“The one with the red, curly hair and the freckles,” Nightshade answered promptly.
“That’s Cam, all right,” Gerard said with a sigh. “Dammit to the Abyss and back again!”
“I’m sorry,” Nightshade said. “He has a really nice smile. He must have been a good guy.”
“He is,” said Gerard glumly, “or rather, was. What about you, Brother? Can you verify the kender’s claim?”
“If Nightshade says he is one of the Beloved, then I take his word for it,” Rhys replied.
“What about Atta?” Gerard asked.
They all looked down at the dog. She stood alertly at Rhys’s side, and they could all see her gaze was fixed on the red-haired young guard who was chatting and laughing with two girls. A low growl rumbled in her chest. One corner of her lip curled.
“She agrees with Nightshade,” said Rhys.
Gerard glowered. “Forgive me, Brother, but you’re asking me to trust the word of a kender and the growl of a dog. I’d feel better if I had your opinion. I know young Cam, and I know his parents. They’re good people. If I’m going to have to apprehend him, I want to know for sure he’s one of these Beloved.”
Rhys stood, unmoving. “I am not at all certain I like this, Sheriff. What kind of trap are you proposing we set?”
Gerard didn’t answer. Instead he gestured over to where young Cam was talking and laughing with the young women.
“He may be arranging to meet one of those girls this very night, Brother.”
Rhys still hesitated, then said, “Take Atta away. If she sees me going near one of the Beloved, she might attack him. I will meet you back at the inn.”
When Atta was out of sight, Rhys gripped his staff and walked over to the stairs. He knew what he was going to find. Neither Nightshade nor Atta had ever been wrong before. He walked up to the young man, just as he and the young women burst into laughter.
Seeing Rhys approach, Cam turned from his flirting to attend to his duty.
“Good afternoon, Brother,” he said, giving Rhys an engaging smile. “What is your business up top?”
Rhys looked directly into the young man’s green eyes.
He saw no light, only shadows—shadows of hope unfulfilled, shadows of a future that would never come to pass.
“Are you unwell, Brother?” asked Cam, placing a solicitous hand on Rhys’s arm. “You don’t look good. Perhaps you should sit here in the shade and rest. I could bring you some water.. . .”
“Thank you,” said Rhys, “but that will not be necessary. I will rest a moment here where it is cool.”
Several vendors had put up stalls near the bridge stairs to take advantage of the near-constant traffic. This included an enterprising seller of meat pies, who had set up tables and benches for the convenience of his customers. The two young women with whom Cam was talking were supposed to be selling ribbons from their stall, though at the moment they were doing more giggling than trade.
“Suit yourself, Brother,” said Cam, and he turned back to his conversation with the young women.
Ignoring the glares and pointed remarks of the meat pie vendor, who did not like non-paying customers taking up table space, Rhys sat on the bench and listened to the conversation Cam was having with the two girls. He did not need to listen long. One arranged to meet Cam this very night.
Rhys rose to his feet and took his departure, much to the gratification of the meat pie vendor, who bustled over quickly to where the shabby monk had been sitting and dusted off the bench.
6
Rhys found Gerard and Nightshade standing outside the inn in the company of two people, both of them strangers to Rhys.
“Well, Brother?” Gerard asked.
Rhys had no need to answer. Gerard could tell by the expression on Rhys’s face that the news wasn’t good. He swore and angrily kicked at a clod of dirt with the toe of his boot.
“The young man arranged to meet one of the young women at a place called Flint’s Lookout tonight, an hour after Darkfall,” Rhys reported.
“We can discuss business later. You forget that I await the pleasure of an introduction, Sheriff,” said one of the two strangers.
“Mistress Jenna, Head of the Conclave of Wizards,” said Gerard, “and this gentleman is Dominique Helmsman, Holy Warrior of Kiri-Jolith. Brother Rhys Mason, former monk of Majere.”
“Former monk?” repeated Mistress Jenna with a quirk of her eyebrow.
A woman in her later years, Mistress Jenna was still alluring, still able to fascinate. Her eyes were large and lustrous; the fine lines around the eyes seemed to fade in the light of their splendor. She was dressed in red velvet robes trimmed with gold and silver. Jewels sparkled on her fingers. The pouches she wore at her waist were made of the finest leather, hand-painted with fanciful flowers and beasts. A very fine emerald hung from a golden chain around her neck. Mistress Jenna was not only one of the most powerful wizards on Ansalon, she was also one of the wealthiest.
“I’ve never met a ‘former’ monk of Majere before,” she continued archly, “and you must explain why your robes are a rather unusual shade of green.”
Rhys bowed but remained silent.
“Brother Mason has found favor in the eyes of Zeboim,” said Gerard.
“Not too much favor, I take it,” said Mistress Jenna, eyeing Rhys’s sea-green robes with amusement.
“You are fortunate in having Zeboim’s regard, Brother.” Dominique Helmsman stepped forward to hold out his hand. “Far better to have the Sea Witch for you than against you, as my people know well.”
Dominique had no need to name his people. His surname, Helmsman, as well as his jet-black skin, proclaimed him an Ergothian, a race of ship-builders and sailors who lived on the island of Ergoth in the western part of Ansalon. Because Ergoth was an island and its people dependent on the sea for their living, the Ergothians built numerous temples to Zeboim and were among the most dedicated of her followers. Thus it was that even an Ergothian Holy Warrior of Kiri-Jolith, god of Light, could proclaim his respect for the dark and capricious goddess of the sea and feel no conflict.
Rhys had heard of these paladins of Kiri-Jolith, god of righteous war, though he had never before met one. Dominique looked to be in his mid-thirties. He was tall and muscular; his face was handsome, though he seemed somewhat stern and unapproachable, as though he were constantly reflecting on the serious side of life. He wore a brown and white surcoat emblazoned with the head of a bison, the symbol of Kiri-Jolith, over glistening chain mail. His black hair was plaited in a single braid that hung down his back, as was the custom of his people. He carried the longsword that was the sacred weapon of the god buckled around his waist in a scabbard etched with holy symbols. The knight’s hand was never far from his sword. By this and other signs (a yelp from Nightshade), Rhys judged the sword to be a holy artifact blessed by the god.
“I am honored to meet you both.”
Rhys bowed again to the lady wizardess and then bowed to the holy warrior. Straightening, he stood, staff in hand, looking at them. Atta, well trained, sat quietly at his side. Rhys could see himself in their eyes: a tall, too-thin monk dressed in shabby robes of an unfortunate green color. His only possessions of value: a black and white dog and a plain wooden staff. His only companion: a kender who was sucking dolefully on burned fingers. Nightshade had made the mistake of trying to examine Dominique’s holy sword.
Rhys could not blame these two important people for having doubts about him, though they were too polite to show it.
Mistress Jenna broke the silence that was starting to grow uncomfortable.
“This is quite a pretty mystery you have set before us, Brother Rhys Mason. The lord sheriff has told us something about these so-called ‘Beloved of Chemosh.’ I find his report fascinating, especially the notion they can’t be destroyed.” She gave a condescending smile. “At least by a monk and a kender mystic.”