Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Bashae, the fearful, the coward, was quite at his ease here. He was now the one who ranged ahead and he halted only when he realized that his friend had stopped walking. Bashae regarded Jessan in concern.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “They know,” was all Jessan could manage to say. “They know.”

  “Do you want me to go ahead?” asked Bashae.

  Jessan couldn’t reply, but he nodded.

  Bashae walked toward the guards, but when he drew near, his own confidence lagged. He’d never seen people so big, didn’t know that they came that way. He looked into the stern faces for some sort of sign, but although they watched him, their eyes gave nothing away. Knowing that Jessan was depending on him, Bashae gulped and walked forward, clutching the knapsack. He passed through the pointed spears. No one said a word. Turning, he grinned at Jessan and motioned for him to follow.

  His face grim, his jaw so tight that it quivered, Jessan took a step forward. With a swift and sudden movement, the guards crossed their spears, barred his way.

  “Let him pass,” said a voice.

  Jessan turned. So intent had he been on the guards that he had not noticed the sudden silence that had fallen over those behind him. He saw the Nimoreans sinking to the ground on one knee, placing one hand to the earth and the other over their hearts.

  A Nimorean woman stood before him. She wore white silk robes threaded through with gold; a golden girdle, studded with emeralds; golden arm bracelets, warm against her ebony skin; gold ear rings and a golden band circling her head. Her black hair was shorn close, her eyes were large, wide set and luminous.

  Jessan had never seen anyone so beautiful and the first thought that came to him was that she was one of the gods. This thought was confirmed by the fact that all the Nimoreans were down on their knees. He thought perhaps he should prostrate himself, as well, but he couldn’t quite seem to make his body obey his brain’s commands.

  A flash of movement caught his eye. Arim appeared, emerging from the forest. Reaching Jessan’s side, Arim knelt down before the woman.

  “High Priestess, forgive him this sacrilege,” Arim said. “He is my guest and does not know the ways of our people. Let his punishment fall instead upon me.”

  “No sacrilege here,” said the priestess. “He comes in humility. His heart beneath the shadow is good. He and his friend may enter. You may come with them, Arim the Kite-Maker.”

  Breathing a relieved sigh, Arim rose to his feet. Bowing again to the priestess, he said, “First, I must make my explanation for my behavior to these gentlemen for following them without their knowledge.”

  The High Priestess inclined her head in gracious permission.

  Arim turned to Jessan and Bashae. “I had to be certain of you both. I hope you understand.”

  Jessan’s first inclination was to be angry, but the thought of the terrible object that he carried and the realization that he’d done little to earn anyone’s trust caused him to swallow his bile. He nodded, his face rigid.

  Bashae regarded Arim intently. “Can we be certain of you?”

  Arim was taken aback for a moment. Because the pecwae was small, like a child, Arim had expected him to think like a child. He realized he had made a mistake.

  “You can be certain of me,” Arim said. “I swear by the gods in whose presence we now come.”

  “Good enough,” said Bashae. “For now.”

  At the command of the priestess, the guards lifted their spears. The priestess indicated with a gesture of her hand that Arim and the Trevenici were to precede her.

  The way down was long, the stairs steep, for they had been carved into the side of the cliff. At the bottom of the stairs was a vast courtyard, whose paving stones were made of white marble, flecked with gold. Benches and fountains provided solace and refreshment for those weary after their long descent. At the north end of the courtyard stood two double doors made of bronze, marked with the symbol of the Queen of Nimorea—a white bear formed of inlaid marble.

  “I’ve never seen a white bear before,” said Bashae and then he clapped his hand over his mouth, for his shrill voice rang throughout the courtyard.

  “Yet, we have them in our country,” the priestess answered him with a smile. “When our Princess Hykael led her people to this land, they came upon a white bear, blocking their path. The people were frightened, for they knew that the white bear had been sent by the gods. The people begged the Princess to flee the bear. The Princess refused to heed them. She walked forward to meet the white bear, saying that if it slew her, then she knew that the gods had punished her for her misdeeds. She came before the bear and knelt at its feet.

