Amber and Ashes - Margaret Weis [92]
“Lleu,” Lucy said, her tone changing. “Lleu, you’re hurting me—Ah!”
She gave a piercing scream and struggled in his arms. Lleu held her fast. Her scream swelled to an agonized shriek. Her body jerked and twitched. Rhys jumped to his feet and raced toward the couple, with Nightshade dashing along behind.
“She’s dying!” cried the kender. “He’s killing her! Her spirit light’s fading.”
The young woman shuddered, her body stiffened, and then she went limp.
Rhys grasped hold of Lleu, pulled him off her and flung him aside. Kneeling down on the ground, he gathered up the body of the young woman in his arms, hoping to feel yet some spark of life.
“Too late,” Lleu said coolly. He rose to his feet, looked down at the dead woman dispassionately, as upon a job well done. “She belongs to Chemosh now.”
The woman was no longer breathing. Her eyes were empty and unknowing. Rhys felt for the lifebeat in her neck, found none. On her breast, burned into her flesh, was the imprint of his brother’s lips.
“Majere,” Rhys prayed. “She didn’t know what she was saying. Have mercy on her. Restore her to life!”
Rhys shifted position slightly. The woman’s head lolled to one side. Her flaccid arm slid off his knee and fell limply to the ground. Rhys listened for the voice of the god.
“Do not punish this innocent woman because of me, Lord!” Rhys begged. “Her death is my fault! I could have saved her, as I could have saved my brothers.”
There came no answer. The only sound was Lleu’s scornful laughter.
“Zeboim,” Rhys cried, his voice harsh. “Grant this poor woman her life.”
An echo of his brother’s scornful laugh came back to him from out the shadows of the trees.
Rhys gently lowered the woman’s body onto the ground.
“Her spirit’s gone,” said Nightshade. “I’m sorry, Rhys. There’s nothing can be done. I’m afraid your brother may be right. Chemosh has her.”
Rising to his feet, Rhys faced his brother. “I didn’t want to do this, Lleu, but you have left me no choice. You are my prisoner. I’m going to take you to the authorities. You’ll be charged with murder. I want you to come with me quietly. I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will, if necessary.”
Lleu shrugged. “I’ll come with you willingly, brother. But I think you’re going to find it hard to make that charge of murder stick.”
“Why is that?” Rhys asked grimly.
“Because there has been no murder,” said a voice behind him, with a giggle.
Lucy scrambled to her feet and ran over to stand beside Lleu. She clasped her arms around him, pressed up against him. Her hair was disheveled, her bodice undone. Rhys could still see the mark—red and fiery—of Lleu’s lips on her breast, that rose and fell with the breath of life. She regarded Rhys with mocking laughter in her eyes.
“I am alive, monk,” she said. “Better than ever.”
“You were dead,’ said Rhys, his throat constricting. “You died in my arms.”
“Maybe I did,” Lucy returned archly, “but who will believe you? No one. No one in the whole wide world.”
“Do you want me to come with you to the sheriff, brother?” Lleu asked. “I can introduce him to a couple of other young women I’ve met during my time in Solace. Women who now understand and embrace the ways of Chemosh.”
Rhys was starting to understand, though the understanding was so horrendous that he found it difficult to accept.
“You are dead,” he said.
“No, brother, I am one of the Beloved of Chemosh,” said Lleu.
He and Lucy both laughed.
“I tried to explain all to you once, Rhys, but you wouldn’t listen. Now, you see it for yourself. Look at Lucy. She is beautiful, blooming, radiant. Does she look dead to you? Show him, Lucy.”
The young woman advanced upon Rhys, hips swaying, her eyes half-shut, her lips parted provocatively. “Your brother is envious, Lleu. He wants me for himself.”
“He’s all yours, my dove,” said Lleu. “Have fun—”
Lucy continued to advance, her head thrown back, her lashes half-closed, her lips