Amber and Blood - Margaret Weis [57]
“She’s a beautiful child,” said Laura, bending down to kiss the girl’s forehead, as she and Rhys checked on her before going to their rest. “She does say some strange things, though. Such a vivid imagination! Why, she said that yesterday you’d been in Flotsam!”
Rhys went thankfully to his bed, which Laura had made up in the room next to Mina’s. Atta was just settling herself at his feet, when a shrill scream roused Rhys. He lit his bedside candle and hurried to Mina’s room.
Mina was thrashing about the bed, arms flailing. Her amber eyes were wide open and staring.
“—your arrows, Captain!” she was crying. “Order your men to shoot!”
She sat up, gazing at some horror only she could see. “So many dead. All stacked up … Beckard’s Cut. Killing our own men. It’s the only way, you fool! Can’t you see that?”
She gave a wild shout. “For Mina!”
Rhys took hold of her in his arms, trying to calm her. She fought against him, struck at him with her fists. “It’s the only way! The only way we win! For Mina!”
She fell back suddenly, exhausted. “For Mina …” she murmured as she sank into the pillow.
Rhys remained at her side until he was certain she was once more sleeping peacefully. He asked Majere’s blessing on her and then he went back to his bed.
He lay there a long time, trying to recall where he’d heard the name “Beckard’s Cut” and why it struck a chill to his heart.
“Where are you going this morning?” Nightshade asked Rhys between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and spiced potatoes.
“The Temple of Majere,” Rhys replied.
“What about Mina?”
“She’s in the kitchen with Laura learning to make bread. Keep an eye on her. Give me an hour or so and then bring her to me in the Temple.”
“Will the monks let us in?” Nightshade asked dubiously.
“All are welcome to Majere’s temple. Besides”—Rhys reached out to lightly tap the golden grasshopper the kender wore pinned to his shirt—“the god has given you his talisman. You will be an honored guest.”
“I will?” Nightshade was awed. “That’s really nice of Majere. Be sure and thank him for me. What are you going to tell your Abbott about Mina?” he asked curiously.
“The truth,” Rhys said.
Nightshade shook his head dolefully. “Good luck with that. I hope Majere’s monks aren’t too mad at you for being Zeboim’s monk for a while.”
Rhys could have explained that while the monks might be sad and disappointed at his failings, they would never be mad. He realized that this concept could be difficult for his friend to understand, and he didn’t have time to explain. He was in haste to go the Temple, to beg for forgiveness for his sins and turn for help to those wiser than himself. He was looking forward to being able to rest and find peace in the blessed, contemplative quiet.
Rhys had not forgotten Gerard, however, and as he was walking down the town’s main street, cool beneath the dappling shadows of the vallenwood’s leaves, he stopped to speak to one of the town guards.
Rhys asked where he could find the sheriff and was told that Gerard was most likely in Temple Row.
“Some sort of trouble broke out there this morning, or so I heard,” the guard added.
Rhys thanked the guard for the information and continued on. Rounding a corner, he saw crowds of people—many of them bruised and bloodied—being escorted out of Temple Row by the city guard, who were pushing and shoving at stragglers and yelling at gawkers to “move along.” Rhys waited until the crowds had thinned, then he made his way toward the entrance to Temple Row. Several guards eyed him askance, but, seeing his orange robes, they permitted him to pass.
He found Gerard assigning guards, giving them orders. Rhys waited quietly until Gerard had finished and was starting to move off, before addressing him.
“Sheriff—” Rhys began.
“Not now!” Gerard snapped brusquely, and kept walking.
“Gerard,” Rhys said, and this time Gerard recognized his voice and, halting, turned to face him.
The sheriff was red in the face; his corn colored hair was standing all on end, for he was