Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [69]
As for the kender, Nightshade was eating meals on a regular basis, which was more than he’d been doing before Rhys had found him. His clothes were ragged, his boots so worn that his toes poked through. Worse, the kender’s cheerful, lively spirit was being ground out of him by the road they trudged, day after day, following a dead man.
Kender should never cry, Rhys thought remorsefully. They are not meant for tears.
Rhys slumped down on a barrel. He lowered his head into his hands and pressed his palms into his eyes. He tried, for comfort’s sake, to bring to mind the green pastures and white sheep and the black and white dog racing over the hillside. But it was all gone. He could see nothing except the road—a road of bleakness, degradation, emptiness, death, and despair.
Shame filled him, and self-loathing.
“I was so smug, so arrogant,” he said, as bitter tears burned his eyelids. “I thought I could flirt with evil and yet go my own way. I could make a show of serving Zeboim, yet she would never lay claim to me. I could walk a path of darkness without losing sight of the sunlight. But now the sunlight has vanished and I am lost. I have no lantern, no compass to guide me. I stumble along a path so choked and overrun with weeds that I cannot see where to put my feet. And there is no end to it.”
The staff of Majere, which he had looked upon as a blessing, now seemed a reproach.
Think on what you might have been, Majere seemed to say to him. Think on what you have thrown away. Keep this staff always, that it may remind you and be a torment to you.
Rhys heard off-key humming in a voice he had come to recognize. Wearily, he raised his head and saw Lleu sauntering past the entrance to the alley that was already growing dark with the coming of night.
Lleu—going to keep a tryst with some luckless young woman.
Rhys had no choice. He reached down and shook Nightshade awake. Atta, startled, jumped to her feet. Catching a whiff of Lleu, she growled.
“We have to go,” said Rhys.
Nightshade nodded, and rubbed his eyes that were gummed with tears. Rhys helped the kender to stand.
“Nightshade,” Rhys said remorsefully, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. And, the gods know, I never meant to hurt you.”
“It’s all right,” Nightshade replied with a wan smile. “It’s probably just because you’re hungry. Here.” He dug into a pocket and produced the maltreated meat. He plucked off bits of pocket fuzz and removed a bent nail. “I’ll share.”
Rhys wasn’t hungry, but he accepted a portion of the meal. He tried to eat it, but his stomach heaved at the smell, and he fed his half to Atta when Nightshade wasn’t looking.
The three of them set off down the road and into the night, following the Beloved.
hey tracked Lleu to a wharf where he had arranged to meet a young woman. She did not appear, however, and after waiting for over an hour, Lleu cursed her roundly and left, turning into the first tavern he came upon. Rhys knew from experience his brother would remain there all night, and he’d find him either here or near about the tavern the next day. He and a yawning Nightshade and a drooping Atta found a sheltered doorway and, huddling together for warmth, they prepared to get what sleep they could.
Nightshade was snoring softly and Rhys was drifting off when he heard Atta growl. A man dressed in white robes that gleamed in the light of his lantern stood over them, gazed down on them. His face was smiling and concerned, and Rhys soothed Atta’s worries.
“It’s all right, girl,” he said. “He’s a cleric of Mishakal.”
“Huh?” Nightshade woke with a start, blinking at the lantern light.
“Pardon me for disturbing you, friends,” said the white-robed man. “But this a dangerous place to spend the night. I can offer you shelter, a warm bed, and a hot meal in the morning.”
Moving closer still, he held the lantern high. “Bless my soul! A monk! Brother, please accept my hospitality. I am Revered Son Patrick.”
“Hot meal …” Nightshade repeated. He looked hopefully at Rhys.
“We accept your invitation,