones.
“I am no longer a monk, Majesty.”
“Yes, you are. You will be my monk. Majere can have monks. Why can’t I? Of course, you will have to wear different colored robes. My monks shall wear sea-green. Now, Monk of Zeboim, what was it you were about to say?”
Rhys watched his robes change from the sacred orange of Majere to a green he presumed was reminiscent of the ocean. He had never seen the sea, so he could not judge whether it was or it wasn’t. He counseled patience, then drew in a deep breath before he spoke.
“As you pointed out yesterday, I do not even know who this Mina is. I don’t know anything about her. I do know my brother, however—”
“She was commander of the Dark Knights during the War of Souls. Even you secluded monks must have heard of the War of Souls,” Zeboim said, seeing Rhys’s blank expression.
Rhys shook his head. The monks had heard tales from travelers about a War of Souls, but they’d paid scant attention. Wars between the living were none of their concern. Neither were wars between the living and the dead.
Zeboim rolled her eyes at his ignorance. “When my honored mother, Takhisis, stole away the world, she dredged up an orphan named Mina and made her a disciple. Mina went about spreading the word of