Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [72]
“Are you saying you can communicate with the dead?”
“I’m what they call a ‘nightstalker’.” The kender held out his hand. “Name of Nightshade. Nightshade Pricklypear.”
“I am Rhys Mason,” said Rhys, taking the small hand and shaking it, “and this is Atta.”
“Hi, Rhys, hi, Atta,” said the kender. “I like you. I like you, too, Rhys. You’re not excitable, like most humans I’ve met. I don’t suppose you have any more of that meat left?” he added with a wistful glance at the leather scrip.
Rhys handed over the bag. He would restock his supplies in the morning. Someone in the town would need wood chopped or other chores done. Nightshade finished off the meat and most of the bread, sharing bites with Atta.
“What is a nightstalker?” Rhys asked.
“Wow! I thought everyone knew about us.” Nightshade regarded Rhys with astonishment. “Where have you been hiding? Under a rock?”
“You might say that.” Rhys smiled. “I am interested. Tell me.”
“You know about the War of Souls?”
“I’ve heard mention of it.”
“Well, what happened was that when Takhisis stole away the world, she blocked off all the exits, so to speak, so that anyone who died was trapped in the world. Their souls couldn’t move on. Some people—mystics, mostly, usually necromancers—found out that they could communicate with these dead souls. My parents were both mystics. Not necromancers,” Nightshade added hurriedly. “Necromancers are not nice people. They want to control the dead. My parents just wanted to talk to them and help them. The dead were very unhappy and lost, because they had no place to go.”
Rhys regarded the kender intently. Nightshade spoke of all this in such matter-of-fact tones that Rhys found it difficult to think the kender was lying, yet the idea of the living holding conversations with the dead was a hard one to comprehend.
“I went along with my parents whenever they visited a burial ground or a cemetery or a mausoleum,” Nightshade was saying. “I’d play games with them while my parents worked.”
“You played games with the dead,” Rhys interrupted.
Nightshade nodded. “We had a lot fun. We’d play at ‘nine-men Morris’, and ‘duck, duck, goose, goose’, and ‘red rover’ and ‘king of the crypt’. A dead Solamnic knight taught me to play khas. A dead thief showed me how to hide a bean under three walnut shells and switch them around really fast, then have people try to guess where it’s hidden. Do you want to see that one?” he asked eagerly.
“Maybe later,” said Rhys politely.
Nightshade rummaged around the scrip and, not finding anything else to eat, handed it back. He leaned comfortably against the marker. Atta, seeing that no more meat was forthcoming, put her head on her paws and went to sleep.
“So now, Nightshade, you continue your parents’ work?”
“I wish!” The kender heaved a gusty sigh.
“What happened?”
“Everything changed. Takhisis died. The gods came back. The souls were free to go on their journey again. And I don’t have anyone left to play with.”
“The dead are all leaving Krynn.”
“Well, not all,” Nightshade amended. “There’re still your spirits, poltergeists, dopple-gangers, zombies, revenants, ghosts, skeletal warriors, phantoms, and so on. But they’re harder to come by these days. Generally the necromancers and the clerics of Chemosh snap them up before I can get to them.”
“Chemosh,” said Rhys. “What do you know of Chemosh? Are you a follower of his?”
“Yuck, no!” Nightshade stated, shuddering. “Chemosh is a not a nice god. He hurts the spirits, turns them into his slaves. I don’t worship any god. No offense.”
“Why should I be offended?”
“Because you’re a monk. I can tell by your robes, though they’re sort of strange. I’ve never seen that odd green color before. Who is your god?”
The name of Majere came readily and easily to Rhys’s lips. He paused, bit it back.
“Zeboim,” he said.
“The sea goddess? Are you a sailor? I’ve always thought I’d like to go to sea. There must be lots and lots of bodies underneath the