“How is he?” Rhys asked, squatting down beside Patrick and the little boy.
“His body is healed,” the cleric said softly, stroking the ash-filled hair. “Mishakal did that, but his mind ... He has witnessed such horrors that he may never recover.”
Galena looked at Rhys, her eyes pleading. “I heard what you said to the sheriff, Brother. I can’t believe it. Surely you are mistaken. You think that only children can kill these Beloved. That’s too awful.”
“I know what I saw,” said Rhys. “The moment the child struck him, the Beloved ‘died’.”
“I saw it, too,” said Nightshade.
The kender looked very pale under the black streaks of ash. He stood with one arm around Atta’s neck, his other hand scrubbing at his cheeks.
“The little boy hit Lieu on the leg and—whoosh! Lieu rotted away on the spot and then went up in flames. It was pretty awful.” Nightshade’s voice quivered. “I wish I hadn’t seen it, and I hang around dead people all the time.”
“Innocence destroys, and in turn, innocence is destroyed,” Rhys said.
The sheriff left the shack, wiping his hands on his trousers. “The only way to test this theory is to try it again.”
Galena rounded on him angrily. “How could you even suggest that, sir? Would you put your own child through what this one has gone through tonight?”
“Begging your pardon, Ma’am,” said the sheriff, “but that thing meant to murder this young woman and maybe her children into the bargain. The gods know how many people the Beloved in there has murdered up to this point. Now we’ve found a way to stop it.”
Rhys thought back to Mistress Jenna. She might feel sorrow over forcing a child to slay one of the Beloved, but she would probably not hesitate to do so.
“We can’t keep such vital information to ourselves,” the sheriff was saving. “Patrick here tells me the kender saw ten of these Beloved today alone. Now, granting that the kender is probably exaggerating—”
“I am not!” Nightshade cried indignantly.
“—that’s still at least two or three walking around my city and murdering innocent people like this young woman here. If there’s a way to stop them, I have a right to try, and so do the officers of the law in other cities and towns.”
“I think we are all of us too shaken to make any decision right now,” said Patrick. “Let us meet in the morning, after the horror of this terrible scene has faded, then we can discuss it. In the meanwhile, we will shelter the mother and her children. You are welcome to return with us, as well, Brother Rhys. And you, too, Nightshade.”
“I thank you, but I must leave this night,” Rhys said. “My ship sails—”
“No, it doesn’t,” said Nightshade.
Rhys looked at the kender. He had no idea what he was talking about.
“Your ship doesn’t sail,” Nightshade repeated. “Well, yes, it probably does, but you don’t need to be on it. Lieu is gone, Rhys. You don’t have to chase after him anymore. That’s all over now.”
Nightshade took hold of Rhys’s hand and said quietly, “We can go home. You and me and Atta. We can go home.”
6
Rhys stood in the darkness, staring at Nightshade. He could feel the touch of the kender’s hand. He could hear the kender’s words, and to some part of him the words made sense. Another part kept thinking he had to go to that ship. He had to keep following his brother. He had to stop him from killing anyone else. He had to . . . He had to . ..
“It’s over,” he said. “Lieu is gone.”
Rhys felt no sadness over his brother’s death. His brother had died long ago. This thing had not been Lieu, though he still called it that.
“Yes, Rhys,” said Nightshade. He didn’t like the way his friend looked—sort of lost and dazed—and the kender held onto his friend’s hand tightly.
Rhys stared up the street and down, and he realized, suddenly, this street and all streets were no longer highways to bleak despair. They all led one place. As Nightshade said, they led home. Rhys’s grip on his staff strengthened. He longed to go back home, but he wasn’t ready to be received there. He could not show up on the doorstop in filthy, discolored robes, stained with the blood of innocents and the black ashes of death. He had to discard the world, cleanse his body, cleanse his soul. Naked as a babe, chastened and humbled, he would stand before his god and beg his forgiveness. Then he would go home.
“Thank you, Nightshade,” Rhys said. Bending down, he kissed the kender on the forehead. “You are a true friend.”
Nightshade swiped his hand across his eyes and hid a sniffle in his sleeve.
Gripping his staff tightly, Rhys looked searchingly around the street. A crowd had gathered. The story of what had gone on was being eagerly bandied about, and the tale was growing wilder with each telling. The sheriff ordered people repeatedly to go home, but no one listened, and the crowd grew larger and more unruly. Several young rascals decided they wanted to see the gruesome sight for themselves and tried to rush the dwelling, precipitating a fight with the guardsmen.
The sheriff, envisioning even more crowds once the sun rose, determined that the best way to end this would be to tear down the hovel and leave the curious nothing but a pile of lumber to stare at. He sent men racing off for tools. Some of the guardsmen couldn’t wait, but were already ripping down the shack, using their bare hands. Others were holding the crowd at bay. Patrick and Galena were nowhere to be found.
“I told them to take that poor woman and her children back to the temple,” the sheriff told Rhys. “They’ve been through enough without this.” He glowered around at the people standing in the street, craning their necks and pushing and shoving to get a better view.
“Thanks for your help in this, Brother,” the sheriff added. “Too bad we didn’t get here a little sooner, but what’s done is done and we’re rid of one of these monsters at least.” He turned back to the task at hand.
Rhys was quiet and thoughtful on his way back to the temple. Nightshade was quiet, too, and he glanced at Rhys every so often and then gave a deep sigh. Atta trotted after, looking from one to the other, not understanding.
They entered the temple that smelled strongly of fresh paint. The interior was quiet, after the hubbub of the street.
“How is the young woman?” Rhys asked,
“Galena has taken her to the kitchen and is urging her to eat something. On top of everything else, the poor woman is half-starved. She’ll feel better once she has some nourishment.”
“And the little boy?”
Patrick shook his head. “We will pray to Mishakal and leave the child in the blessed hands of the goddess. What will you do, Brother, now that your dark quest is ended?”
“I have some explaining to do,” Rhys said ruefully, “and many prayers of contrition to make and sins to repent. Can you tell me where to find the Temple of Majere?”
“You mean the one in Solace?” Patrick asked.
“No, Revered Son. The temple here in New Port.”
“There is no temple to Majere in New Port,” Patrick said. “Don’t you recall our conversation yesterday, Brother? There are only two temples to the gods in New Port—our temple and that of Zeboim’s.”
“You must be mistaken, Revered Son,” Rhys said earnestly. “Just this evening, I met a group of Majere’s priests, one of whom was an abbot. He spoke of a temple here . . .”
“You can ask the sheriff if you want, Brother, but as far as I know, the closest temple to Majere is the one in Solace. I have not heard of any priests of Majere hereabouts. If there were, they would have undoubtedly sought us out. You say you met these priests last night?”
“Yes,” Rhys replied. “Our meeting was not particularly cordial. That is what delayed me. The abbot recognized me, knew my name.”