Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [86]
Rhys smiled. “Then, yes, that is where I was bound.”
“And you have some little gift for me?” the goddess asked archly.
“My possessions consist of my scrip and my emmide,” said Rhys, smiling. “Which would you like, Majesty?”
Zeboim regarded the proffered objects with disdain. “A smelly leather sack or a stick. I want neither, thank you.”
They passed the temple of Majere. Seeing Rhys walking with a woman, the clerics knew he was not one of theirs and went back to the chores. Ahead was the temple to Zeboim, a modest structure made of drift wood hauled here from the shores of New Sea, decorated with sea shells. Before they reached the doorway, Zeboim halted and turned to face him.
“Your gift to your goddess will be a kiss.”
Rhys took hold of her hand, and respectfully pressed it to his lips.
Zeboim slapped him across the cheek. The blow was hard, left him with burning skin and an aching jaw.
“How dare you mock me?” she demanded, seething.
“I do not mock you, Majesty,” Rhys returned quietly. “I show my respect for you, as I would hope you have respect for me and the vows I have taken—vows of poverty and chastity.”
“Vows to another god!” Zeboim said scornfully.
“Vows to myself, Majesty,” said Rhys.
“What do I care about your silly vows? Nor do I want your respect!” Zeboim raged. “I am to be feared, adored!”
Rhys did not flinch before her, nor did he touch his stinging cheek. Zeboim grew suddenly calm, dangerously calm, as the seas will go smooth and flat before the storm.
“You are an insolent and obdurate man. I put up with you for one reason, monk. Woe betide you if you fail me!”
The goddess departed, leaving Rhys feeling as drained as if he’d come from the field of battle. Zeboim did not want a follower. She wanted to capture him, take him prisoner, force him to work for her like a chained-up galley-slave. Rhys had one weapon to use to keep her at a distance and that was discipline—discipline of body, discipline of mind. Zeboim had no understanding of this and did not know how to fight it. He infuriated her, yet he intrigued her. Rhys knew, however, that the time would come when the fickle goddess would cease to be intrigued and would give way to her fury.
At the far end of the street, Rhys could see the broken-down temple of Chemosh, the ruins of which were strewn among a patch of weeds. Rhys had no need to go there, since he now knew where to find Lleu, but he decided to pay a visit to the temple anyway. Rhys had all night to find Lleu, who would not soon leave the tavern. He turned his steps toward the temple of the God of Death.
Perhaps it was the influence of the god, or perhaps it was merely Rhys’s imagination, but it seemed to him that the shadows of coming night clustered more thickly around the temple than other parts of the street. He would need a light to investigate and he had no lantern with him. He returned to the shrine of Zeboim. He saw no sign of priest or priestess. No one answered his repeated calls. Several candles, standing in holders fashioned to look like wooden boats, burned on the altar—gifts to Zeboim made in hopes that she would watch over those who sailed the seas or traveled the inland waterways.
“You said I never asked you for anything, Majesty,” Rhys said to the goddess. “I ask you now. Grant me the gift of light.”
Rhys removed one of the candles from the altar and carried it outdoors. A puff of wind caused the flame to waver and nearly go out, but the goddess relented, and candle in hand, Rhys went to investigate the temple of Chemosh.
Chunks of fallen stone lay upon crumbling stairs. Rhys had to climb over them to gain the door, only to find that it was blocked by a pillar. He squeezed his way inside through a crack in the wall. The temple floor was littered with debris and dust. Weeds and grass poked up through the cracks. The altar was cracked and overgrown with bind-weed. Any objects sacred to the god had been carried off either by his priests or looters or both. The prints of Rhys’s bare feet were the only prints in the dust. He held the flame