Shame filled him, and self-loathing.
“I was so smug, so arrogant,” he said, as bitter tears burned his eyelids. “I thought I could flirt with evil and yet go my own way. I could make a show of serving Zeboim, yet she would never lay claim to me. I could walk a path of darkness without losing sight of the sunlight. But now the sunlight has vanished and I am lost. I have no lantern, no compass to guide me. I stumble along a path so choked and overrun with weeds that I cannot see where to put my feet. And there is no end to it.”
The staff of Majere, which he had looked upon as a blessing, now seemed a reproach.
Think on what you might have been, Majere seemed to say to him. Think on what you have thrown away. Keep this staff always, that it may remind you and he a torment to you.
Rhys heard off-key humming in a voice he had come to recognize. Wearily, he raised his head and saw Lieu sauntering past the entrance to the alley that was already growing dark with the coming of night.
Lieu—going to keep a tryst with some luckless young woman.
Rhys had no choice. He reached down and shook Nightshade awake. Atta, startled, jumped to her feet. Catching a whiff of Lieu, she growled.
“We have to go,” said Rhys.
Nightshade nodded, and rubbed his eyes that were gummed with tears. Rhys helped the kender to stand.
“Nightshade,” Rhys said remorsefully, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. And, the gods know, I never meant to hurt you.”
“It’s all right,” Nightshade replied with a wan smile. “It’s probably just because you’re hungry. Here.” He dug into a pocket and produced the maltreated meat. He plucked off bits of pocket fuzz and removed a bent nail. “I’ll share.”
Rhys wasn’t hungry, but he accepted a portion of the meal. He tried to eat it, but his stomach heaved at the smell, and he fed his half to Atta when Nightshade wasn’t looking.
The three of them set off down the road and into the night, following the Beloved.
3
They tracked Lieu to a wharf where he had arranged to meet a young woman. She did not appear, however, and after waiting for over an hour, Lieu cursed her roundly and left, turning into the first tavern he came upon. Rhys knew from experience his brother would remain there all night, and he’d find him either here or near about the tavern the next day. He and a yawning Nightshade and a drooping Atta found a sheltered doorway and, huddling together for warmth, they prepared to get what sleep they could.
Nightshade was snoring softly and Rhys was drifting off when he heard Atta growl. A man dressed in white robes that gleamed in the light of his lantern stood over them, gazed down on them. His face was smiling and concerned, and Rhys soothed Atta’s worries.
“It’s all right, girl,” he said. “He’s a cleric of Mishakal.”
“Huh?” Nightshade woke with a start, blinking at the lantern light.
“Pardon me for disturbing you, friends,” said the white-robed man. “But this a dangerous place to spend the night. I can offer you shelter, a warm bed, and a hot meal in the morning.”
Moving closer still, he held the lantern high. “Bless my soul! A monk! Brother, please accept my hospitality. I am Revered Son Patrick.”
“Hot meal...” Nightshade repeated. He looked hopefully at Rhys.
“We accept your invitation, Revered Sir,” Rhys said gratefully. “I am Rhys Mason. This is Nightshade and Atta.”
The cleric gave them all polite greeting, even Atta, and though Patrick glanced curiously at Rhys’s aqua-green robes he politely refrained from comment. He lit their way through the city streets.
“A long walk, I’m afraid,” he said in apology. “But you will find peace and rest at the end of it. Rather like life itself,” he added with a smile for Rhys.
As they walked, he told them that this part of New Port was known as Old Port, so-called because it was the oldest part of the new city. New Port had not existed until the Cataclysm had sundered the continent of Ansalon, elevating parts of the continent and sinking others, causing some parts to split wide open and other parts to break off. One of these massive splits allowed the creation of a vast body of water known as New Sea.
The first settlers to arrive at this location—refugees fleeing the destruction up north—were visionaries, who saw immediately the advantage of building here. The land configuration formed a natural harbor. Ships that would soon be plying the waters of New Sea could dock here, take on goods, refit and overhaul, whatever was needed.
The city began modestly, with a stockade overlooking the harbor. New Port’s rapid growth soon overflowed the stockade and expanded along the waterfront and inland.
“Like an ungrateful child who discovers wealth and success, and then refuses to acknowledge the humble parents who brought him into the world, the wealthy parts of the city are now far removed from the lowly docks that were its cause for success,” Patrick explained, sadly shaking his head.
“The flourishing merchants who fund the ships and own the warehouses live far from the stench offish heads and tar. Brothels and gambling dens and taverns like the Dinghy have shouldered out more reputable establishments on the waterfront. Housing is cheap down by the docks, for no one of means wants to live there.”
They passed row after row of ramshackle dwellings made of wood taken from abandoned warehouses, and walked dismal streets paved with mud. Drunken sailors and slovenly women lurched past them. Even though the hour was past midnight, several children ran up to them to beg for coins or rooted through heaps of refuse in hopes of finding food. Whenever they came upon such children, Patrick stopped to speak to them, before continuing on his way.
“My wife and I have started a school down here among the docks,” he explained. “We teach the children to read and write, and send them home with at least one good meal in their bellies. Hopefully we can help some of them find better lives outside this wretched place.”
“The gods bless the gift and the giver,” said Rhys quietly.
“We do what we can, Brother,” said Patrick, with a smile and a sigh. “We do what we can. Here we are. Come inside. Yes, Atta, you can come, too.”
The Temple of Mishakal was not a grand edifice, but a very modest building that had evidently undergone recent repairs, for it smelled strongly of whitewash. The only sign that it was a temple was the holy symbol of Mishakal newly painted on one of the walls.
Rhys was about to enter when he saw in the lantern light something that stopped him in his tracks so that Nightshade bumped into him.
Posted on the outside of the little temple, nailed to the wall, was a missive bearing the words, written in bold letters in red ink: Beware the Beloved of Chemosh!
Below was a paragraph of text, describing the Beloved, urging people to look for the mark of “Mina’s Kiss” and warning people to refrain from taking any vow to serve the Lord of Death.
“Ah,” said Patrick, seeing Rhys frown, “do you know about these Beloved of Chemosh?”
“To my sorrow, yes,” Rhys replied.
“Do you think your warning will help stop the Beloved?” Nightshade asked the cleric.
“No, not really,” Patrick replied sadly. “Few of the people around here can even read, but we talk to all who enter our temple, urging them to be careful.”
“What has been the reaction?” Rhys asked.
“As you might expect. Some now fear that everyone they meet is out to slay them. Others think it’s a plot to try to coerce people into joining the church.” Patrick smiled wryly and shrugged. “The majority scoff at the entire notion. But we can discuss this further in the morning. Now, come to your beds.”
He hustled them inside and led them to a room where a row of cots had been set up. He gave them blankets and wished them a good night.