“I don’t see what difference it makes,” Lucy said, between her own kisses.
Lleu brushed her lips with his own. “Because, my sweet, I will live forever, as I am now—young, vibrant, handsome—” She giggled. “You are so vain!”
“You, on the other hand, will grow old. Your hair will turn gray. Your skin will wrinkle and your teeth fall out.”
“You wouldn’t love me then,” Lucy said, faltering.
“You will die, Lucy,” Lleu said softly, stroking her cheek with his hand. “And I will be alive and healthy and needing someone to share my bed …”
“And if I worship Chemosh, he will keep me young and beautiful?” Lucy asked. “Forever and always?”
“Forever and always,” said Lleu. “And that is how long I will love you.”
“Well, then,” said Lucy with a laugh, “I give my soul to Chemosh!”
“You will not regret it, my love,” said Lleu.
He pulled down her bodice, exposing her breasts that were white in the moonlight. She sighed and shivered and put her hand on his head, drew him down to kiss her soft flesh. He pressed his lips against her left breast, gripped her tightly in his arms.
“Lleu,” Lucy said, her tone changing. “Lleu, you’re hurting me— Ah!”
She gave a piercing scream and struggled in his arms. Lleu held her fast. Her scream swelled to an agonized shriek. Her body jerked and twitched. Rhys jumped to his feet and raced toward the couple, with Nightshade dashing along behind.
“She’s dying!” cried the kender. “He’s killing her! Her spirit light’s fading.”
The young woman shuddered, her body stiffened, and then she went limp.
Rhys grasped hold of Lleu, pulled him off her and flung him aside. Kneeling down on the ground, he gathered up the body of the young woman in his arms, hoping to feel yet some spark of life.
“Too late,” Lleu said coolly. He rose to his feet, looked down at the dead woman dispassionately, as upon a job well done. “She belongs to Chemosh now.”
The woman was no longer breathing. Her eyes were empty and unknowing. Rhys felt for the lifebeat in her neck, found none. On her breast, burned into her flesh, was the imprint of his brother’s lips.
“Majere,” Rhys prayed. “She didn’t know what she was saying. Have mercy on her. Restore her to life!”
Rhys shifted position slightly. The woman’s head lolled to one side. Her flaccid arm slid off his knee and fell limply to the ground. Rhys listened for the voice of the god.
“Do not punish this innocent woman because of me, Lord!” Rhys begged. “Her death is my fault! I could have saved her, as I could have saved my brothers.”
There came no answer. The only sound was Lieu’s scornful laughter.
“Zeboim,” Rhys cried, his voice harsh. “Grant this poor woman her life.”
An echo of his brother’s scornful laugh came back to him from out the shadows of the trees.
Rhys gently lowered the woman’s body onto the ground.
“Her spirit’s gone,” said Nightshade. “I’m sorry, Rhys. There’s nothing can be done. I’m afraid your brother may be right. Chemosh has her.”
Rising to his feet, Rhys faced his brother. “I didn’t want to do this, Lleu, but you have left me no choice. You are my prisoner. I’m going to take you to the authorities. You’ll be charged with murder. I want you to come with me quietly. I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will, if necessary.” •
Lleu shrugged. “I’ll come with you willingly, brother. But I think you’re going to find it hard to make that charge of murder stick.”
“Why is that?” Rhys asked grimly.
“Because there has been no murder,” said a voice behind him, with a giggle.
Lucy scrambled to her feet and ran over to stand beside Lleu. She clasped her arms around him, pressed up against him. Her hair was disheveled, her bodice undone. Rhys could still see the mark—red and fiery—of Lieu’s lips on her breast, that rose and fell with the breath of life. She regarded Rhys with mocking laughter in her eyes.
“I am alive, monk,” she said. “Better than ever.”
“You were dead,’ said Rhys, his throat constricting. “You died in my arms.”
“Maybe I did,” Lucy returned archly, “but who will believe you? No one. No one in the whole wide world.”
“Do you want me to come with you to the sheriff, brother?” Lleu asked. “I can introduce him to a couple of other young women I’ve met during my time in Solace. Women who now understand and embrace the ways of Chemosh.”
Rhys was starting to understand, though the understanding was so horrendous that he found it difficult to accept.
“You are dead,” he said.
“No, brother, I am one of the Beloved of Chemosh,” said Lleu. He and Lucy both laughed.
“I tried to explain all to you once, Rhys, but you wouldn’t listen. Now, you see it for yourself. Look at Lucy. She is beautiful, blooming, radiant. Does she look dead to you? Show him, Lucy.”
The young woman advanced upon Rhys, hips swaying, her eyes half-shut, her lips parted provocatively. “Your brother is envious, Lleu. He wants me for himself.”
“He’s all yours, my dove,” said Lleu. “Have fun—”
Lucy continued to advance, her head thrown back, her lashes half-closed, her lips parted.
“Kill her!” said Nightshade suddenly.
Rhys fell back a pace. He could not take his eyes from her, the woman who had died in his arms, and who was now fondling him with a flirtatious smile.
“Kill her and kill him, too,” said Nightshade urgently. “According to Lleu, they can’t be killed,” Rhys said. “Besides, there’s been too much death already.”
Lucy took hold of the collar of Rhys’s robes, slid her hands beneath it.
“You have never lain with a woman, have you, monk? Wouldn’t you like to find out what you’ve been missing all these years?”
Rhys thrust aside her clutching hands, shoved her away.
“You have to try to kill them,” said Nightshade, relentless, “or they’ll do murder again.”
“A monk of Majere does not kill . .” Rhys said softly.
“You’re not a monk,” Nightshade returned brutally, “and if you were, it doesn’t matter. They’re already dead!”
“I can’t be sure of that.” Rhys shook his head.
“Yes, you can! Look in her eyes, Rhys! Look in her eyes!”
Rhys looked into the girl’s eyes. He saw not emptiness, as he had seen in his brother’s eyes, but something more terrible. He had seen such a look once before and he tried to recall where.
Then it came to him—the eyes of a starving wolf. Driven by hunger, desperate to feed, the animal’s need overrode every other instinct, including fear. Rhys had been armed with two flaming torches. Atta tore at the wolf’s flank with her teeth. The wolf had gone straight for Rhys’s throat …
He saw the truth of the kender’s words in Lucy’s eyes. She would kill again to satisfy that desperate need. Again and again…
Rhys lifted the emmide and jabbed it straight into the girl’s forehead. Her head snapped back and he heard, quite clearly, the neck bone crack. She slumped to the ground, her head twisted at an odd angle. Rhys whipped around to face his brother.
Lleu lounged against a tree, his arms folded across his chest, watching the proceedings with a smile.
Rhys gripped the staff and started to advance on his brother. “Look out! Behind you!” Nightshade’s voice rose shrilly. Rhys turned, stared, horrified.
Lucy walked toward him, hips swaying, lips parted, hands outstretched.
“Chemosh will have your soul,” she said to him, laughing, lilting. Her head was at an odd angle from where he’d broken her neck. With a twist and a jerk, she righted it and kept coming. “Whether you will it or not.”
He could hear, behind him, the scraping of Lieu’s sword sliding from its scabbard. Rhys faced Lucy, holding her at bay with the emmide, his eyes watching her while his ears kept track of Lieu’s movements. Nightshade was yammering some-thing and waving his hands, as though he was casting some sort of magic spell. Rhys wished the kender would be quiet. He heard a rustle in the grass, a crackle of brown pine needles, and Lieu’s sudden, indrawn breath.