  “The white bear turned and walked away. The Princess followed and so did all her people, though the white bear led them away from the main trail. The people heard a terrible noise, like thunder that was not in the heavens but on the ground. They found out later than an avalanche had swept down out of the mountains and wiped away the trail. Had they walked that path, they would have been killed, every one of them. The white bear had guided them to safety. Princess Hykael named the white bear sacred and it is death now to any who would slay one.”

  As she spoke, they crossed the great courtyard. People fell to their knees in reverence as she walked by.

  “Are you the Queen?” Bashae asked, awed and abashed.

  “No, I am not,” said the priestess with a smile. “I am Sri, daughter to the Queen.”

  Sri led them through the bronze doors with their great white bears. No guards stood at the doors for if the guards upon the stairs felt threatened, they had only to jab the butt of the spear into the eye of a dragon to activate a mechanism that would cause the bronze doors to boom shut.

  Peace and serenity reigned inside the temple. The music of flute and chimes and plashing water formed a soothing undercurrent to the prayers of the supplicants. Inside the bronze doors was a central altar, piled high with breads and fruit, bolts of silk cloth, carved wooden bowls and other offerings, some rich, some humble. The priestess stood to one side while Arim approached and left his offering, a gift of paper covered with pictures that he said the elves used as money.

  “I didn’t bring anything,” said Jessan, stricken.

  “I did!” Bashae said.

  Reaching into his pouch, he brought forth a turquoise stone. He walked solemnly to the altar, and placed the stone upon it.

  “Take care of that stone,” said Bashae to the priestess. “It is very powerful. You can never have too much protection.”

  “I will do that and I thank you,” said the priestess.

  Bashae was never to know this, for he was never to see Nimorea again, but when Sri, priestess daughter of the Queen, came to rule some months later, she had the turquoise stone set into her crown. And perhaps the stone was powerful, for Queen Sri survived an assassination attempt made by a Vrykyl, the first and only person ever to do so. But that is another story.

  After leaving their offerings, most of the Nimoreans went into the main chamber, there to kneel before the graven images of the gods and bring them their prayers. The three caught only a glimpse of these magnificent chambers, for the priestess led them down a smaller hallway.

  The Temple was a veritable maze of tunnels, a small city beneath the ground. Here lived those who served the gods: priests and priestesses, their children, servants and acolytes. The Queen did not live here, but in the royal palace in Myanmin, a beautiful mansion of marble built on a promontory among the foothills of the Faynir Mountains. The Queen kept private chambers in the Temple, however; divided her time equally between matters spiritual and matters secular.

  The doorways leading to the inner portions of the Temple were not readily visible. Most were secret doors, the trick to opening them known only to those who lived behind them.

  Sri led them to a room at the very end of the corridor. At first, it seemed that they had entered a cul-de-sac, for the door was fashioned to look like part of the smooth-planed rock wall. She p
laced her hand on a certain area, palm flat against the rock, and pressed. The door opened, revolving silently on well-oiled hinges. She invited them inside.

  Looking past her, Arim was awed, confounded. Reverently he lowered his eyes and almost immediately sank to his knees. He wished he could tell Jessan and the pecwae what a singular honor they were being accorded, but he dared not do so. If the priestess wanted them to know, it was for her to tell them.

  “This is my private altar,” said Sri. “I am pleased to welcome you and your friends, Arim the Kite-Maker.”

  “I thank you for this honor, Daughter of the Gods,” Arim said.

  His was a familiar face about the palace, for, under the guise of making and mending the royal kites, he had handled several delicate matters of state for the Queen. He had never seen Sri in the palace, had not known that the Princess was aware of him or his business. On reflection, he was not surprised. As heir to the throne, she would be kept apprised of all that was transpiring in her mother’s realm.

  Arim introduced his companions. He and the priestess both spoke in Elderspeak, as a courtesy to their guests. Bashae was awed into silence. Jessan could not take his gaze from Sri. He bowed, but said nothing.

