“Who was the leader of the Dark Knights?” Rhys asked, though he knew the answer.
“That female fiend, Mina,” Gerard replied grimly. “I’ll see you tonight, Brother.”
Gerard went on his way, heading back down the street toward the Inn of the Last Home.
Rhys watched him go. He wondered if the sheriff would run into Mina and, if so, would he recognize her and what would happen if he did?
I was a fool to bring up Beckard’s Cut, Rhys chided himself. Now he will be thinking about Mina. Perhaps I should go back…
Rhys looked at the green, tree-shaded grounds of Majere’s temple and he felt strongly impelled to go there, as if Majere’s hand had hold of his sleeve and was pulling him in that direction. Still Rhys stood undecided. He feared his own heart was leading him, not the hand of the god.
Rhys longed for the peaceful solitude, the tranquil serenity. At last he gave in, either to the command of the god or the wishes of his soul. He was in need of the Abbot’s advice. If Gerard did recognize Mina and came to Rhys, demanding to know what in the name of heaven was going on, Rhys trusted the Abbot would be able to explain.
The Temple of Majere was a simple structure made of blocks of polished red-orange granite. Unlike the grand temple of Kiri-Jolith, there were no marble columns or ornate ornamentation. The door of Majere’s temple was made of oak and had no lock upon it, as did the door to the temple of Hiddukel, who, being a patron of thieves, was constantly fearful that someone would steal from him. There were no stained glass windows, as in the beautiful temple of Mishakal. The windows of Majere’s temple had no glass at all. The temple was open to the air, open to the sun and the sound of birdsong, open to the wind and rain and cold.
When Rhys set foot upon the well-worn path that led through the temple gardens, where the priests grew their own food, to the plain wooden door, the strength that had kept him going for so long suddenly drained out of him. Tears flowed from his eyes, as love and gratitude flowed from his heart for the god who had never lost faith in him, though he had lost faith in his god.
As Rhys entered the Temple, the cool shadows washed over him, soothing and blessing him. He asked a priest if he could beg an audience with the Abbot. The priest carried his request to the Abbot, who immediately left his meditation and came to invite Rhys to his office.
“Welcome, Brother,” said the Abbot, clasping his hand. “I understand you want to speak to me. How may I help?”
Rhys stared, struck dumb with amazement. The Abbot was an older man, as Abbots tended to be, for with age comes wisdom. He was well-muscled and strong, for all priests and monks of Majere—even Abbots—are required to practice daily the martial arts skills termed “merciful discipline.” Rhys had never been in this temple or any other temple of Majere besides his own, he had never been met this man, yet Rhys knew him, recognized him from somewhere. Rhys glanced down at the Abbot’s hand, which was holding his own, and noticed a white, jagged scar marring the brown, weathered skin.
Rhys had a sudden vivid memory of a city street, of priests of Majere accosting him, of Atta attacking them with slashing teeth and a priest drawing back a bleeding hand…
The Abbot stood quietly, patiently, waiting for Rhys to speak.
“Forgive me, Holiness!” Rhys said, guilt-stricken.
“I do forgive you, of course, Brother,” said the Abbot, then he added with a smile, “but it would be good to know what for.”
“I attacked you,” said Rhys, wondering how the Abbot could have forgotten. “It was in the city of New Port. I had become a follower of the Goddess Zeboim. You and the six brothers who were with you sought to reason with me, to bring me back to the Temple and my worship of Majere. I… could not. A young woman was in terrible danger and I had pledged to safeguard her and…”
Rhys’ voice faltered.
The Abbot was gently shaking his head. “Brother, I have traveled over much of Ansalon, but I have never been in New Port.”
“But you were, Holiness,” Rhys insisted, and he pointed. “That scar on your hand. My dog bit you.”
The Abbot looked down at his hand. He seemed mystified for a moment, then his expression cleared. He gazed at Rhys intently. “You are Rhys Mason.”
“Yes, Holiness,” said Rhys, relieved. “You do remember…”
“Quite the contrary,” said the Abbot mildly, “I have long wondered how I came by this scar. I woke one morning to find it on my hand. I was puzzled, for I had no memory of having injured myself.”
“But you know me, Holiness,” said Rhys, bewildered. “You know my name.”
“I do, Brother,” said the Abbot, and he extended his scarred hand to clasp Rhys by the shoulder. “And this time, Brother Rhys, if I urge you to pray to Majere and seek his counsel and forgiveness, you won’t set your dog on me, will you?”
In answer, Rhys sank to his knees and opened his heart to his god.
4
The riot in Temple Row that morning had been staged. The fight had been carefully planned by the clerics of Chemosh on orders from the Bone Acolyte, Ausric Krell, in order to test the reaction of the sheriff and the town guard. How many men would be sent in, how would they be armed, where would they be deployed? Krell learned a great deal, and he now made ready to put his knowledge to good use in the service of his master.
Chemosh had been considerably disconcerted to discover that Mina had transformed her aspect into that of a little girl. True, Krell had told him that she was now a child, but then, Krell was an idiot. Chemosh still believed Mina was acting a part, behaving like some spurned bar wench lashing out at a faithless lover. If he could just take her away some place private, some place where she wasn’t being hounded by monks or other gods, he was certain he could convince her to come back to him. He would admit to her that he’d been wrong—isn’t that what mortal men did? There would be flowers and candlelight, jewelry and soft music, and she would melt in his arms. Mina would be his consort, and he would be the head of the Dark Pantheon.
As for this nonsense about her wanting to go to Godshome, Chemosh didn’t believe a word of it. That was some ploy of Majere’s. The blasted monk must have put the idea into her head. The monk must therefore be removed.
Chemosh was under no illusions. Gilean would take strong exception to the Lord of Death abducting Mina. The God of the Book had threatened retaliation on any god who interfered with her, but Chemosh was not overly concerned. Gilean could lecture and threaten all he wanted; he would not be able to punish Chemosh. Gilean lacked the support of the other gods, most of whom were busy with their own plans and schemes to lure Mina to their side.
The most dangerous of these gods was Sargonnas. He had some nefarious plot in the works—of that Chemosh was certain. His spies had reported that an elite troop of minotaur soldiers had been dispatched to an unknown location on some sort of secret mission. Chemosh might have thought nothing of this; the God of Vengeance was always scheming and plotting. But this troop was under the command of a minotaur named Galdar—former compatriot and close friend of Mina. Coincidence? Chemosh did not think so. He had to act and he had to act fast.
Chemosh had ordered Krell and his Bone Warriors to accost the monk while they were on the road. Chemosh was not so consumed by his desire for Mina that he had forgotten the holy artifacts the monk carried. He had ordered Krell to search the monk’s body and bring anything he found to him. Krell had set up an ambush on the road, but before he could attack the party, Mina had thwarted Chemosh’s plans by racing to Solace with the speed of a comet.