12
Rhys sat in the darkness of the grotto, and as death approached, he thought about life. His life. He thought about fear and about cowardice, about arrogance and pride, and, holding fast to the splinter of wood that had cut his flesh, he knelt to Majere and humbly asked his forgiveness.
Majere asks each of his monks to leave his cloistered life and journey into the world at least once in a lifetime. The undertaking of this journey is voluntary—it is not mandatory. No monk is forced to make it, just as no monk is ever forced to do anything. All vows the monks take are taken out of love and are kept because they are worth the keeping. The god wisely teaches that promises made under duress or from fear of punishment are empty of meaning.
Rhys had chosen not to leave the monastery. He would never have admitted this at the time, but he realized now the reason why. He had thought, in his pride and arrogance, that he had attained spiritual perfection. The world had nothing more to teach him. Majere had nothing more to teach him.
“I knew it all,” said Rhys softly to the darkness. “I was happy and content. The path I walked was smooth and easy and went round and round in a circle. I had walked it so long I no longer saw it. I could have walked it blind. I had only to keep going and it would always be there for me.
“I told myself the path circled Majere. In truth, it circled nothing. The center was empty. Unknowing, I walked the edge of a precipice, and when disaster struck and the path shattered beneath my feet, I had nowhere to go. I fell into darkness.
“Even then, Majere tried to save me. He reached out to me, but I rebuffed him. I was afraid. My sunlit, comfortable life had been snatched away from me. I blamed the god, when I should have blamed myself. Perhaps I could not have prevented Lieu from killing my parents if I had been there, but I should have been more understanding of my parents’ pain. I should have reached out to them when they came to me for help. Instead, I repulsed them. I resented them for intruding their pain and their fear into my life. I had no feelings for them. Only for myself.”
Rhys raised his eyes to the heavens he could not see. “It was only when I lost my faith that I found it. How can such a miracle happen? Because you, my god, never lost faith in me. I walk the darkness unafraid, because I have within me your light—”
A chill, pale radiance illuminated the cave, like the light called corpse-candle—the lambent flame that can sometimes be seen burning above a grave and is believed by the superstitious to be an omen presaging death.
The man materialized in the grotto. He was pale and coldly handsome. He had long dark hair and was sumptuously dressed in black velvet and fine, white linen with lace at his cuffs. He regarded Rhys with eyes that had no end and no beginning.
“I am Chemosh, Lord of Death, and who,” the god added, glowering, “are you?”
Rhys rose to his feet, his chains rattling around him, and bowed reverently. He might loathe Chemosh for the evil he brought into the world, yet he was a god and before this god all mankind must one day come to stand.
“I am called Rhys Mason, my lord.”
“I don’t give a damn what you are called!” Chemosh said perversely. “You are Mina’s lover! That’s who you are!”
Rhys regarded the god in amazement so profound he could not think of a reply to this astonishing accusation.
Chemosh himself seemed to be having second thoughts. The Lord of Death looked about the bleak grotto, taking in the chains and the greasy remnants of salt pork, the fetid water and the foul stench, for there had been nowhere Rhys could go to relieve himself except in the cave.
“This is not exactly what I would call a love nest,” Chemosh remarked. “Nor”—he eyed Rhys with distaste—“do you strike me as a lover.”
“I am a monk of Majere, my lord,” said Rhys.
“I can see that,” said Chemosh, his lip curling as he cast a glance at Rhys’s tattered robes that had taken on an orange cast in the eerie light. “The question then becomes—if you are not Mina’s lover, what are you to her? She brought you here—a spindly, flea-bitten monk.” Chemosh drew closer. “Why?”
“You must ask her, my lord,” Rhys said.
He spoke steadily, though that took an effort. Holding fast to the splinter of wood from his staff, Rhys silently asked Majere to give him courage. His spirit might accept the inevitability of death, but his mortal flesh shivered and his stomach clenched.
“Why should you be loyal to her?” Chemosh demanded, irate. “Why is everybody loyal to her} I swear by the High God who created us and Chaos who would destroy us that I do not understand!”
His fury blasted the cavern like a hot wind. Sweating, Rhys dug the splinter’s sharp point into his palm, using pain to keep himself from collapsing.
“She chains you to a wall and torments you—I see the mark of her anger on your cheek. She has either left you here to starve to death or ...”
Chemosh paused, regarded Rhys intently. “She plans to come back. To torture you. Why? You have something she wants. That is the reason.
What is it, Rhys Mason? It must be of great worth. . . .”
Rhys could have given the explanation, but it went against all his convictions. A man’s soul is his own, Majere taught. Its mysteries are for each to reveal or not, as he chooses. Mina had, for whatever reason, chosen to keep her secret. She had not told Chemosh. Though her soul might be black with her crimes, that soul was her own. Her secret was hers, not his, to reveal.
Rhys kept silent. Blood trickled down his palm and between his clenched fingers.
“Your flesh can defy me,” Chemosh said, his breath chill as air flowing from the tomb. “But your spirit cannot. The dead cannot lie to me. When your soul stands before me in the Hall of Souls Passing, you will tell me all you know.”
Then you will be in for a sad disappointment, my lord, Rhys thought ruefully. For, in truth, I know nothing.
Chemosh drew near, his hand outstretched. “I will kill you swiftly. You will not suffer, as you would have done at Mina’s hands.”
Rhys gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. His heart beat fast; his mouth was dry. He could no longer speak. He drew in a breath, undoubtedly his last, and braced himself. Closing his eyes, to blot out the terror of the awful god, he commended his spirit to Majere.
He felt the god’s blessing flow through him, and with his blessing came an exalted serenity and a bark.
A dog’s bark. Right outside the cave. And with Atta’s bark came Nightshade’s shrill voice.
“Rhys! We’re back! Hey, I met your god! He gave me his blessing—”
Rhys’s eyes opened. Serenity drained out of him.
Chemosh half-turned, looked toward the grotto’s entrance. “What is this? A kender and a dog?”
“My traveling companions,” Rhys said. “Let them go, my lord. They are innocents, caught up in this by accident.”
Chemosh looked intrigued. “The kender claims he met your god....”
“He’s a kender, my lord,” Rhys said desperately.
At that unfortunate moment Nightshade shouted, “Hey, Rhys, I’ve come to deal with that Mina-person!” His voice and his footfalls echoed through the grotto. “Atta, not so fast!”
“Deal with Mina?” Chemosh repeated. “He does not sound so innocent. It seems now I will have two souls to question.. . .”
“Nightshade!” Rhys shouted. “Don’t come in here! Run! Take Atta and—”
“Silence, monk,” ordered Chemosh, and he clamped his hand over Rhys s mouth.
The chill of death permeated Rhys’s limbs. The terrible cold was like shards of ice in his blood stream. Cold, searing pain wracked his body. He groaned and struggled.
The Lord of Death kept fast hold on him, his cruel touch freezing the blood. Rhys sank to his knees.