“Foul beast!” Lleu cursed at her. “Get out of my way!”
He aimed a savage kick at the dog. Atta made a light leap sideways, easily avoiding the man’s boot. Furious, Lleu struck at her with his hand.
Atta snapped and Lleu let out a yelp. He jerked his hand away, staring angrily at a red slash that ran across the back.
“Atta, lie down,” Rhys ordered.
To his astonishment, Atta remained standing, brown eyes fixed on Lieu. The dog growled. Her lip curled.
“Atta, down!” Rhys said again, sternly.
Atta dropped onto her belly. She knew by his unusually loud tone that Rhys was displeased. The dog cast her master a pleading glance as though to say, “You wouldn’t be angry if you understood.” She shifted her watchful gaze back to Lleu.
“That demon dog attacked me!” Lleu yelled, his face twisted in a scowl. He held one hand over his injured hand, cradled it. “The beast is vicious. It should have its throat cut.”
“The dog’s job is to protect the sheep. You should not have been bothering them, nor should you have tried to kick her or hit her. That nip was a warning. Not an attack.”
Lleu glowered at the dog, then muttered something and looked away. Atta continued to watch him warily, and the other dogs were roused and stood on the alert, hackles raised. The mother dog snapped at her pups, who wanted to play, letting them know that this was a time to be serious. Rhys found the reaction of the dogs odd. One would have thought the wolf was on the prowl.
He shook his head. This was not a propitious beginning to a confiding conversation between two brothers.
“Let me take a look at where she bit you,” Rhys offered. “The infirmarer has salve we can put on it to keep it from putrefying, although generally dog bites heal quite cleanly. More cleanly than human bites.”
“It’s nothing,” said Lleu in sulky tones. He continued to press his hand over the wound.
“Her teeth are sharp,” said Rhys. “The cut must be bleeding.”
“No, really. It’s just a scratch. I overreacted.” Lieu thrust his hands into the sleeves of the clerical robes he no longer had a right to wear. He added, with a grimace, “I suppose Father sent you out to lecture me on my sins.”
“If he did, he will be disappointed. It is not up to me to tell another how to live his life. I will give advice, if my council is sought, but that is all.”
“Well, then, brother, your council is not sought,” said Lleu. Rhys shrugged, accepting.
“What do you fellows do for fun around here?” Lleu asked, casting a restless glance around the compound. “Where’s the wine cellar? You monkish types all make your own wine, or so I hear. Let’s go split a bottle.”
“What wine we do make we use for medicinal purposes,” said Rhys, adding, as Lleu rolled his eyes in disgust, “I seem to remember that you enjoyed hearing tales of battle and warriors when you were small. As a cleric of Kiri-Jolith, you are a trained warrior. Perhaps you would be interested in learning some of our methods of combat?”
Lleu’s face brightened. “I have heard that you monks have an unorthodox style. You don’t use weapons, just your hands. Is that true?”
“In a way,” said Rhys. “Come with me to the fields. I will demonstrate.”
He made a gesture to Atta, dismissing her from duty, sending her back to join the pack. Lleu joined him and they headed for the compound. Rhys heard the soft patter of feet behind him and turned his head.
Atta was following him. Again, she had disobeyed his command.
Rhys halted. He said no word, only frowned, so that she could see by his expression that he was not pleased. He made an emphatic gesture, pointing at the pen.
Atta held her ground. Her brown eyes met his. She knew she was disobeying him. She was asking him to trust her.
Rhys recalled another instance when he and Atta had been searching for a lost sheep in the midst of a thick fog. He had ordered her to go downhill, thinking the animal would take the easiest route. Atta had refused, stubbornly insisted on going up the hill. He had trusted her and she had been right.
Lleu was laughing. “Who’s trained who?” he asked with a sly grin.
Rhys glanced at Lieu, recalled the Master’s remark. Lleu is his own shadow. Rhys still did not understand, but perhaps Atta could see more clearly through the fog than he.
Rhys made the gesture that brought the dog to heel. He reached down and touched Atta lightly on the head, letting her know all was well.
She thrust her nose into his palm, then fell back a pace, trotting along quietly at his heel.
“You wear a sword, I see,” Rhys said to his brother. “Are you skilled in its use?”
Lleu launched into an enthusiastic account of training with the Solamnic knights. Rhys watched his brother talk, observing him closely, only half-listening to his words, trying to see what the Master and Atta saw. He realized, as they walked, that he had already sensed something was wrong with Lleu. Otherwise, he would not have been taking him to the fields to show him the art of benevolent discipline. Rhys could have taken his brother to the practice yard, where the monks trained, but he’d chosen not to.
The practice yard was not a sacred place, except as all places are sacred to Majere, nor was it secret. Yet Rhys felt more at ease with his brother out in the open, away from the monastery. Shadow or not, Lleu was a disturbing influence, one that perhaps would be dissipated in the freshening breeze, beneath the clear sky.
“It is true that we do not use weapons made of steel,” Rhys explained, in answer to the earlier question. “We do use weapons, however, those that nature and Majere provide.”
“Such as?” Lleu challenged.
“This, for example.” Rhys indicated his emmide.
“A stick?” Lleu cast a scathing glance at the long, slender wooden shaft. “Against a sword? Not a chance in the Abyss!”
“Let us try,” said Rhys. He gestured to the long sword his brother wore at his side. “Draw your weapon and come at me.”
“This is hardly fair…” Lleu protested. He gestured to the two of them. “We’re the same height, but I outweigh you. I’m bigger through the shoulders, more muscular. I might hurt you.”
“I will risk it,” said Rhys.
Dark-avised, slender, he did not carry any spare flesh. He was bone and sinew and muscle, whereas he could see the tell-tale signs left on his brother by his dissipated life. Lieu’s muscle were flaccid, his face an unhealthy, pasty color.
“All right, then, brother.” Lleu grinned. “But never say I didn’t warn you—especially when I slice your arm off.”
Relaxed and confident, Lleu drew his long sword and took up a warrior’s stance, the blade in his right hand. Atta had been lying on the ground in the shade of a tree. Seeing the man about to attack her master, she growled and rose to her feet.
“Atta, sit,” Rhys commanded. “All is well,” he added in reassurance.
Atta sat, but she obviously wasn’t happy, for she did not doze, as she would have done if he’d been out here practicing fighting technique with another monk. She remained awake, alert, her gaze fixed on her master. Rhys turned his attention back to his brother. Seeing Lleu holding the sword, Rhys recollected the dog bite. He looked with concern at his brother’s hand, hoping it wasn’t giving him too much pain.
Lleu had struck at Atta with his right hand, the hand holding the weapon. Rhys could see quite clearly the marks made by Atta’s teeth. The dog had not bitten the man hard, just enough to make him think twice about accosting her. Still the wound looked deep, though it had not bled much, apparently, for there were no blood-stains on the skin or on the sleeve of his robe. Rhys could not see the wound well, for his brother’s hand kept moving, but he noted that it had a peculiar appearance, more like a bruise than a slash, for the wound was a strange color of bluish purple.