Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [75]
Still, the matter troubled Rhys. He asked for a descripion of the girl and inquired about her, as well as about Lleu, along the road. Some had seen her, some had seen him, but none had seen them together. The last he heard of the miller’s daughter, she had joined up with a caravan headed for the sea coast. His brother, it seemed, had spoken vaguely of traveling to Haven.
While Rhys talked with the living, Nightshade communicated with the dead. While Rhys visited inns and taverns, Nightshade visited crypts and cemeteries. Nightshade forbade Rhys from accompanying him, for, the kender claimed, the dead tended to be shy in the presence of the living.
“Most of the dead, that is,” the kender added. “There are those who like to go about rattling bones and clanking chains and tossing chairs out of windows. I’ve met a few who get a kick out of reaching up from the grave and grabbing people by the ankle. They’re the exception, however.”
“Thank the gods,” said Rhys dryly.
“I guess so.” Nightshade wasn’t convinced. “Those sort of dead are the interesting ones. They tend to stick around, not run off to some higher plane of existence and leave a fellow without anyone to talk to.”
The “higher plane “appeared to be a popular destination, for Nightshade was having trouble communicating with the dead, or so he claimed. Those he did find could tell him nothing about Chemosh. Rhys had been skeptical of the kender’s claims from the beginning and his skepticism was growing. He decided to follow the kender one night, see for himself what was going on.
Nightshade was excited this evening, for he’d heard of a battlefield nearby. Battlefields were promising, he explained, because the dead were sometimes abandoned on the field, their bodies left unburied to rot in the sun or be torn apart by vultures.
“Some spirits are good sports about it and just go ahead and depart,” Nightshade explained. “But others take it personally. They hang about, waiting to vent their anger against the living. I should find someone who’s eager to talk.”
“Might not that be dangerous?” Rhys asked.
“Well, yes,” the kender admitted. “Some of the dead develop a really nasty attitude and take it out on the first person they come across. I’ve had a few close calls.”
“What do you do if you’re attacked? How do you defend yourself? You carry no weapon.”
“Spirits don’t like the sight of steel,” Nightshade replied. “Or maybe it’s the smell of iron. I was never very clear on that. Anyhow, if I’m attacked, I just take to my heels. I’m faster than any old rattle-bones.”
When darkness fell, Nightshade departed for battlefield. Rhys gave the kender a lengthy head-start, then he and Atta set off after him.
The night was clear. Solinari was on the wane and Lunitari full and bright, giving the shadows a reddish tinge. The evening air was soft and scented with the perfume of wild roses. The woodland creatures were going about their business, their rustlings and barks and howls causing Atta no end of concern.
In what he was now thinking of as his past life, Rhys would have enjoyed walking through the perfumed night. In that life, his own spirit would have been tranquil, his soul composed. He did not think he been blind to the evil in the world, to the ugliness of life. He understood that one was needed to balance the other. Or rather, he’d thought he’d understood. Now it was as if his brother’s hand had torn aside a curtain to show Rhys evil he had never imagined existed. In a way, Rhys conceded, he had been blind because he’d seen only what he’d wanted to see. He would never allow that to happen again.
He had much to think about as he walked. He believed he was very close to catching up with his brother. Lleu had been in this village until two days ago. He had taken the road to Haven, a road that because of brigands