Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [89]
Rhys took hold of his brother’s arm, gripped it hard.
“Lleu, quit talking about food and dwarf spirits. Don’t you have any remorse for what you’ve done? For the terrible crime you committed?”
“No, he doesn’t,” said the kender.
“I told you to be quiet,” Rhys ordered impatiently.
Nightshade leaned close to Rhys and put his hand on his arm. “You do realize he’s dead, don’t you?”
“Nightshade, I don’t have time—”
The words froze on Rhys’s tongue. He stared at his brother. Slowly, he relaxed his grip, loosened his hold on his brother’s arm.
Unfazed, Lleu sat back in his chair. He picked up the jug, took another swig, and then set it back down with a thump.
“Where’s my food?” he yelled.
“Ask me again and you’ll get your food, all right. I’ll stuff it straight up your arse.”
“Nightshade, what are you talking about?” Rhys whispered. He could not take his gaze from his brother. “What do you mean, ‘he’s dead’.”
“Just what I said,” the kender replied. “He’s dead as a coffin nail. He just doesn’t know it yet. Would you like me to tell him? It might come as a shock—”
“Nightshade, if this is some type of jest—”
“Oh, no,” Nightshade protested, appalled at the mere suggestion. “I may joke about a lot things, but not my work. I take that very seriously. All those poor spirits waiting to be set free …” The kender paused, cocked an eye at Rhys. “You truly can’t see he’s dead?”
Lleu had forgotten they were there. He stared into the smoke, every so often taking a pull from the jug, more by force of habit, seemingly, then because he took any pleasure in it.
“He is acting very strangely,” Rhys conceded. “But he is breathing. His flesh is warm to the touch. He drinks and eats, he sits and talks to me—”
“Yeah, that’s the odd part,” said Nightshade, screwing up his face into a puzzled expression. “I’ve seen plenty of corpses in my life, but they were all quiet, peaceful sorts. This is the first time I ever saw one sitting in a tavern drinking dwarf spirits and wolfing down meat pies.”
“This is not funny, Nightshade,” Rhys said grimly.
“Well, it’s hard to explain!” The kender was defensive. “It’s like you trying to tell a blind person what the sky looks like. I can see he’s dead because … because there’s no light inside him.”
“No light …” Rhys repeated softly. He recalled the Master’s words: Lleu is his own shadow.
“When I look at you or those two men playing bones over in the corner, I see a kind of light coming off them. Oh, it’s not much. Not bright like the fire or even a candle flame. You couldn’t read a book by it, or find your way in the dark or anything like that. It’s just a wavering, shimmering glow. Like the very tip tiptop of the flame before it trails off into smoke. That sort of light. When you had hold of him, did you feel a pulse? You might see if he’s got one.”
Rhys reached out, took hold of his brother’s wrist.
“What are you doing?” Lleu asked, regarding Rhys with a frown.
“I am afraid that you are not well,” Rhys said.
“That’s an understatement,” muttered the kender.
“I’m fine, I assure you. I never felt better. Chemosh takes care of me.”
“Well?” the kender asked Rhys eagerly.
Rhys felt something that might have been a pulse but was not quite the same. It did not feel like the rush of life beneath the skin. More like turgid water moving sluggishly beneath a layer of thick ice.
“What about the eyes?” Nightshade sat forward, trying to see Lleu through the smoke.
Rhys had a better view. He looked into his brother’s eyes and recoiled.
He’d seen those eyes before gazing up at him from the grave. Eyes that were empty. Eyes that had no soul behind them.
Lleu’s eyes were the eyes of the dead.
He could not take this as proof, however, for he was starting to doubt his own senses. His brother looked alive, he sounded alive, his flesh felt alive to the touch. Yet, there were the Master’s warning, the kender’s assessment,