  The only light in the small chamber came from coals glowing red in a brazier standing on a raised dais. The room was heady with the scented oils the priestess Sri rubbed on her skin and with the lingering fragrance of incense.

  Sri turned to face Jessan. “Do you know why the guards refused you admittance?”

  Jessan’s face flushed in the glowing light of the charcoal. “I—Yes,” he said, after a moment’s struggle. “I think I know.”

  “When the guards looked at you, they saw a fistula, an ulceration in your spirit. I know, for I see the same. The wound is not here.” Sri placed her hand on his heart. Her touch was gentle, yet seemed to invoke pain, for his body trembled. “Nor is the wound here.” She rested her long-nailed fingers lightly on his forehead. “Lift up your hands.”

  Jessan did so, turning his palms upward.

  “The fistula is here,” said Sri, indicating the palm of his right hand. She did not touch it.

  Jessan closed the hand involuntarily, almost as if there were truly a wound there, though in reality the skin was unscarred.

  “I have a knife, an artifact of the Void,” he said. Looking into her eyes, he gave forth his very soul. “I took it from a creature of the Void, a thing known as a Vrykyl. I knew what I was doing was wrong. The dwarf warned me and so did the dying knight. But I wanted it and I would not listen. I knew it was wrong,” he repeated, “but I didn’t know the knife was evil. You have to believe me.” He shuddered, his hands clenched. “I didn’t know it was made of…of human bone. Now that I do know, I don’t want to touch it or see it, ever again. I want to be rid of it.”

  “One of those Vrykyl is coming to get the knife back,” Bashae added. “The Grandmother saw it in the fire and she showed it to us. Jessan’s seen it, too.”

  “The knife is a blood knife,” Arim explained. “A powerful artifact of the Void. Bashae is right. One of the Vrykyl does follow after them.”

  “I am putting those I was charged to protect in danger,” said Jessan. “I didn’t know what else to do. I came here because I hoped the gods would accept the knife and destroy it.”

  “We will see if the gods will accept it.” Sri gestured to the brazier of glowing coals. “Drop the knife on the holy fire, Jessan.”

  Jessan slid the knife out of its sheath, handling it reluctantly, yet eager to be rid of it. The bone knife glimmered an eerie, ghostly white amid the red-tinged shadows. Holding the knife gingerly, Jessan approached the brazier and tried to drop the knife on the hot coals.

  With startling swiftness, the knife blade altered form, wrapped around his hand.

  Jessan’s breath whistled through his teeth in horror. He gasped and tried to shake the knife free, but it held fast, not clinging to him in panic, but chaining him, making him a prisoner, claiming him for its own.

  Crying out in pain, Jessan snatched back his hand. The moment the knife was away from the heat of the gods’ anger, the blade reverted to its original shape and form.

  Shuddering, Jessan hurled it to the floor.

  “I have to get rid of it!” he cried in hollow tones, staring at the knife with loathing. “If the gods won’t take it, I’ll throw it in the Sea of Redesh—”

  Sri shook her head. “The sea is not deep enough. The ocean is not deep enough. Every chasm has a bottom. An artifact such as this cannot be lost if it wants to be found. The other Vrykyl know that the blood knife still exists. They actively seek it. The knife would entangle itself in nets of some fisherman or wash ashore to be found by a child looking for sea shells. The knife would claim a new owner, some innocent, who does not know the nature of the evil. Is that what you want?”

  Jessan shook his head. He could hear his uncle’s voice. A man must take responsibility for his own actions. It is the way of the coward to try to foist off blame onto another or to deny one’s part for fear of retribution. The only act more cowardly is flight in the face of the enemy.

  “I know it will take great courage to continue to bear the bone knife, Jessan,” Sri said, “but I believe you have that courage.”

  “I don’t know if I do or not,” Jessan said softly, anguished. “Every night I see the eyes, hear the hoofbeats. Every night I wonder if this will be the night the eyes see me. Every night I know the hoofbeats are coming closer. The worst part is that I am bringing the danger to those I care about.”

