Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [40]
The chill evening wind blew down from the mountains, picking up dry leaves and sending them rustling and skittering along the deserted road. That same chill wind blew through the emptiness of Rhys’s soul as he watched the knight pray.
“There was a time when I knew faith like that,” he said to himself softly.
A follower of Zeboim, he should be calling upon his goddess for help in his own hour of trial. He did not think the lady would much approve of his companions, however, so he did not bother her. His task, as he saw it, was to make certain everyone came out of this relatively unscathed, including—for Gerard’s sake—the wretched thing that had once been a fun-loving, good-hearted young man.
Gerard prowled restlessly beneath the trees, keeping watch down the road. He remained some distance from the rest of the group, making it clear he did not want company. Rhys looked back to see Nightshade creeping up again to stare at the lantern, and he hurriedly suggested that he and Atta and the kender play a game of “Rock, Cloth, Knife.”
Nightshade had recently taught Atta how to play this game that required each player to choose in three turns whether he was “rock” (closed fist), “cloth” (open fist) or “knife” (two fingers). The winner was determined by the following: Rock crushed knife. Cloth covered rock. Knife cut cloth.
Atta would place her paw on the kender’s knee and Nightshade would interpret this action to be whatever he thought she meant, so that by turns Atta might be “cloth” which covered the rock or “knife” which cut cloth.
“Everyone’s so serious,” Nightshade remarked. “Atta has knife, Rhys. You have cloth, so you lose. I have rock, Atta. You lose, too. I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll win next time.” He gave the dog a pat to soothe her wounded feelings. “I’ve seen livelier gatherings in graveyards. Do you really believe they’re going to be able to kill it?”
“Hush, keep your voice down,” Rhys cautioned, with a glance at Gerard. “We’ve both fought the Beloved before. What do you think of their chances?”
Nightshade pondered. “I know the wizardess doesn’t put much store in my spellcasting, and that holy warrior looked sideways at your staff. If you want my opinion, I don’t think they’re going to do much better. Atta! You won! Dishcloth beats both of us!”
The sun had set. The sky was lit with pale yellow that melted into shimmering blue, deepening to starlit black over the mountains. The red moon glimmered orange in the afterglow. The small flame from Jenna’s lantern seemed far brighter now that darkness surrounded them.
Jenna sat quite still, her eyes closed, her hands making elaborate motions as she rehearsed her spellcasting. Dominique had finished his prayer. He rose stiffly from his kneeling position and reverently sheathed his sword.
The night’s stillness was broken by Gerard.
“Cam’s on his way up here! Nightshade! I need you! Come with me. No, the dog stays here.”
Nightshade jumped to his feet and went off with Gerard. Rhys stood up. A word and touch upon her head kept Atta at his side.
Her expression calm, concentrated, Mistress Jenna moved from beneath the tree branches into a patch of red moonlight. She lifted her face to the moon and smiled, as though basking in its blessed rays. Dominique walked over near her and whispered something. Jenna nodded silently in agreement. Reaching into one of her pouches, she drew out an object and clasped it in her hand. Dominique walked off to take up a position some distance from her, yet keeping her within sight.
The two had secretly formed their own strategy, Rhys realized, one they had probably not bothered to discuss with Gerard.
Rhys clasped his emmide tightly.
Gerard and Nightshade stood together by the boulder.
“There he is,” said Gerard, and he put his hand on Nightshade’s shoulder.
A young man was walking energetically up the hill. There was no mistaking him, for he carried a torch to light his way and the firelight shone brightly on his red hair.
“Take a good look at him, Nightshade,” said Gerard. “A good look inside him.