“What would you say, Sheriff, if I told you that my brother was a murderer?” Rhys asked. His staff thumped the ground, sending up little spurts of mud and water every time it struck. “That he killed a young woman in Solace night before last.”
Gerard put out his hand, caught Rhys by the shoulder, and spun him around. The sheriff’s face was red, his blue eyes flaring.
“What? What woman? What in hell do you mean by telling me this now, Brother? What do you mean letting him get away? By the gods, I’ll hang you in his place—”
“The woman’s name is Lucy,” said Rhys. “Lucy Wheelwright.”
Gerard stared at him. “Lucy Wheelwright? Why, Brother, you’re daft. I saw her alive and well as you are this morning. She and her husband. I asked them what they were doing up so early, and she said they were off to one of the neighboring villages in the east to visit a cousin.”
Gerard’s gaze narrowed, hardened. “Is this some sort of joke, Brother? Because if so, it isn’t funny.”
“I apologize if I upset you, Sheriff,” Rhys said quietly. “I merely posed it as a hypothetical question.”
Gerard eyed Rhys. “Don’t do it again. You nearly got yourself throttled. Here we are. Not much to look at it, but it gets the job done.”
Rhys barely glanced at the building that was located on the outskirts of the city. It looked more like a military barracks than it did a prison, and in this, Rhys recognized the hand of Gerard, the former Solamnic knight.
Gerard led the way inside the structure that was made of wood covered with plaster. Numerous small iron-barred windows, no larger than man’s fist, dotted the walls. There was only one door, only one way in or out, and it was guarded twenty-four hours a day. Gerard nodded to the guards as he led Rhys into the prison.
“One of the prisoners has asked to see you,” said Gerard.
“Asked to see me?” Rhys repeated, startled. “I don’t understand.”
“Me neither,” muttered Gerard. He was still in a bad humor, still annoyed by Rhys’s earlier pronouncement. “Especially as this person is also a stranger here in Solace. Asked for you by name. I sent over to the Inn, but you’d already left.”
Taking a key from the jailer, Gerard led Rhys down a long corridor lined with doors on either side. The prison had the usual prison stench, though it was cleaner than most Rhys had seen. One large open cell was filled entirely with kender, who waved merrily as the sheriff passed by and called out in cheerful tones to ask when they would be set free. Gerard growled something unintelligible and continued down the corridor past more large open cells that he termed holding pens.
“Places where drunks can sleep it off, couples can get over their spats, con artists can cool their heels.”
Rounding a corner, he entered a corridor lined with wooden doors.
“These are our private cells,” he said. “For the more dangerous prisoners.”
He thrust a key into the iron padlock on a cell door, turned the lock, and as the door opened, he added, “And the lunatics.”
A ray of sunshine slanted through the small window, leaving most of the cell in shadow. At first Rhys saw nothing in the cell except a bed, a slop bucket, and a stool. He was about to tell Gerard that the cell was empty, then he heard a rustling sound. Huddled in a corner of the cell, crouched in the darkest part of the cell, was a dark and shapeless bundle of clothes that he assumed held a person. He could not tell for certain, for he could not see a face.
“I am Rhys,” he said, stepping inside the cell. He did not feel fear, only pity for the person’s obvious misery. “The sheriff says that you asked to see me.”
“Tell him to leave us,” said the person in a muffled voice, the face still hidden. “And close the door.”
“Nothing doing,” said Gerard firmly. “Like I said—crazy.” He rolled his eyes and wiggled his fingers around his temples. “I am capable of taking care of myself, Sheriff,” said Rhys with a faint smile. “Please…”
“Well, all right,” Gerard said reluctantly. “But five minutes. That’s it. I’ll be down the corridor. If you need me, yell.”
Gerard shut the cell door behind him. The room grew darker. The air was stuffy and smelled of rain. Rhys propped his staff against the wall, then ventured closer to the prisoner. He knelt down beside the shapeless bundle.
“What can I do to help?” he asked gently.
A beautiful and shapely hand slid out of the bundle of black robes. The hand grasped hold of Rhys’s arm. Sharp nails dug into his flesh. Sea green eyes glittered, and a voice hissed from the shadows of the cowl.
“Slay Ausric Krell,” said Zeboim, hissing the name in venomous hatred, “and save my son.”
4
Zeboim’s eyes shone with a wild and lurid light. Her face was earthly pale, her cheeks marred by bloody scratches, as though she had clawed herself. Her lips were cracked and rimed with a white powder, like sea salt or perhaps the salt of her tears.
“Majesty?” Rhys said, bewildered. “What are you doing in this place? In prison? Are you … are you ill?”
He knew that was a stupid question, but the situation was so bizarre and unreal that he was having trouble ordering his thoughts and he said the first thing that came into his head.
“Gods, why do I bother with you mortals!” cried Zeboim. She gave him a shove that flung him off-balance, sent him toppling sideways. Then, casting her cowl over her head, she hid her face in her hands and began to sob.
Rhys gazed grimly at the goddess. He did not know which he was more inclined to do—comfort her or shake her until her immortal teeth rattled.
“What are you doing here, Majesty, in a prison cell?” he asked.
No answer. The goddess sobbed stormily.
He tried again. “Why did you send for me?”
“Because I need your help, damn it!” she cried in tear-muffled tones.
“And I need yours, Majesty,” Rhys said. “I have discovered some profoundly disturbing things about these followers of Chemosh. I have prayed to you countless times in the past few days and you have not answered me. All of these disciples are dead. They appear to be alive, but they are not. They go out among the living and trick innocent young people into proclaiming their loyalty to Chemosh, and then they murder—”
“Chemosh!” Zeboim raised her swollen and tear-streaked face to glare at him. “Chemosh is behind this, you know. That steel-plated idiot Krell could not have come up with this on his own. Not that it matters. Not that any of it matters. My son. He is all that matters.”
“Majesty, please try to control yourself—”
Zeboim sprang up suddenly, seized hold of Rhys’s arms, clutched at him with both hands. “You must save him, monk! They’ll destroy him, otherwise. I can do nothing …” Her voice rose to a shriek. “You must save him!”
“Are you all right, Brother?” Gerard called, his voice echoing down the long corridor.
“All is well, Sheriff,” Rhys returned hastily. “Give me just a few more moments.”
He took hold of Zeboim’s hands, pressed them tightly. He spoke to her in soothing tones, his voice low and firm. “You need to explain to me what is the matter, Majesty. I cannot help you if I don’t know what you are talking about. We don’t have much time.”
Zeboim drew in a sobbing breath. “You are right, monk. I will be calm. I promise. I have to be. I must be.”
She began to pace about the prison cell, beating her hands together as she spoke.
“My son, Lord Ariakan. Yes, I know he’s dead,” she added, forestalling the question on Rhys’s lips. “My son died long ago in the Chaos War.” Her hands clenched to fists. “He died due to the treachery, the perfidy of a man he trusted. A man he had raised up from the muck—”