Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [72]
“My name is Rhys Mason. I want to speak to you about Lleu. May I come inside?” Rhys asked.
The young woman was suddenly cold. “No, you may not. As for Lleu, I know what I’m about. I don’t need you to lecture me on my sins, so go on about your business, Brother, and let me go about mine.”
She started to shut the door. Rhys interposed his staff between the door and the frame, holding it open.
“What I have to say is important, Mistress. Your life is in danger.”
Rhys could see, over her shoulder, the baby lying on a blanket on a straw pallet in the corner of the small room. The little boy stood behind her, watching Rhys with wide eyes. The woman, following the movement of his eyes, threw the door wide open.
“My life!” She gave a bitter laugh. “Here is my life! Filth and squalor. Look for yourself, Brother. I am a young widow left destitute, with two small children and barely enough to hold body and soul together. I cannot go out to work, because I am afraid to leave the children, so I take in sewing. That barely pays the rent on this dreadful place.”
“What is your name, Mistress?” Rhys asked gently.
“Camille,” she returned sullenly.
“Do you think Lleu will help you, Camille?”
“I need a husband,” she said in hard tones. “My children need a father.”
“What about your parents?” Rhys asked.
Camille shook her head. “I am alone in the world, Brother, but not for long. Lleu has promised to marry me. I will do anything I must to hold onto him. As for my life being in danger”—she scoffed—“he may be a little too fond of his drink, but he is harmless.”
Behind her, the baby started to wail.
“Now, I must go tend to my child—” She tried again to close the door.
“Lleu is not harmless,” said Rhys earnestly. “Have you heard of Chemosh, the god of death?”
“I know nothing of gods, Brother, nor do I care! Now will you leave or must I summon the city guard?”
“Lleu will not marry you, Camille. He has booked passage on board a ship to Flotsam. He leaves New Port tomorrow.”
The young woman stared at him. Her face paled, her lips quivered. “I don’t believe you. He promised! Now go! Just go!”
The baby had worked himself into a frenzy. The little boy was doing his best to soothe him, but the baby was having none of it.
“Think about what I have said, Mistress Camille,” Rhys pleaded. “You are not alone. The Temple of Mishakal is not far from here. You passed it on your way. Go to the clerics of Mishakal. They will assist you and your children.”
She pushed at him, kicked at his staff.
“Lleu has a mark on his breast,” Rhys continued. “The mark of a woman’s lips burned into his flesh. He will try to make you give your soul to Chemosh. Do not do it, Mistress! If you do, you are lost! Look into his eyes!” he pleaded. “Look into his eyes!”
The door slammed shut. Rhys stood on the street outside, listening to the baby’s screams and the mother’s voice trying to soothe it. He wondered what to do. If this young woman fell victim to Lleu, she would abandon her children to walk with the Lord of Death.
Then Rhys remembered the missive posted on the temple wall, and his heart eased. He was not alone in his battle against the Beloved. Not anymore. He could seek out help.
Rhys returned to the clerics of Mishakal and their humble temple to find Nightshade happily whitewashing the walls and Atta lying under a table contently gnawing on a bone. She wagged her tail when she saw Rhys but was not about to relinquish her bone long enough to go greet him.
“Look, Rhys, I’m working!” Nightshade called proudly, waving his paintbrush and splattering himself and the floor with white paint. “I’ve already paid for supper.”
“I told him we feed everyone in need,” said Patrick. “But he insisted. He’s a most unusual kender.”
“Yes, he is,” said Rhys. He paused then said quietly, “Revered Son, I must speak to you on a matter of importance.”
“I thought you might,” Patrick replied. “Your friend has been telling us some very interesting stories. Please, Brother, seat yourself.”
Galena brought Rhys a bowl of stew. Patrick sat beside him as he ate, keeping