Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [70]
The mists rose, burned off by the sun. Atta was walking down the path toward him. She carried something in her mouth. Rhys stared, astonished.
Atta had his staff.
The dog dropped his emmide at his feet and looked up at him, her whole back end wagging, her tongue hanging out in what was, for her, a grin.
Rhys knelt down on the path, ruffling her ears and the thick white fur on her neck and chest.
“Thank you, Atta,” he said and added softly, “Thank you, Majere.”
The emmide felt good in his hand, right and proper. Majere had sent it back to him—a clear message that, although he would receive no further blessings from the Mantis God, at least Rhys had Majere’s forgiveness and his understanding.
Rhys rose to his feet, his emmide in his hand, his dog at his side. A day’s walk would take to them to the town.
Night would introduce them to Zeboim’s gift.
he burial ground was an old one, dating back to the founding of the town. Set apart from the town in a grove of trees, the cemetery was well-maintained, grave markers in good condition, weeds trimmed. Flowers had been planted on some of the graves and they were in bloom, their perfume scenting the darkness. Some of the graves were decorated with objects dear to the departed. A rag doll lay on one small grave.
Rhys stood in the grove, keeping to the shadows, wanting to view this mysterious personage first before speaking to him. Atta dozed at his feet, snoozing but watchful.
The night deepened, nearing the midpoint, the cross-over from one day to the next. Bats skimmed through the air, feasting on insects. Rhys gave them his grateful thanks, for the insects had been feeding on him. An owl hooted, making known this was her territory. In the distance, another answered. The graveyard was quiet, empty except for the slumbering dead.
Atta rose suddenly to her feet, ears up, body quivering, tense and alert. Rhys touched her lightly on the head and she remained quietly at his side.
A person entered the graveyard, wandering among the markers, sometimes touching them with his hand, giving each a small, familiar pat.
Rhys was taken aback. He hadn’t known what to expect—a cleric of Zeboim; possibly a necromancer or even a black-robed wizard, follower of the dark god, Nuitari. In his wildest imaginings, Rhys had not foreseen this.
A kender.
Rhys’s first thought was that this was Zeboim’s idea of a joke, but the goddess did not strike him as the sort to indulge in a light-hearted prank, especially when she was so intent on the search for this Mina. He wondered if the kender was really the person he was supposed to meet or if his arrival was coincidental. Rhys discounted that after a moment’s consideration. People did not generally flock to graveyards in the middle of the night. The kender had arrived at the appointed hour, and by the way he walked and talked, he was a frequent visitor.
“Hullo, Simon Plowman,” said the kender, squatting down comfortably by a grave. “How are you tonight? Doing okay? You’ll be pleased to know the wheat is up about six inches now. That apple tree you were worried about doesn’t look so good, however.”
The kender paused, as if waiting for a reply.
Rhys watched, mystified.
The kender heaved a dismal sigh and stood up. He moved on to the next grave, the one with the rag doll, and sat down beside it.
“Hullo, Blossom. Want to play at tiddle-winks? Maybe a game of khas? I have my board with me and all the pieces. Well, most of the pieces. I seem to have misplaced a rook.”
The kender patted a large pouch he wore slung over one shoulder and looked with hopeful expectancy at the grave.
“Blossom?” he said again. “Are you here?”
He sighed dolefully and shook his head.
“It’s no use,” he said, talking to himself. “No one to talk to me. They’ve all gone.”
The little fellow seemed so truly sad and heart-broken that Rhys was moved to pity him. If this was lunacy, it had certainly taken a strange form. The kender did not appear to be insane, however. He sounded rational, and apart from looking rather thin