All the monks had died the same horrible death. Some, it seemed, had risen the moment they felt the first symptoms and tried to reach the door. Others lay near the bench where they had been seated. The bodies of all the monks were hideously contorted. The floor was foul and slimy with vomit. That and the swollen tongues revealed the cause of their death—they had been poisoned.
Rhys’s parents were dead, as well. His mother lay on her back. The expression frozen on her dead face was one of sudden, horrendous knowledge. His father lay on his stomach, one arm thrust out, as though in his final moments, he had tried to seize hold of someone.
His son. His youngest son.
Lleu was alive, and to all appearances, hale and healthy. His was the voice Rhys had heard mumbling and muttering.
“Lleu!” Rhys said, his mouth dry, his throat so tight that he did not recognize the sound of his own voice.
Hearing his name, Lieu ceased to mumble. He turned to face his brother.
“You didn’t come to dinner,” said Lleu.
He eased himself up off the bench, stood up. His voice was calm. He might have been in his own kitchen, chatting with a friend. Not standing in the midst of mayhem.
He’s mad, Rhys thought. The horror has driven him insane. Yet, for all that, Lleu didn’t have the look of madness.
“I didn’t feel like eating,” said Rhys. He needed to remain calm, try to find out what was going on.
Lieu lifted a bowl of soup and held it out to his brother. “You must be hungry. You had better have some dinner.”
Rhys’s heart constricted. He knew in that moment what had happened, just as his mother and father had known before they died. But the why of it was as far beyond Rhys’s reach as the dark face of Nuitari. Behind him, he heard Atta growl, and he put out his hand in a warding gesture, commanding her to stay where she was.
Rhys kept his gaze fixed on his brother. Lieu’s robes were in disarray; he had scratches on his face and chest. Perhaps his father had managed to lay hands on his murderous son before death took him.
Lieu’s chest was bare and there was a curious mark on it—the imprint of a woman’s lips branded into his flesh. Rhys noted the mark as being strange, and that was all. Horror drove it out of his mind, and he forgot about it.
“You did this,” said Rhys, his voice cracking. He gestured at the dead.
Lleu glanced around at the bodies, turned his gaze back to his brother. Lleu shrugged, as if to say, “Yes. So what?”
“And now you want to poison me.” Rhys’s hand clasped his stiff so tightly that his fingers began to cramp. He forced himself to relax his grip.
Lieu considered the matter. “It’s not so much a question of ‘want’ as ‘need’, brother.”
“You need to poison me.” Rhys worked to keep his tone cool and level. He knew now that his brother was not insane, that there was some sort of terrible rationale behind the killings. “Why? Why have you done this?”
“He would have stopped me,” said Lleu. He turned his gaze to the body of the Master. “The old man there. He knew the truth. I saw it in his eyes.”
Lleu looked back at Rhys. “I saw it in your eyes. All of you were going to try to stop me.”
“Stop you from doing what, Lleu?” Rhys demanded. “From bringing disciples to my god,” Lleu answered. “Kiri-Jolith?” Rhys asked in shocked disbelief.
“Not that prattling killjoy,” Lleu scoffed. An expression of awe softened his face. His voice was reverent. “My lord Chemosh.”
“You are a follower of the God of Death.”
“I am, brother,” said Lleu. He tossed the bowl of soup back down on the table and rose from the bench. “You can be one of his followers, as well.”
Lleu opened his arms. “Embrace me, brother. Embrace me and embrace endless life, endless youth, endless pleasure.”
“You have been deceived, Lleu.”
Rhys shifted his feet, clasped his staff in both hands, and eased himself into a martial stance. Lleu was not wearing his sword; the monks would have forbade him from bringing a sword into the monastery. He was in the throes of religious ecstasy, however, and that made him dangerous.
“Chemosh does not want you to have any of that. He seeks only your destruction.”
“On the contrary, I already have everything I was promised,” said Lleu lightly. “Nothing can harm me.”
Turning back to the table, he lifted up a soup bowl and held it for Rhys to see. “That’s mine. Empty. I ate the water hemlock as did the rest of these poor fools. I had to eat it, of course, otherwise they might have been suspicious. They are dead. And I am not.”
This could have been a lie, bravado, but Rhys guessed from his brother’s tone and his expression that it wasn’t. Lleu had spoken the truth. He’d ingested the poison and was unscathed. Rhys thought suddenly of the dog bite, the absence of blood.
Lleu tossed the bowl carelessly back onto the table. “My life is one of pleasure and ease. I know neither hunger nor thirst. Chemosh provides all. I want for nothing. You can know the same life, brother.”
“I don’t want that life,” said Rhys. “If ‘life’ is what you call it.”
“Then I guess you had better die,” said Lleu in nonchalant tones. “Either way, Chemosh will have you. The spirits of all those who die by violence come to him.”
“I have no fear of death. My soul will go to my god,” Rhys replied.
“Majere?” Lleu chuckled. “He won’t care. He’s off somewhere watching a caterpillar crawl up a blade of grass.” Lieu’s tone changed, became menacing. “Majere has neither the will nor the power to stop Chemosh. Just as this old man lacked the power to stop me.”
Rhys looked about at the dead, looked at the hideously contorted face of the Master, and Rhys felt a sudden stirring of rage. Lleu was right. Majere could have done something. He should have done something to prevent this. His monks had dedicated their lives to him. They had worked and sacrificed. In their hour of need, the god abandoned them. They had cried to him in their death throes, and he had turned a deaf ear.
Majere’s monks were commanded to take no sides in any conflict. Perhaps the god himself was refusing to take sides in this one. Perhaps the souls of his beloved Master and his brethren were having to fight alone against the Lord of Death.
Anger twisted inside Rhys, hot and clenching and bitter-tasting. Anger at the god, anger at himself.
“I should have been here. I could have stopped this.”
Rhys had pleaded as an excuse that he was with the god, but in truth, his own selfish longing for peace and quiet had kept him from being where he was needed. Because both he and Majere had failed those who put their faith in them, nineteen people were dead.
He wrestled with himself, berating himself, and at the same time, fought against the rage that made his hands itch to seize hold of his murderous brother and strangle him. Rhys was so involved in his internal struggle that he took his eyes off Lleu.
His brother was quick to take advantage. Seizing the heavy crockery bowl, he hurled it with all his might.
The bowl struck Rhys between the eyes. Pain burst in his skull, red-hot pain fringed with yellow-tinged fire, so that he couldn’t think. Blood poured down his face, into his eyes, blinding him. He staggered, clutched at the table to remain standing. He had the dizzying impression of Lleu lunging for him and another impression of a black and white body hurtling past him. Rhys tasted blood in his mouth. He was falling and he stretched out his hand to stop his fall, reached out his hand to the Master …
A monk in orange robes stood before Rhys. The monk’s face was familiar to him, though he’d never before seen it. The monk had a resemblance to the Master, and at the same time to all the other brethren of the monastery. The monk’s eyes were calm and tranquil, his demeanor mild.