Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [119]
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did they harm you?”
“N-no, Brother,” Nightshade stammered. “It’s a lucky thing those hoppers came along.…”
The kender had a sudden thought.
The monk was gaunt, slender, and all muscle, as Nightshade had reason to know, for crashing into the monk had been like crashing into the side of a mountain. The monk had iron-gray hair that he wore in a simple braid down the back of his neck. He was dressed in plain robes of a burnished orange color, trimmed with a rose motif around the hem and the sleeves. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw and dark eyes that were smiling now, but which could probably be very fierce if the monk chose.
Nightshade allowed the monk to lift him to his feet. He let the monk brush the dust off his clothes and pluck an errant and stubborn hopper from his hair. He saw that Atta was hanging back, cringing, not approaching the monk, and then and only then did the kender free his voice, which had gotten stuck in his throat.
“Did Majere send you, Brother? What am I saying? Of course, he sent you, just like he sent those hoppers!” Nightshade grabbed hold of the monk’s hand and tugged. “C’mon! I’ll take you to Rhys!”
The monk stood immoveable. Nightshade couldn’t shift him and ended up nearly yanking himself off his feet.
“I am searching for Mina,” said the monk. “Do you know where I can find her?”
“Mina! Who cares about her?” Nightshade cried.
He fixed the monk with a stern look. “You’ve got this mixed up, Brother. You’re not looking for Mina. I never asked Majere about Mina. You’re looking for Rhys. Rhys Mason, follower of Majere. Mina works for Chemosh—another god entirely.”
“Nevertheless,” said the monk, “I am searching for Mina and I must find her quickly, before it is too late.”
“Too late for what? Oh, too late for Rhys! That’s why we should hurry! C’mon, Brother! Let’s go!”
The monk did not move. He cast a frowning glance skyward.
“Yeah, peculiar color, isn’t it?” Nightshade craned his head. “I was noticing that myself. Kind of a weird amber glow. I think it must be the Aura Booly-ris or whatever they call it.”
The kender grew stern and quite serious. “Now see here, Brother Monk, I’m grateful for the grasshoppers and all, but we don’t have time to stand around blathering about the strange color in the night sky! Rhys is in danger. We have to go! Now!”
The monk did not seem to hear. He gazed off into the distance, as though he was trying to find something, and then he shook his head.
“Blind!” he murmured. “I am blind! All of us … blind. She is here, but I can’t see her. I can’t find her.”
Nightshade heard the agony in the monk’s voice, and his heart was wrung. He saw something else, too, something about the monk that, like the Beloved, he should have noticed before now. He looked at Atta, cringing and cowering—something the gallant dog never did.
No life light shone from the body of the monk, but unlike the Beloved, the body had an ethereal, insubstantial quality about it, almost as if the monk had been painted on night’s canvas. The pieces of the puzzle started to fall together for Nightshade, falling so hard they smacked him a good one to the side of the head.
“Oh, my god!” Nightshade gasped, then, realizing what he’d said, he clapped his hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, sir!” he mumbled through his fingers. “I didn’t mean to take your name in vain. It just slipped out!”
He sank down on his knees and hung his head.
“It’s all right about Rhys, Your Godship,” the kender said miserably. “I know now why you have to go to Mina. Well, maybe I don’t know, but I can guess.” He lifted his head to see the monk regarding him strangely. “It’s all so sad, isn’t it? About her, I mean.”
“Yes,” said the monk quietly. “So very sad.”
Majere knelt down beside Nightshade and rested his hand on his head. He put his other hand on