“May the blessing of Mishakal guard your rest this night, my friends,” he said as he left.
Rhys lay down on the cot, and perhaps Mishakal did touch him gently because, for the first night in many long, weary nights, he did not dream of his wretched brother.
Rhys did not dream of anything.
Rhys was up with first light to find Nightshade happily devouring a bowl of bread and milk in company with a pleasant looking woman who introduced herself as Revered Sister Galena. She invited Rhys to sit down and break his fast. He gladly did so, for he discovered he was unusually hungry.
“Only if I may be allowed to do some work for you in payment,” he added with a smile.
“It’s not necessary, Brother,” said Galena. “But I know you won’t take ‘no’ for an answer, so I accept your offer with grateful thanks. Mishakal knows we can use all the help we can get.”
“The kender and I must take care of some business first,” Rhys said, washing up his dishes, “but we will return in the afternoon.”
“Can I stay here, Rhys?” Nightshade asked eagerly. “You don’t really need my help, and the Revered Sister said she’d teach me how to paint walls!”
Rhys looked uncertainly at Galena.
She smiled broadly. “Of course he can stay.”
“Very well,” said Rhys. He drew Nightshade off to one side. “I have to go find Lieu. I’ll meet you back here. Don’t say anything about knowing one of the Beloved,” he added in an undertone. “Don’t say anything about Zeboim or about Mina or about being able to talk to dead people or that you’re a nightstalker—”
“Don’t say anything about anything,” Nightshade said with a wise nod.
“Right,” said Rhys. He knew his advice would be useless, but he felt bound to try. “And keep your hands to yourself. I have to go now. Atta, watch!”
He pointed at the kender. Nightshade had gone over to help Galena wash up, and of course, the first words out of his mouth were, “Say, Revered Sister, do you have anyone in your family who is recently deceased? Because, if you do—”
Rhys smiled and shook his head and went in search of Lieu.
He found his brother strolling the docks in company with a young woman who had a baby in her arms and a little boy of about four walking beside her, holding onto her long skirts. Lieu was at his most charming. The young woman was looking at him with adoring eyes, hanging on his every word.
She was pretty, though she was far too thin and her face, in repose, looked haggard. Her smile seemed forced. Her laughter was shrill, too loud. She appeared determined to like Lieu and even more determined that he should like her.
“You broke our date last night,” Lieu was saying.
“I’m sorry,” the young woman replied, worried. “You’re not mad at me, are you? The old crone who was supposed to come watch the children didn’t turn up.”
Lieu shrugged. “I’m not mad. I can always find pleasant company ...”
The young woman grew even more worried. “I have an idea. You can come to my place tonight, after I put the children to bed.”
“Very well,” said Lieu. “Tell me where you live.”
She gave him directions. He kissed her on the cheek, patted her little boy on the head, and chucked the baby under the chin.
Rhys’s gorge rose at the sight of the Beloved caressing the children and it was all he could do to keep silent. Lieu at last took himself off, heading, undoubtedly, for yet another bar. Rhys followed the young woman. She entered one of the hovels near the docks. He waited a moment, pondering his course of action, then made up his mind. Crossing the street, he knocked on her door.
The door opened a crack. The young woman peered out.
She seemed startled to see a monk and opened the door a little wider. “Well, Brother. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Rhys Mason. I want to speak to you about Lieu. May I come inside?” Rhys asked.
The young woman was suddenly cold. “No, you may not. As for Lieu, I know what I’m about. I don’t need you to lecture me on my sins, so go on about your business, Brother, and let me go about mine.”
She started to shut the door. Rhys interposed his staff between the door and the frame, holding it open.
“What I have to say is important, Mistress. Your life is in danger.”
Rhys could see, over her shoulder, the baby lying on a blanket on a straw pallet in the corner of the small room. The little boy stood behind her, watching Rhys with wide eyes. The woman, following the movement of his eyes, threw the door wide open.
“My life!” She gave a bitter laugh. “Here is my life! Filth and squalor. Look for yourself, Brother. I am a young widow left destitute, with two small children and barely enough to hold body and soul together. I cannot go out to work, because I am afraid to leave the children, so I take in sewing. That barely pays the rent on this dreadful place.”
“What is your name, Mistress?” Rhys asked gently.
“Camille,” she returned sullenly.
“Do you think Lieu will help you, Camille?”
“I need a husband,” she said in hard tones. “My children need a father.”
“What about your parents?” Rhys asked.
Camille shook her head. “I am alone in the world, Brother, but not for long. Lieu has promised to marry me. I will do anything I must to hold onto him. As for my life being in danger”—she scoffed—“he may be a little too fond of his drink, but he is harmless.”
Behind her, the baby started to wail.
“Now, I must go tend to my child—” She tried again to close the door.
“Lieu is not harmless,” said Rhys earnestly. “Have you heard of Chemosh, the god of death?”
“I know nothing of gods, Brother, nor do I care! Now will you leave or must I summon the city guard?”
“Lieu will not marry you, Camille. He has booked passage on board a ship to Flotsam. He leaves New Port tomorrow.”
The young woman stared at him. Her face paled, her lips quivered. “I don’t believe you. He promised! Now go! Just go!”
The baby had worked himself into a frenzy. The little boy was doing his best to soothe him, but the baby was having none of it.
“Think about what I have said, Mistress Camille,” Rhys pleaded. “You are not alone. The Temple of Mishakal is not far from here. You passed it on your way. Go to the clerics of Mishakal. They will assist you and your children.”
She pushed at him, kicked at his staff.
“Lieu has a mark on his breast,” Rhys continued. “The mark of a woman’s lips burned into his flesh. He will try to make you give your soul to Chemosh. Do not do it, Mistress! If you do, you are lost! Look into his eyes!” he pleaded. “Look into his eyes!”
The door slammed shut. Rhys stood on the street outside, listening to the baby’s screams and the mother’s voice trying to soothe it. He wondered what to do. If this young woman fell victim to Lieu, she would abandon her children to walk with the Lord of Death.
Then Rhys remembered the missive posted on the temple wall, and his heart eased. He was not alone in his battle against the Beloved. Not anymore. He could seek out help.
Rhys returned to the clerics of Mishakal and their humble temple to find Nightshade happily whitewashing the walls and Atta lying under a table contently gnawing on a bone. She wagged her tail when she saw Rhys but was not about to relinquish her bone long enough to go greet him.
“Look, Rhys, I’m working!” Nightshade called proudly, waving his paintbrush and splattering himself and the floor with white paint. “I’ve already paid for supper.”
“I told him we feed everyone in need,” said Patrick. “But he insisted. He’s a most unusual kender.”
“Yes, he is,” said Rhys. He paused then said quietly, “Revered Son, I must speak to you on a matter of importance.”
“I thought you might,” Patrick replied. “Your friend has been telling us some very interesting stories. Please, Brother, seat yourself.”