When Rhys ended up breaking a mug, he realized that he was still angry at Majere and that, far from abating, his anger was being fueled by the god’s continued stubborn presence in Rhys’s life. Like some spoilt and ill-behaved child whose parents persist on coddling him no matter how much he misbehaves, Rhys did not deserve the god’s care of him; he felt guilty accepting it when he couldn’t return it.
He came to almost resent the emmide. Yesterday he had tried leaving it behind in his room, only to find he felt awkward and uncomfortable without it, almost as if he were walking through Solace naked, and Atta was so bothered by its absence (she kept halting to stare back at him with a puzzled expression), that he eventually gave up and went back to fetch it.
He had other trials of faith. Sometimes Laura would send Rhys to the market to do the daily shopping, if she was too busy to go herself. On his way, he would pass by the street known among the citizens in jest as “God’s Row.” Here the clerics of the various gods of Krynn we’re building new temples of worship to welcome back the gods who had long been absent from the world. The temple of Majere was a modest structure located about halfway up the street. Rhys would often see Majere’s clerics working in the gardens or walking about the grounds, and he was sorely tempted to enter the temple and thank Majere humbly for his care of his unworthy servant and to ask the god’s forgiveness.
Whenever he thought about doing this, whenever his feet started to carry him in that direction, Rhys would see again his brethren lying dead on the floor of the monastery, their bodies twisted in the agonies of their death throes. He would think of his brother and all those his brother had duped and murdered. Even Zeboim—cruel, arrogant, willful, and unreliable as she might be—had done more to help Rhys to find answers to his questions than the good and wise Majere. Rhys would turn away from the temple and return to the business of buying onions.
While Rhys was chopping vegetables and wrestling with his god, Nightshade roamed the streets of Solace, keeping an eye on the Beloved. Atta accompanied the kender, keeping an eye on Nightshade. Atta did not have much work to do to keep the kender honest. Nightshade was particularly inept at the time-honored and much celebrated (among kender, at least) art of “borrowing.”
“I’m all thumbs and two left feet,” Nightshade would admit quite cheerfully.
He wasn’t very good at borrowing because he wasn’t all that interested in the things that interested other kender. He wasn’t curious enough, he supposed, or rather, he was curious, just not about other people’s possessions. He was curious about their souls, especially those souls who had not yet advanced onto the next stage of their life’s journey. Nightshade had the ability to communicate with such spirits, be they lost and wandering, angry, unhappy, vengeful, or destructive. He could also, as Rhys had told Gerard, see the Beloved for what they were—walking corpses.
Sometimes, however, the kender’s hands would take on a life of their own and start to think for themselves, and then they would find their way into someone’s pocket or purse or absent-mindedly stuff a bag of kumquats down the kender’s pants’ leg or carry off a pie that was reduced to crumbs before Nightshade became conscious of the fact he hadn’t paid for it.
Atta had been taught to keep a close watch on the kender, and whenever she saw Nightshade stand too close to anyone or veer off toward the baker’s stall, the dog would swiftly interpose her body between that of the kender and the potential victim and herd the kender gently back onto the straight and narrow.
Thus it was that Nightshade was able to steer clear of the sheriff’s deputies and concentrate on his search for one of the Beloved in order to set a trap for it.
He was, unfortunately, successful.
Three days after their meeting, at about midafternoon, as Rhys was dicing potatoes, Gerard shoved open the kitchen door and thrust his head inside.
“Brother Rhys?” he called, peering through the steam. “Oh, there you are. If Laura can spare you, I’d be glad of your company.”
“Go along, Brother,” said Laura. “You’ve done work enough for six monks this day.”
“I will be back in time to help with dinner,” Rhys said.
Gerard cleared his throat. “Uh, no, you won’t, I’m afraid, Brother.”
“We’ll make do,” Laura said. As Rhys was removing his apron, she frowned at Gerard. “You take care of him, Sheriff.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Gerard, fidgeting while Rhys hung up his apron and rolled down his sleeves.
Laura wiped her face with a flour-covered hand. “I’ve seen you, Sheriff, and my brother, Palin, with your heads together, talking in whispers. You’re up to no good, sir, both of you, and I don’t want you dragging the Brother here into it.”
“No, ma’am,” said Gerard. “We’ll be careful.”
Latching onto Rhys, Gerard hustled him out of the inn.
“Everything’s ready,” he said, as they hurried down the long flight of stairs. The kender and Atta stood waiting for them at the bottom. “Nightshade’s found a candidate. We’ll set the trap tonight.”
Rhys felt chilled. He would have much preferred being back at his work in the kitchen. “What does Palin Majere have to do with this?” he asked sharply.
“Well, aside from the fact he’s the Lord Mayor of Solace and it was my duty as sheriff to inform him of any danger threatening our city, he is—or was—one of the most powerful sorcerers in Ansalon. Before that he was a White Robe mage. I wanted his advice.”
“I’ve heard he renounced the magic,” said Rhys.
“That’s true, Brother,” Gerard said, adding, with a wink, “but he hasn’t renounced those who practice it. Here we are, Nightshade. Where are you taking us?”
“Over to the bridge stairs,” said Nightshade. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Sheriff, but he’s one of the Vallenwood Guards. You probably know him. His name is Cam.”
“Cam! Damnation!” Gerard swore, his brow darkening. “Are you sure?”
Nightshade gave a solemn nod. “I’m sure.” He rested his hand on Atta’s head. “And so is she.”
Gerard swore again. “This is going to be hard!” He frowned at the kender. “I hope to heaven you’re wrong.”
“I hope so, too, sir,” said Nightshade politely, then added in a mutter beneath his breath. “But I know I’m not.”
“What is a Vallenwood Guard?” Rhys asked to distract Gerard, who was taking this news very hard.
“They guard the stairs that lead up to the walkways,” Gerard explained, pointing overhead to the narrow bridges that ran from tree branch to tree branch. This was a busy time of day and crowds of people were walking the bridges, either going to and from their treetop homes or frequenting the businesses that were built in the trees.
“With the city growing so rapidly, there came to be too many people tromping about on the bridges. They weren’t built to carry such a load. Boards came loose and fell down on people’s heads. One of the swinging bridges almost collapsed. Several ropes gave way, causing the bridge to sag suddenly. People were hanging on for dear life.
“We decided to limit the number of people who go up there. Either you have to own a house up top, in which case you’re given a pass, or you have to prove that you have business up there. The guards man the bottom of the stairs and keep track of who goes up and comes down.”
They came within sight of the wooden stairs that led up into the tree branches. Two young men, both wearing green uniforms marked by an embroidered vallenwood leaf on the breast, stood at the base of the stairs, asking people questions, and either allowing them to ascend or sending them on their way.
“That’s him,” said Nightshade, pointing his finger. “He’s one of the Beloved.”
“Which one?” Gerard asked, eyeing the kender. “There are two young men standing there. Which one is the Beloved?”