He saw nothing, heard nothing. Atta buried her nose in the straw spread over the floor, but that was probably because she was not usually allowed in the barn and she was intrigued by the smells. His father’s draft horses were inside their stalls. The horse that Lleu had ridden was not.
Lleu was gone, then. Gone back to his home. Gone to some other city or village or lonely farm house. Gone to create more converts of Chemosh.
Rhys stood in the barn, listening to the heavy breathing of the slumbering animals, the rustling of bats in the rafters, the hoot of an owl. He heard the night sounds and he heard, far louder, the sounds he would never hear again—the thwack of his emmide against the staff of a brother, the animated discussions in the warming room in winter, the quiet murmur of voices raised in prayer, the ringing of the bell that had divided up his day and marked out his life in long, neat furrows that had, only a few hours before, stretched into the future until Majere took his soul onto the next stage of its journey.
The furrows were jagged now and crisscrossed, one over the other in confusion, leading nowhere.
He had lost everything. He had nothing left except a duty. A duty to himself and his murdered parents and his brethren. A duty to the world that he had shunned for fifteen years and that had now come down on him with a vengeance.
“Vengeance,” he repeated softly, seeing again the ugliness inside him.
Find Lieu.
Rhys left the barn, and headed back to the monastery. His head pounded. He was dizzy and sick to his stomach, and he was having trouble focusing his eyes. He dared not lie down, as he longed to do. He had to remain awake. To keep himself awake, he would keep busy and there was work to do.
Grim work. Burying the dead.
“You need help, Brother,” said a voice at his shoulder.
Atta leapt straight up at the sound. Body twisting in mid-air, she landed on her feet, hackles raised, teeth bared in a snarl. Rhys raised his emmide and whipped around to see who had spoken.
A woman stood behind him. In looks and in dress, she was extraordinary. Her hair was pale as sea foam and in constant motion, as was the green gown that rippled over her body and flowed down around her feet. She was beautiful, calm and serene as the monastery stream in midsummer, yet there was that in her gray-green eyes that told of raging floods and black ice.
She was all in darkness, yet he saw her clearly by her own inner radiance that seemed to say, “I have no need for the light of moon or stars. I am my own light, my own darkness, as I choose.”
He was in the presence of a goddess and he knew, from the strands of seashells she wore in her unkempt hair, which one.
“I need no help, I thank you, Mistress of the Sea,” Rhys said, thinking that it was strange that he should be conversing with a goddess as calmly he might have spoken to one of the village milkmaids.
Looking down at the broken pieces of his world in his hands, he thought suddenly that it was not so strange after all. “I can bury my dead myself.”
“I’m not talking about that,” said Zeboim irritably. “I am talking about Chemosh.”
Rhys knew then why she had come. He just did not know how he was to answer.
“Chemosh holds your brother in thrall,” continued the goddess.
“One of the Death God’s High Priestesses, a woman named Mina, cast a powerful spell on your brother.”
“What kind of spell?” Rhys asked.
“I—” Zeboim paused, seeming to find it difficult to go on. The admission came out with a wrench. “I don’t know,” she said sullenly. “I can’t find out. Whatever Chemosh is doing, he is taking great care to conceal it from the other gods. You could find out, monk; you being mortal.”
“And how would I discover Chemosh’s secrets better than the gods?” Rhys demanded. He put his hand to his head. The pain was seeping out of the cupboard.
“Because you are a mite, a flea, a gnat. One among millions. You can blend in with the crowd. Go here. Go there. Ask questions. The god will never notice you.”
“It seems as though you need my help, Mistress,” said Rhys wearily. “Not the other way around. Atta, come.” He turned aside, resumed his walk.
The goddess was there in front of him. “If you must know, monk, I’ve lost her. I want you to help me find her.”
Rhys stared, perplexed. His head ached so that he could scarcely think. “Her? What her?”
“Mina, of course,” said Zeboim, exasperated. “The priestess who enthralled your wretch of a brother. I told you about her. Pay attention to me. Find her and you find answers.”
“Thank you for the information, Mistress,” said Rhys. “And now I must bury my dead.”
Zeboim tilted back her head, regarded him from beneath her long lashes. A smile touched her lips. “You don’t even know who this Mina is, do you, monk?”
Rhys did not answer. Turning on his heel, he left her.
“And what do you know of the undead?” Zeboim pursued him, talking relentlessly. “Of Chemosh? He is strong and powerful and dangerous. And you have no god to guide you, protect you. You are all alone. If you agreed to work for me, I can be very generous…”
Rhys halted. Atta, cringing, crept behind his legs.
“What is you want, Mistress?”
“Your faith, your love, your service,” said Zeboim, her voice soft and low. “And get rid of the dog,” she added harshly. “I don’t like dogs.”
Rhys had a sudden vision of Majere standing before him, regarding him with an expression that was grieving, and at the same time, understanding. Majere said no word to Rhys. The path was his to walk. The choice his to make.
Rhys reached down to touch Atta’s head. “I keep the dog.” The goddess’s gray eyes flashed dangerously. “Who are you to bargain with me, maggot of a monk?”
“You know the answer to that apparently, Mistress,” Rhys returned tiredly “It was you who came to me. I will serve you,” he added, seeing her swell with rage, like the boiling black clouds of a summer storm, “so long as your interests run the same course as my own.”
“Mine do, I assure you,” said Zeboim.
She placed her hands on his face and kissed him, long and lingering, on the lips.
Rhys did not flinch, though her lips stung like salt water in a fresh wound. He did not return the kiss.
Zeboim shoved him away.
“Keep the mutt, then,” she said crossly. “Now, the first thing you must do is locate Mina. I want— Where are you going, monk? The highway lies in that direction.”
Rhys had resumed his trek back to the monastery. “I told you. I must first bury my dead.”
“You will not!” Zeboim flared. “There is no time for such foolishness. You must start upon your quest immediately!” Rhys kept walking.
A bolt of lightning streaked down from the cloudless heavens, blinding Rhys, striking so near him that it sizzled in his blood, raised the hair on his head and arms. An enormous thunder clap exploded next to him, deafening him. The ground shook and he fell to his knees. Chunks of debris rained down around them. Atta yelped and whimpered.
Zeboim pointed to a huge crater.
“There is a hole, monk. Bury your dead.”
She turned from him with a rustle of wind and a flurry of rain and was gone.
“What have I done, Atta?” Rhys groaned, pulling himself up from the ground.
By the confused look in her eyes, the dog seemed to be asking him the same question.
Rhys buried the dead in the grave provided by the goddess. He worked through the night, composing the bodies to some semblance of peace. Carrying them, one by one, from the dining hall to the gravesite. Laying them in the moist, soft earth. When all were laid to rest, he took the shovel and began to fill in the grave with dirt. The pain in his head had eased with the goddess’s kiss, a blessing he had not even noticed she had granted him until after she was gone.