Zeboim regarded the proffered objects with disdain. “A smelly leather sack or a stick. I want neither, thank you.”
They passed the temple of Majere. Seeing Rhys walking with a woman, the clerics knew he was not one of theirs and went back to the chores. Ahead was the temple to Zeboim, a modest structure made of drift wood hauled here from the shores of New Sea, decorated with sea shells. Before they reached the doorway, Zeboim halted and turned to face him.
“Your gift to your goddess will be a kiss.”
Rhys took hold of her hand, and respectfully pressed it to his lips.
Zeboim slapped him across the cheek. The blow was hard, left him with burning skin and an aching jaw.
“How dare you mock me?” she demanded, seething.
“I do not mock you, Majesty,” Rhys returned quietly. “I show my respect for you, as I would hope you have respect for me and the vows I have taken—vows of poverty and chastity.”
“Vows to another god!” Zeboim said scornfully.
“Vows to myself, Majesty,” said Rhys.
“What do I care about your silly vows? Nor do I want your respect!” Zeboim raged. “I am to be feared, adored!”
Rhys did not flinch before her, nor did he touch his stinging cheek. Zeboim grew suddenly calm, dangerously calm, as the seas will go smooth and flat before the storm.
“You are an insolent and obdurate man. I put up with you for one reason, monk. Woe betide you if you fail me!”
The goddess departed, leaving Rhys feeling as drained as if he’d come from the field of battle. Zeboim did not want a follower. She wanted to capture him, take him prisoner, force him to work for her like a chained-up galley-slave. Rhys had one weapon to use to keep her at a distance and that was discipline—discipline of body, discipline of mind. Zeboim had no understanding of this and did not know how to fight it. He infuriated her, yet he intrigued her. Rhys knew, however, that the time would come when the fickle goddess would cease to be intrigued and would give way to her fury.
At the far end of the street, Rhys could see the broken-down temple of Chemosh, the ruins of which were strewn among a patch of weeds. Rhys had no need to go there, since he now knew where to find Lleu, but he decided to pay a visit to the temple anyway. Rhys had all night to find Lleu, who would not soon leave the tavern. He turned his steps toward the temple of the God of Death.
Perhaps it was the influence of the god, or perhaps it was merely Rhys’s imagination, but it seemed to him that the shadows of coming night clustered more thickly around the temple than other parts of the street. He would need a light to investigate and he had no lantern with him. He returned to the shrine of Zeboim. He saw no sign of priest or priestess. No one answered his repeated calls. Several candles, standing in holders fashioned to look like wooden boats, burned on the altar—gifts to Zeboim made in hopes that she would watch over those who sailed the seas or traveled the inland waterways.
“You said I never asked you for anything, Majesty,” Rhys said to the goddess. “I ask you now. Grant me the gift of light.”
Rhys removed one of the candles from the altar and carried it outdoors. A puff of wind caused the flame to waver and nearly go out, but the goddess relented, and candle in hand, Rhys went to investigate the temple of Chemosh.
Chunks of fallen stone lay upon crumbling stairs. Rhys had to climb over them to gain the door, only to find that it was blocked by a pillar. He squeezed his way inside through a crack in the wall. The temple floor was littered with debris and dust. Weeds and grass poked up through the cracks. The altar was cracked and overgrown with bind-weed. Any objects sacred to the god had been carried off either by his priests or looters or both. The prints of Rhys’s bare feet were the only prints in the dust. He held the flame high, looked searchingly all around the temple. No one had been here in a long, long while.
Carrying the candle back to the shrine of Zeboim, Rhys placed it in its little wooden boat and gave his thanks to the goddess. He turned his footsteps toward the path that would take him to the Trough.
“Whatever Chemosh is doing in the world, he is not interested in building monuments,” Rhys remarked to himself as he walked past the beautiful temple, all done in white marble, of Mishakal.
He found that thought disturbing, more disturbing than if he’d come upon a group of black-robed priests skulking about inside the temple walls, raising up corpses by the score. The Lord of Death was no longer hiding in the shadows. He was out in the sunlight, walking among the living, recruiting followers like the wretched Lleu.
But to what end? To what purpose?
Rhys had no idea. Once he found his brother, he hoped he would gain answers.
“Rhys, hullo!” Nightshade appeared out of the twilight, came running up to him. “They told me back at the inn where you were going so I thought I’d come with you. Where’s Atta?”
“I left her at the Inn,” said Rhys.
“The people are nice there,” Nightshade commented. “A lot of places won’t let me in, but the lady who runs the Inn—you know, the plump, pretty woman with the red hair—anyway, she told me that she’s partial to kender. One of her father’s best friends was a kender.”
“Were you able to help the widow contact her husband?” Rhys asked.
“I tried.” Nightshade shook his head. “His soul had already passed on to the next part of his journey. If you’ll believe it, she was hopping mad. She said she figured he’d gone off with some floozy. I tried to explain that it didn’t work that way, that his soul was off broadening its horizons. She said ‘broad’ was the right word for it; he’d always been one for the ladies. She’s going to marry the baker and that would fix him. She didn’t give me any money, but she did take me to meet the baker and he gave me a meat-pie.”
The two made their way through the streets, leaving behind the bustling and busy part of Solace and entering into a part that was dark and dismal. There were no shops and only a scattering of tumble-down houses from which dim lights shone. Few people walked in this part of town by night. Occasionally they met some straggler, hurrying along the deserted street, keeping his head low and looking neither to the right nor the left, as if fearful of what he might see. Rhys was just starting to think that perhaps he’d taken a wrong turn, for it seemed they had reached the end of the civilized world, when he smelled wood smoke and saw flickering firelight streaming through a window. Loud voices raised in a bawdy song.
“I think we found it,” said Nightshade.
The original Trough was long gone. It and several later incarnations of the tavern had burnt to the ground. First the kitchen had caught fire. The next time it had been the chimney. Once a band of drunken draconians had set fire to the tavern when confronted with what they considered to be an unreasonable bill, and once the owner had set fire to it himself for reasons that were never very clear. Each time it had been rebuilt, using money said to be supplied by the hill dwarves, for it was one of the few places remaining in Abanasinia where one could buy the potent liquor known as dwarf spirits.
The tavern lurked in the thick shadows of a grove of trees near the edge of the road and had few distinguishing characteristics. Even when Rhys was close to it, he could get no clear impression of the building, except that it was long and low, rickety and unstable. It did boast a single window in the front. The glass for the window must have cost more than the entire building and Rhys wondered why the owner bothered. As it turned out, the window was not there for aesthetic purposes, but so those inside could keep on an eye on those outside and if necessary make a quick dash for the back door.
Rhys placed his hand on the iron door handle, noting it had a greasy feel to it, and leaned down to say in a low voice to the kender, “I do not think you’re going to find much work here. It would be best if you did not seek to offer your services for contacting the dead.”