Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [9]
That dark side of himself had prompted Rhys to renounce Majere as a “do-nothing” god in order to join forces with Zeboim. He had left the monastery to go out into the world to find his accursed brother, Lleu, and bring him to justice. He had found his brother, but things hadn’t been that simple.
Perhaps Majere and his teachings weren’t that simple either. Perhaps the god was a great deal more complicated than Rhys had realized. Certainly life was far more complicated than he’d ever imagined.
A sharp tug on Rhys’s sleeve brought him back from his musings. He looked at Nightshade.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Not me,” said the kender, pointing. “Him.”
Rhys realized Gerard must have been talking to him all this time. “I beg your pardon, Sheriff. I started down a path of thought and could not find my way back. Did you ask me something?”
“I asked if you’d seen anything of that lunatic woman who apparently feels free to let herself in and out of my prison whenever she feels like it.”
“Is she there now?” Rhys asked, alarmed.
“I don’t know,” returned Gerard drily. “I haven’t looked in the last five minutes. What do you know about her?”
Rhys made up his mind. Though much was still murky, the god’s sign seemed clear. Gerard was a man he could trust. And, the gods knew, Rhys had to trust someone! He could no longer carry this burden by himself.
“I will explain everything to you, Sheriff, at least, as much as can be explained.”
“Which isn’t much,” Nightshade muttered.
“I will be grateful for anything at this point,” Gerard stated feelingly.
The explanation was put off for a short while. The salt water crusted on their skin was starting to itch, and so both Rhys and Nightshade decided to bathe in Crystalmir Lake. The Sea Goddess, having recovered her son, had generously deigned to remove the curse that she’d put on it, and the lake had been restored to its state of crystal purity. The dead fish that had choked the lake had been carted off and dumped into the fields for use in nurturing the crops, but the stench still lingered in the air, and the two washed as swiftly as possible. After he had bathed, Rhys cleansed the blood and salt out of his robes and Nightshade scrubbed his own clothes. Gerard provided clothes for them to wear while their own dried in the sun.
While they bathed, Gerard stewed a chicken in broth flavored with onions, carrots, potatoes, and what he named as his own special secret ingredient—cloves.
Gerard’s house was small but comfortable. It was built on ground level, not in the branches of one of Solace’s famous vallenwood trees.
“No offense to tree dwellers,” Gerard said, ladling out the chicken stew and handing it around. “I like living in a place where if I happen to sleepwalk, I don’t break my neck.”
He gave Atta a beef bone and she settled down on top of Rhys’s feet to gnaw contently. Rhys’s staff stood in the corner next to the chimney.
“Is it your—what do you call it?” Gerard asked.
“Emmide.” Rhys ran his hand over the wood. He recalled every imperfection, every bump and gnarl, every nick and cut that the emmide had acquired over five hundred years of protecting the innocent.
“The staff is imperfect, yet the god loves it,” Rhys said softly. “Majere could have a staff of the same magical metal that forged the dragonlances, yet his staff is wood—plain and simple and flawed. Though flawed, it has never broken.”
“If you’re saying something important, Brother,” said Gerard, “then you need to speak up.”
Rhys gave the staff a last, lingering look, then returned to his chair.
“The staff is mine,” he said. “Thank you for keeping it for me.”
“It’s not much to look at,” said Gerard. “Still, you seemed