Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [82]
They entered the temple that smelled strongly of fresh paint. The interior was quiet, after the hubbub of the street.
“How is the young woman?” Rhys asked,
“Galena has taken her to the kitchen and is urging her to eat something. On top of everything else, the poor woman is half-starved. She’ll feel better once she has some nourishment.”
“And the little boy?”
Patrick shook his head. “We will pray to Mishakal and leave the child in the blessed hands of the goddess. What will you do, Brother, now that your dark quest is ended?”
“I have some explaining to do,” Rhys said ruefully, “and many prayers of contrition to make and sins to repent. Can you tell me where to find the Temple of Majere?”
“You mean the one in Solace?” Patrick asked.
“No, Revered Son. The temple here in New Port.”
“There is no temple to Majere in New Port,” Patrick said. “Don’t you recall our conversation yesterday, Brother? There are only two temples to the gods in New Port—our temple and that of Zeboim’s.”
“You must be mistaken, Revered Son,” Rhys said earnestly. “Just this evening, I met a group of Majere’s priests, one of whom was an abbot. He spoke of a temple here …”
“You can ask the sheriff if you want, Brother, but as far as I know, the closest temple to Majere is the one in Solace. I have not heard of any priests of Majere hereabouts. If there were, they would have undoubtedly sought us out. You say you met these priests last night?”
“Yes,” Rhys replied. “Our meeting was not particularly cordial. That is what delayed me. The abbot recognized me, knew my name.”
He lapsed into silence, his feeling of peace and ease suddenly draining from him.
Patrick regarded him strangely. “Did you know this abbot?”
“No,” said Rhys. “I had never seen him before. I did not think about it at the time—I was too upset—but now that I look back on our meeting, I find it very odd he would have known me. How could he?”
Nightshade tugged on his sleeve.
“Rhys,” said the kender, and then he stopped.
“What is it?” Rhys asked somewhat impatiently.
“It’s just that … if you hadn’t been late, we would have reached the shack on time to stop Lleu before he could hurt the mother, then the little boy wouldn’t have had to hit the Beloved, and he wouldn’t have gone up in flames.”
Rhys stood in silence, gripping his staff.
“The priests kept you away just long enough, Rhys,” Nightshade persisted. “Just long enough for you to be late, but not long enough for you to be too late. Now Revered Patrick here tells us that there aren’t any priests of Majere for maybe a hundred miles in any direction and … well … I can’t help but wondering …”
Nightshade quit talking. He didn’t like the way Rhys looked.
“Wondering what?” Rhys asked harshly.
Nightshade didn’t know whether he should go on or not. “I think maybe this should wait until morning.”
“Tell me,” Rhys said.
“Maybe these priests weren’t real,” Nightshade suggested meekly.
“Do you think I am lying about this?” Rhys demanded.
“No, no, no, not that, Rhys.” Nightshade stumbled over his tongue in his haste. “I think you think the priests were real. It’s just—”
He didn’t know how to explain himself, and he looked to Patrick for help.
“He is saying that the priests were real, Brother—as real as Majere made them,” Patrick said.
Rhys stood in the peace of Mishakal’s temple, thinking back on the horrific events of that night. He was suddenly deeply and intensely angry.
“What do the gods want of me?” he cried out.
Patrick looked grave. Atta cringed at his tone, and Nightshade took a step backward.
“They play games with my life,” Rhys continued in a rage, “and with the lives of others. That poor child and his mother. Was it necessary to make them suffer like that? They will be cursed with the terrible memory of this night for the rest of their lives. If Majere wanted me to know how to destroy these Beloved, why didn’t he just come to me himself and tell me?