“What about Mina?”
“She’s in the kitchen with Laura learning to make bread. Keep an eye on her. Give me an hour or so and then bring her to me in the Temple.”
“Will the monks let us in?” Nightshade asked dubiously.
“All are welcome to Majere’s temple. Besides”—Rhys reached out to lightly tap the golden grasshopper the kender wore pinned to his shirt—“the god has given you his talisman. You will be an honored guest.”
“I will?” Nightshade was awed. “That’s really nice of Majere. Be sure and thank him for me. What are you going to tell your Abbott about Mina?” he asked curiously.
“The truth,” Rhys said.
Nightshade shook his head dolefully. “Good luck with that. I hope Majere’s monks aren’t too mad at you for being Zeboim’s monk for a while.”
Rhys could have explained that while the monks might be sad and disappointed at his failings, they would never be mad. He realized that this concept could be difficult for his friend to understand, and he didn’t have time to explain. He was in haste to go the Temple, to beg for forgiveness for his sins and turn for help to those wiser than himself. He was looking forward to being able to rest and find peace in the blessed, contemplative quiet.
Rhys had not forgotten Gerard, however, and as he was walking down the town’s main street, cool beneath the dappling shadows of the vallenwood’s leaves, he stopped to speak to one of the town guards.
Rhys asked where he could find the sheriff and was told that Gerard was most likely in Temple Row.
“Some sort of trouble broke out there this morning, or so I heard,” the guard added.
Rhys thanked the guard for the information and continued on. Rounding a corner, he saw crowds of people—many of them bruised and bloodied—being escorted out of Temple Row by the city guard, who were pushing and shoving at stragglers and yelling at gawkers to “move along.” Rhys waited until the crowds had thinned, then he made his way toward the entrance to Temple Row. Several guards eyed him askance, but, seeing his orange robes, they permitted him to pass.
He found Gerard assigning guards, giving them orders. Rhys waited quietly until Gerard had finished and was starting to move off, before addressing him.
“Sheriff—” Rhys began.
“Not now!” Gerard snapped brusquely, and kept walking.
“Gerard,” Rhys said, and this time Gerard recognized his voice and, halting, turned to face him.
The sheriff was red in the face; his corn colored hair was standing all on end, for he was in the habit of running his hands through it when under duress. His intense blue eyes were narrow, their expression grim. That expression did not change when he saw Rhys. Rather it intensified.
“You,” Gerard growled. “I might have known.”
“It is good to see you, too, my friend,” said Rhys.
Gerard opened his mouth, then shut it again. His face flushed redder. He looked ashamed and reached out his hand to clasp Rhys’ hand and give it a remorseful shake.
“Forgive me. It is good to see you, Brother.” Gerard gave Rhys a rueful smile. “It’s just whenever there’s trouble involving the gods, you always seem to turn up.”
Rhys was trying to think how to answer this, but Gerard didn’t wait for a reply.
“Have you had breakfast?” The sheriff sounded and looked tired. “I’m on my way to the Inn. You could join me.” He glanced around.
“Where’s your friend Nightshade? And Atta? Nothing’s happened to them, has it?”
“They are both fine. They are at the Inn. I just came from there. I was on my way to the Temple of Majere to pay my respects, but I saw the turmoil and I find you here. You say there has been trouble. What happened?”
“Only a small riot,” said Gerard dryly. “There’s been discord brewing for some time now. The clerics and priests of all the gods have started snarling and snapping at each other like dogs over a bone. This morning a cleric of Chemosh got into a knock-down drag-out with a priest of Zeboim. Supporters from both sides rushed to help, and before long there was a pitched battle. To make matters worse, three of Kiri-Jolith’s paladins took it upon themselves to try to break up the fight. At the sight of the paladins, the clerics of Zeboim and Chemosh stopped fighting each other and turned on the paladins. That brought the clerics of Mishakal to their aid. And since Reorx’s worshippers like nothing better than a good brawl, they got into it, whaling on anyone they could find.
“Finally, that got boring, apparently, and someone suggested this was all Gilean’s fault and they should set fire to his temple. They were headed that direction with torches blazing when I arrived with my guards. We cracked a few heads and arrested the rest and that ended the altercation. I’ll let the holy fathers cool their heels in jail, then set them loose with a fine for disturbing the peace and destruction of property.”
“How did the fight start?” Rhys asked. “Do you know what the quarrel was about?”
“The clerics of Chemosh refused to say. Creepy bastards. I think it was a mistake to allow them to build a temple here, but Palin Majere insisted that it is not up to us to decree which gods people choose to worship. He said that so long as Chemosh’s clerics and followers don’t break the law they can have their temple. So far, they’ve behaved. Chemosh’s clerics haven’t been raising the dead or raiding graveyards—at least that I know of.
“As for Zeboim, her priests were eager to talk. They’re telling everyone that Chemosh is trying to take over as leader of the Gods of Darkness. What beats me is that all the clerics, even those of Kiri-Jolith, harbor resentment against Gilean. I have no idea why. His Aesthetics never take their noses out of their books.”
Gerard eyed Rhys. “For months, these priests and clerics have gone about their business peacefully enough and then within the space of a fortnight, they’re at each other’s throats. And now you show up. You’re personally acquainted with Zeboim. Something’s amiss in Heaven. What is it—another War of Souls?”
Rhys was silent.
“Uh, huh. I knew it.” Gerard heaved a sigh and ran his hand through his hair. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“I would, my friend, and gladly, but it is extremely complicated—”
“More complicated than the goddess hauling you off to fight a death knight?” Gerard asked, half-joking and half-not.
“I’m afraid so,” said Rhys. “In fact, I am on my way to discuss the situation with the Abbot of my order to seek his advice and counsel. If you would like to accompany me—”
Gerard shook his head emphatically. “No thank you, Brother. I’ve had my fill of priests today. You go pray, and I’ll go eat. I suppose Atta’s keeping an eye on that kender of yours? I don’t want a riot to break out in the Inn.”
“Atta is with him, and I told Nightshade to meet me at the Temple.” Rhys glanced uncertainly at the guards patrolling the temple district. “Will your men let him pass?”
“The guards are here to keep an eye on things, not to prohibit anyone from going to the temples. Though if this violence breaks out again…” Gerard shook his head. “Let’s meet at my home tonight, then, Brother. I’ll fix my famous stewed chicken, and you can tell me what your Abbot says.”
“I would like that,” said Rhys. “Thank you. One other thing,” he added, as Gerard was about to depart. “What do you know of the name ‘Beckard’s Cut’?”
Gerard’s face darkened. “Don’t you recall your history lessons, Brother?”
“Not very well, I am afraid,” Rhys replied.
“Beckard’s Cut was a dark day in the annals of Krynn,” Gerard said. “The forces of the Dark Knights of Neraka were about to lose the siege of Sanction. They were in full retreat, heading into a narrow mountain pass called Beckard’s Cut. The leader of the Dark Knights gave orders for the archers to fire on their own men. They obeyed the command, firing hundreds of arrows at point blank range into their own comrades. The bodies of the fallen stacked up like cordwood, so they say, blocking the pass. The Solamnics were forced to retreat and that was the beginning of the end for us.”