At last the elder man paused for breath. The woman dabbed at her eyes. The young man yawned and looked bored. The Master turned to Rhys.
“Honored One,” Rhys said, bowing deeply to the Master. He bowed again to the strangers. “Fellow travelers.”
“These are your parents,” said the Master without preamble, answering the question Rhys had not asked. “And this is your younger brother, Lleu.”
4
Rhys turned his calm gaze upon them. “Father, Mother,” he said politely. “Lleu.” He bowed again.
His father’s name was Petar, his mother’s Brandwyn. His brother, Lleu, was a little child when he left home.
His father’s face flushed red in anger. “After fifteen years, is that all you have to say to your own parents?”
“Hush, Petar,” soothed his mother, resting her hand on her husband’s arm. “What should Rhys say? We are strangers to him.”
She smiled tenuously at Rhys. She was not angry, like his father, only weary from the journey, and distraught over whatever troubles had brought her all this distance to seek out a son she barely remembered, a son she had never understood.
Bran, her first born, had been her darling. Little Lleu, her pet. Rhys was the middle child who never quite fit in. He was the quiet child, the child who was “different.” He even looked different, with his dark eyes and black hair and slender, wiry body; a stark contrast to his blonde, big-boned brothers.
His father glanced at Rhys from beneath lowering brows. Rhys met his gaze steadily and his father lowered his eyes. Petar Mason, who was gray-haired now, but who had been a tow-head in his youth, had never been comfortable around Rhys. Although Petar adored his wife, perhaps there was some lingering doubt inside him, maybe not even recognized, that this middle son, who was so very different from the other two, was not actually his progeny. Rhys was obviously his mother’s son, for he took after her side of the family. His uncles were all dark, wiry men. He had nothing in him of his father. For all that, his mother found it difficult to love the child, who rarely spoke, never laughed.
Rhys held no animosity toward his parents. He understood. He’d always understood. He waited in patient silence for them to explain the reason for their visit. The Master also waited in silence, for he had said all that was necessary. Rhys’s mother looked anxiously at his father, who was flustered, unnerved. The silence grew uncomfortable, at least for the visitors. The monks sometimes went for days without speaking, and neither the Master nor Rhys were bothered. It was his younger brother who finally spoke.
“They want to talk about me, Rhys,” Lleu said in an easy, overly familiar tone that was jarring. “And they can’t do that with me here. I’ll go take a walk around the grounds. With your permission, of course,” he added, turning with a grin to the Master. “Though I don’t suppose you lot have much to hide. Any chance of your Bug God finding me a glass of dwarf spirits?”
“Lleu!” exclaimed his father, aghast.
“Guess not.” Lleu winked at Rhys and sauntered out of the library, whistling a bawdy tune.
Rhys and the Master exchanged glances. Majere was known as the Mantis God by some, for the praying mantis was sacred to Majere and used by the god as his symbol, the mantis appearing to be always in the aspect of prayer, keeping still and quiet, but with the capacity to swiftly attack its prey. The young man was, by his attire, a cleric of Kiri-Jolith. He was certainly not acting like a cleric of Kiri-Jolith, who was stern and serious and would not countenance such sacrilege as referring to Majere as the “Bug God.”
“I am sorry, Master,” said Petar, the red color in his face deepening, except that now it was from embarrassment, not anger. He wiped his face with his sleeve. “No son of mine was brought up to speak to clergy in that tone. You know that, Rhys.”
Rhys did know it. His father, whose mother had been a cleric of Paladine, had always been deeply respectful of the gods and any man of god. Even in the days when the gods were gone, Petar had taught his boys to keep them in their hearts.
“Lleu’s changed, Rhys,” said Brandwyn, her voice trembling. “That’s why we came here. We … we don’t know him anymore! He spends his time in the taverns, drinking and carousing and hanging out with a group of young ruffians and whores. Forgive me, Father,” she added, blushing, “for speaking of such things.”
The Master’s dark eyes flickered with amusement. “We monks of Majere take vows of chastity, but we are not ignorant of life. We understand what goes on between a man and a woman, and in most instances, we approve of it. We would soon run out of monks otherwise.”
Rhys’s parents did not seem to know what to make of this speech. They found it vaguely shocking.
“Your son is, by his attire, a cleric of Kiri-Jolith,” the Master observed.
“Not for long,” Petar said heavily. “The clerics cast him out. He broke too many of their laws. He should not be wearing those robes now, but he seems to take pleasure in making a fool of himself.”
“We don’t know what to do,” Brandwyn added with a catch in her throat. “We thought maybe Rhys could talk to him …”
“I doubt I will have much influence on a brother who obviously has no memory of me,” said Rhys mildly.
“It can’t hurt,” said his father, starting to grow angry again. “Please, Rhys,” his mother begged. “We are desperate. We have nowhere else to turn!”
“Of course, I will speak to him,” said Rhys gently. “I just wanted to warn you not to expect too much. But I will do more than speak to him. I will pray for him.”
His parents looked relieved, hopeful. The Master offered them a room for the night and invited them to share the monks’ simple evening meal. His parents accepted gratefully and went to the room to rest, worn out from the trip and their anxiety.
Rhys was about to depart in search of his brother, when he felt a touch upon his spirit, as clear to him as a touch on the arm.
“Yes, Master?” he said.
“Lleu is his own shadow,” said the Master.
Rhys was startled, troubled. “What do you mean, Honored One?”
“I don’t know,” said the Master, his brow puckering. “I am not certain. I have never seen the like. I must think this over.” He turned his gaze on Rhys, and it was serious, penetrating. “Speak to him, Brother, by all means. But be careful.”
“He is a young man and full of high spirits, Master,” said Rhys. “The life of a cleric is not for everyone.”
“There is more to it than that,” the Master cautioned. “Much more. Be careful, Rhys,” he said, and it was unusual for him to speak Rhys’s name. “I will be at my prayers, if you have need of me.”
The Master sat down, legs crossed, on the floor of the office. Resting his hands on his knees, he closed his eyes. A look of peaceful repose came over the old man’s face. He was with the god.
Majere had no formal places of worship, no temples filled with pews, no altars. The world is the temple of Majere, the sky his grand vaulted ceiling, the grassy hills his pews, the trees his altars. One did not seek the god inside a formal setting but looked inward, wherever one was.
Rhys left the Master to his prayers and went out to find his brother. He saw no sign of him, but hearing the dogs barking, Rhys headed in that direction. As he rounded the corner of the storage shed, the sheep fold came into view and there was his brother.
The sheep were all huddled together at the far end of the pen. Atta stood between Lleu and the sheep. The dog’s ears were back, her tail moving slowly side to side, legs rigid, teeth bared.