Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [111]
The sheep were scattered about the hillside, grazing contently, glad to be eating the tender green grass after the stale hay on which they’d subsisted during the cold months. Spring meant shearing time and lambing and then Rhys would be busy. But, for the moment, all was peaceful.
Atta lay by his side. She had a scar on her flank where her fur would not grow, but otherwise she had recovered from her injuries, as Rhys had recovered from his. Atta’s gaze was now divided between the sheep (always a worry) and her new litter of pups. Only a few months old, the pups were already showing a strong interest in herding, and Rhys had started training them. He and the pups had worked all morning, and the exhausted pups were now sleeping in a furry black and white heap, pink noses twitching. Rhys had marked one already—the boldest and most adventuresome—to give to Mistress Jenna.
Rhys sat at his ease, his emmide resting in the crook of his arms. He was wrapped in a thick cloak, for though the sun shone, the wind still nipped with winter’s teeth. His mind floated free among the high, feathery clouds, touching lightly on many things and passing on to others; in all things honoring Majere.
Rhys was alone on the hillside, for the sheep were his care and his responsibility, and he was therefore startled to be lured from his reverie by a voice.
“Hullo, Rhys! I’ll bet you’re surprised to see me!”
Rhys had to admit he was surprised. Surprised was hardly the word, in fact, for sitting calmly by his side was Nightshade.
The kender grinned gleefully at Rhys’s shock. “I’m a ghost, Rhys! That’s why I look washed out and wobbly. Isn’t it exciting? I’m haunting you.”
Nightshade grew suddenly concerned. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”
“No,” Rhys said, though it took him a moment to find his voice.
Hearing her master speak, Atta lifted her head and glanced over her shoulder to see if she was wanted.
“Hi, Atta!” Nightshade waved. “Your puppies are beautiful. They look just like you.”
Atta’s eyes narrowed. She sniffed the air, sniffed again, thought things over, then, dismissing what she did not understand, rested her head on her paws and went back to watching her charges.
“I’m glad I didn’t scare you,” Nightshade continued. “I keep forgetting I’m dead and I have an unfortunate tendency to drop in on people suddenly. Poor Gerard.” The ghost heaved a sigh. “I thought he was going to have an apologetic fit.”
“Apoplectic,” Rhys corrected, smiling.
“That, too,” said Nightshade solemnly. “He went extremely white and started wheezing, and then he vowed he would never touch another drop of dwarf spirits as long as he lived. When I tried to cheer him up by assuring him I wasn’t a hallu—a halluci—that he wasn’t seeing things and that I was real live ghost, he began to wheeze even harder.”
“Did he recover?” Rhys asked.
“I think so,” Nightshade said cautiously. “Gerard scolded me soundly after that. He told me I’d taken ten years off his life and then he said he had enough trouble with living kender and he wasn’t about to be plagued by a dead one and I was to go back to the Abyss or wherever it was I’d come from. I told him I wasn’t in the Abyss. I’d been on a world tour, and that I understood his feelings perfectly, and I’d just stopped in to say ‘thank you’ for all the kind things he said about me at my funeral.
“I was there, by the way. It was really lovely. So many important people came! Mistress Jenna and the Abbot of Majere and the Walking God and the elves and Galdar and a minotaur delegation. I especially enjoyed the fight in the bar afterward, though I guess that wasn’t really part of the funeral. And I like having my ashes scattered underneath the Inn. Makes me feel that part of me will never leave. Sometimes I think I can smell the spiced potatoes, which is odd, since ghosts can’t smell. Why do you suppose that is?”
Rhys had to admit he didn’t know.
Nightshade gave a shrug, then frowned. “Where was I?”
“You were talking about Gerard—”
“Oh, yes, I told him I’d come to good-bye before I started on the next stage