  Jessan squared his shoulders. “The burden is mine. It rests on me. I will keep the knife, but I will leave my friends to go on alone. I’ll join my people, the other Trevenici—”

  “But, Jessan,” Bashae interrupted, “you can’t. We were both chosen. Remember? Both of us together. I’m not afraid of the danger. Truly I’m not.”

  “You’re not facing facts, Bashae! You’re being stupid—”

  “Then so are the gods being stupid,” said Sri. “A cord binds you both, a cord woven of light and of darkness. Without the one, there is not the other. So it must be until your journey’s end.”

  “I guess you’re stuck with me, Jessan,” said Bashae cheerfully.

  Jessan did not smile. His expression was grim, his eyes shadowed.

  “Have the gods answered your question?” she said suddenly, turning to Arim.

  “Yes, Daughter of the Gods, they have,” Arim replied.

  “You will guide them to where they need to go?”

  “Yes, Daughter of the Gods, I will guide them. And protect them.”

  Jessan’s lip curled slightly at this. The young warrior glanced askance at the kite maker’s slender build and delicate hands, fit for painting birds and butterflies. He said nothing, but thought to himself that here was one more burden, one more person he would need to look after.

  “The gods be with you,” said Sri. She pulled a ring off her finger, handed it to Arim. “Take this to the elven ministry. You will encounter no difficulty entering the lands of the Tromek.”

  Arim was thankful for the ring, for it bore the royal seal and would go far to smooth his way. “I would dare to ask one more boon of the gods before I depart.”

  “And that is?” Sri’s eyes were warm, reflecting the glow of the coals.

  “I would beg the gods’ forgiveness for doubting their wisdom,” Arim said humbly.

  “You are forgiven,” said Sri.

  After crossing the small river known as the Nabir that flowed out of the Sea of Redesh, Wolfram and Ranessa traveled still farther south to the banks of the Sea of Kalar. Their journey was peaceful, too peaceful as far as Wolfram was concerned. They did not see a single person on this leg of their trip and this during midsummer, the best season of the year for traveling. Wolfram had been looking forward to falling in with some congenial companions as they drew close to their destination, the Karnuan seaport of Karfa ’Len, and he was disappointed as the days passed
and they saw no one on the road. A journey shared is a journey shortened, as the saying went, and the dwarf had never wished for a shorter journey than this one.

  Wolfram moped over this until Ranessa grew weary of hearing him complain and told him to shut up about it.

  “There are no people on the road, so what?” she said. “There are too many people in the world as it is. I enjoy solitude and silence, especially silence.”

  Offended, Wolfram accommodated her. When he spoke, it was to his horse and then he took care that Ranessa should be out of hearing. As the days passed and the road continued to stretch empty before them, Wolfram’s disappointment changed to unease. Caravans and merchants were kept off the road by only two things: snow and war. There was no snow. That left war.

  Given the hatred that existed between Dunkarga and Karnu, the two waged war at the least provocation. Hundreds might die over a stolen chicken. Wolfram had no desire to be caught up in a civil war. He had nothing to fear from disciplined soldiers, but lawless gangs were quick to take advantage of the turmoil of civil war to raid and loot the countryside, prey upon hapless wayfarers.

  Wolfram kept a sharp lookout. Ever since Ranessa’s claim that someone was following them, the dwarf had felt eyes on the back of his head. More than once he’d wakened in the night with the feeling that someone was creeping up on him. The sound of an owl hooting in the night brought him bolt upright, breaking out in a cold sweat.

  Wolfram blamed Ranessa. She was enough to spook anyone, with her fits of bad temper, her restless pacings and trance-like stares eastward. He’d be crazy as she was if they traveled together much longer.

  The feeling of being watched abated somewhat as they traveled farther south. Wolfram had three good nights of sound sleep and felt better than he had in days.

  “Whatever you claimed was following us must have lost us,” he remarked to Ranessa that morning. “Likely we were too cunning for it. Gave it the slip.”

  He meant that to be sarcastic, but, as usual, Ranessa missed the gibe.