Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [76]
Rhys didn’t have time for this. He had to reach the temple of Mishakal. He was the only one who knew where to find Lleu, who was probably already on his way to the young woman’s house.
“Excuse me, Your Holiness, but I am late for an urgent appointment.” Rhys bowed and started to leave.
The abbot grabbed hold of Rhys’s arm, detaining him.
“Forgive me, Holiness,” said Rhys politely but firmly. “I am late.”
He made a swift, deft move to break the abbot’s grip. Unfortunately, the Abbot was also trained in the art of “merciful discipline,” and he executed a skillful countermove that kept Rhys in his grasp. Atta, at Rhys’s feet, growled threateningly.
The abbot fixed the dog with a look and raised his hand in a commanding gesture. Atta flopped down on her belly and laid her head between her paws. Her growl subsided. She feebly wagged her tail.
The abbot turned back to Rhys.
“Do you run from me, Brother?” the abbot asked in a tone that was more sorrowful than censorious.
“Forgive me, Your Holiness,” said Rhys again. “I am in haste. A matter of life and death. Please, release me.”
“The immortal soul is more important than the body, Brother Rhys. This life is fleeting, the soul eternal. I have received reports that your soul is in peril.” The abbot held Rhys firmly. “Return with us to our temple. We would talk with you and find a way to bring the lost sheep back to the flock.”
“I would like nothing better, Holiness,” Rhys replied earnestly, “and I promise I will come to your temple later this night. Now, as I told you, I am urgently needed elsewhere. The life that is in peril is not my own—”
“Forgive me if I do not entirely trust you, Brother Rhys,” said the abbot.
The priests of Majere, crowding around him, nodded their cowled heads.
“Members of our Order have been searching Ansalon for you, and now that we have found you we intend to keep you. Come, walk with us, Brother.”
“I cannot, Holiness!” Rhys was starting to grow angry. “Walk with me, if you do not believe me! I go to the Temple of Mishakal. Her clerics and I are on the track of one of the Beloved who intends to take the life of a young mother.”
“Are you the sheriff of this city, Brother?” asked the abbot. “Is it your responsibility to apprehend criminals?”
“In this case, yes!” Rhys retorted.
The sky was dark now, the stars were out. The young woman would have put her little ones to bed and would be watching, waiting for Lleu. “The Beloved is—or was—my wretched brother. I am the only one who can recognize him.”
“Nightshade knows him,” said the abbot imperturbably. “The kender can point him out to the guards.”
Rhys was taken aback. The abbot seemed to know everything about him.
“The kender knows Lleu, but he does not know where this young woman lives. I didn’t tell him or the clerics of Mishakal.”
“Why not?” asked the abbot. “You could have given the clerics the location of the young woman’s house.”
Rhys fumbled for an answer. “All the dwellings look alike. It would have been difficult—”
“Lie to others if you must, Brother Rhys. Never lie to yourself. You want to be there. You want to destroy the monster that was once your brother with your own hands. You have made this a personal vendetta, Rhys Mason. You are consumed with hatred and the desire for revenge, yet,” the priest added, his voice softening, “Majere still loves you.”
He reverently touched the staff that Rhys held in his hand.
As though a lightning blast lit up the darkness, turning night to terrible day, Rhys saw himself in stark clarity. The abbot spoke the truth. Rhys could have given Patrick the location of the young woman’s house. He had deliberately withheld it. He wanted to be there. He wanted to confront his brother, and he had been willing to sacrifice the young woman’s life for his own hateful need.
Rhys longed to fall to the ground at the abbot’s feet. He longed to spew out the poison that was eating him up inside. He longed to beg for mercy, for forgiveness.
The Abbot had hold of his forearm. Dropping his staff, Rhys