He was weary in body and spirit, however. No blessing could ease that. Perhaps this weariness accounted for the impression that came to him that his body was one of those in the grave. The clods were falling on top of him. He was being buried underneath them.
Night was nearly over by the time he tossed the last shovelful of dirt onto the mass grave. He said no prayers. He had forsaken Majere and he doubted that Zeboim would be interested.
He needed sleep.
Rhys turned and, summoning Atta, he went to his cell, threw himself onto his mattress, and slept.
He woke suddenly, not to the tolling of the bell, but to its aching absence.
7
Once the dead were laid to rest, Rhys had to think about the living. He could not start his journey by abandoning the livestock, leaving them to starve or fall prey to wild beasts. Their care was his responsibility now. He and Atta and the rest of the herd dogs drove the sheep and the cattle thirty miles to the nearest village, traveling the entire distance through a torrential downpour that made mud soup of the roads. Zeboim was obviously not pleased at the delay.
The last time he had walked this road was fifteen years ago, when he’d been on his way to the monastery. He had not been on it since. He had not left the monastery in fifteen years. He looked at the world to which he was returning and found it wet, sodden, gray, and not much changed. Trees were taller. Hedges were thicker. The road appeared to be more traveled than it had been, which meant that the village must be prospering. He passed a few people on the road, but they were full of their own concerns and said nothing to his greeting, although several cursed at him and his flock for blocking their way, holding them up. Rhys remembered why he’d left the world and he was sorry to be going back. Sorry, but determined.
The villagers gratefully accepted the monk’s gift, although they were somewhat alarmed when Rhys told them that he was doing this because the other monks had died of disease, leaving him the sole survivor. He assured the people that there was no danger of contagion. That and the well-fed milk cows and the healthy sheep went far to persuade the villagers that they could safely accept this unlooked-for wealth.
Rhys lingered on the outskirts of the village to watch the villagers herd the sheep to the meadows. He’d given them the herd dogs as well. Atta’s brothers and sisters ranged behind, keeping the flock together, guiding them up the hillside.
Atta sat at Rhys’s side, watching with doleful eyes the pack into which she’d been born going off and leaving her behind. She kept looking questioningly at Rhys, waiting for him to give the command for her to rush off to join them. Rhys stroked her ears, bid her quietly, “Stay.”
He had never thought of giving her up, not even at the command of the goddess. Atta had defended him when he could not defend himself. She had risked her life to protect his. There was a bond between them that he could not bear to break. He needed at least one companion in whom he could put his trust. Trusting Zeboim was out of the question.
Rhys returned to the monastery. He scrubbed the dining hall clean of all the terrible traces of the murders. This done, he scoured the kitchen. He was not certain if the poison would wash away or not and decided not to chance it. He smashed all the crockery. He hauled the pots and kettles to the stream, weighted them down with rocks and sank them in the deepest part of the water. He left no trace behind.
That final, terrible task done, he made a last tour of the buildings that were horribly, achingly silent. The monks’ most valued possessions were their books, and these he locked away in a safe place until a representative from the Prophet of Majere could be found who would come to take over. Rhys would stop at the first temple of Majere to send a message to the prophet. In the meantime, he trusted that the god would watch over his own.
Rhys had no personal possessions, other than his emmide that had been a gift from the Master seven years ago. The emmide was a holy artifact, made of the wood of a holly tree, said to be sacred to Majere. Since Rhys had turned his back on the god, he did not feel right about keeping the god’s gift. He left the emmide in the library with the books, propping it up against the wall. As he walked away, he felt as if he were leaving behind one of his arms.
He went to his bed, but sleep would not come to him this night, despite the fact that he was bone-tired. No ghosts of his murdered brethren haunted him. They were in his heart, however. He saw their faces before him, heard their voices. He heard, too, the impatient goddess pounding her hand on the roof. The rain fell steadily all night.
He had planned to set out before daylight, but since he couldn’t sleep, he might as well start walking. He packed bread and dried meat and apples for himself and Atta in a leather scrip, slung the leather scrip over his shoulder, and then whistled for Atta.
When she did not come, he went in search of her, thinking he knew where to look.
He found her lying beside the empty sheep pen, her eyes sad, wondering.
“I know how you feel, girl,” said Rhys.
He whistled again and she rose to her feet and came obediently after him.
He did not look back.
The rain ceased the moment they were on the road. A low ground fog blanketed the valley. The rising sun was an eerie red blur, its light strained through the gray mist as through a cheese cloth. Moisture dripped from the tree leaves to land with a dull plopping sound on the wet ground. All other sound was hushed and muted.
Rhys had much to think about as he walked. He gave Atta her freedom to roam, an unusual treat for the hard-working dog. She could dash into the brush in search of rabbits, bark at squirrels, frisk down the road ahead of him, come racing back with tongue lolling, her eyes bright. She did not do any of that today but trotted behind him, head down, tail drooping. He hoped she would perk up, once they were away from her familiar surroundings, away from the lingering scent of sheep and the other dogs.
When he had taken the livestock to the village he had questioned the inhabitants, asking if they had seen a cleric of Kiri-Jolith pass through recently. None of them had. Rhys did not find that surprising. The village lay north and east of the monastery, whereas the city of Staughton—Lleu’s home—was located to the south. There was no reason why Lleu should not return to Staughton. He could always concoct some plausible tale to explain his parents’ disappearance. Traveling these days was dangerous, particularly in Abanasinia, where lawless men roamed the countryside. Lleu had only to invent a tale of an attack by robbers, in which his parents had been killed and he himself wounded, and he would be believed.
Rhys walked along, so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not miss Atta until a cessrat skittered across his path and no dog bounded after it. He halted, called and whistled, but Atta did not appear. The thought came to him that she had gone back to her pack. That was only natural. She had made her choice, as he had made his. He had to see for himself, however, had to make certain she was safe. Turning around, his heart heavy, he almost stumbled over the goddess, who, with characteristic impetuosity, appeared with no warning to stand before him, blocking his path.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
“I am going first to look for my dog, Mistress,” he said, “and then to Staughton to search for my brother.”
“Forget the dog. And forget your brother,” Zeboim commanded imperiously. “I want you to seek out Mina.”
“Mistress—”
“Majesty, to you, monk,” Zeboim said in haughty tones. “I am no longer a monk, Majesty.”
“Yes, you are. You will be my monk. Majere can have monks. Why can’t I? Of course, you will have to wear different colored robes. My monks shall wear sea-green. Now, Monk of Zeboim, what was it you were about to say?”