Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [75]
Rhys suspected this was a superstition the captain had just conveniently made up, but all his arguments fell on deaf ears. Rhys finally and reluctantly agreed to leave the kender behind.
“We’ll miss Nightshade, won’t we, Atta?” Rhys said to the dog as they walked back toward the temple.
Atta looked up at him with her soft brown eyes and gently wagged her tail and crowded close to him. She didn’t understand his words, but she knew by his tone that he was sad and did what she could to offer comfort.
Rhys was truly going to miss Nightshade. Not a person to make friends easily, Rhys had found solace in the companionship of the other monks, but he’d had no true friends among them. He had not needed friends. He had his dog and his god.
Rhys had lost his god and his brothers, but he’d found a friend in the kender. Looking back on these last bleak weeks, Rhys knew with certainty he could not have gone on if it hadn’t been for Nightshade, whose cheerful outlook on life and unfailing optimism had kept Rhys afloat when the dark waters seemed about to close over him. The kender’s courage and—odd as it might sound when speaking of a kender—common sense had kept them both alive.
“The clerics of Mishakal will take him in,” Rhys said to Atta. “The goddess has always had a soft spot in her heart for kender.” He sighed deeply and shook his head. “The hard part will be convincing him to stay behind. We’ll have to sneak out while he’s asleep, slip away before he knows we’re gone. Fortunately, the ship sails with high tide and that is at dawn—”
Thinking about Nightshade, Rhys was not paying particular attention to where he was going and suddenly discovered he’d taken a wrong turn. He was in a part of town completely unfamiliar to him. He was annoyed by this mistake, and his annoyance grew to worry when he noted the hour was far later than he’d thought. The sky was a pinkish red color; the sun was sinking behind the buildings. People around him were hurrying home to their suppers.
Fearing he would be late for his meeting with the clerics and the city guard, Rhys hurriedly retraced his steps, and after stopping several people to ask directions, he and Atta once more found themselves on the street that led to the temple.
He was walking as fast as he could, with Atta trotting behind, and not watching where he was going. His first notion that anything was amiss was Atta trying to nudge him out of the way by pressing her body against his leg. The dog had often done this, for Rhys would sometimes become so absorbed in his meditations that he would walk headlong into trees or tumble into brooks if the dog wasn’t there to watch out for him.
Feeling her weight against him, he lifted his head and looked right into the bright light of a lantern. The light blinded him, so he could not make out any details about those he’d nearly run down, except there was a group of perhaps six men.
He nimbly side-stepped to avoid a collision with the leader, adding contritely, “I am so sorry, sir. I am in a hurry, and I wasn’t watching—”
His voice died. His breath caught in his throat. His eyes had grown accustomed to the light, and he could now see quite clearly the burnt-orange color of priestly robes and the rose-symbol of Majere.
The priest lifted his lantern so that the light shone on Rhys, who could not believe his bad fortune. He had taken such care to avoid Majere’s priests. Now he had literally run right into six of them. What was worse, the lead priest, the one with the lantern, was, by his garb, a High Abbot.
The abbot was staring at Rhys in astonishment, his startled gaze taking in the monk who was wearing the robes of Majere, but in the aqua green colors of Zeboim. Astonishment darkened to disapproval and what was worse, recognition. The abbot swung the lantern close to Rhys’s face, so that he was forced to avert his eyes from the flaring light.
“Rhys Mason,