Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Damra’s meeting with the Shield was scheduled for the time that is known as Idyllic Time, the hour before sunset. The timing was, itself, an insult, for that hour is the time when everyone is supposed to be relaxing after the rigors of the day. It is a time for the taking of light wine, walking in the gardens, admiring the sunset. Since the evening meal is always served with the lighting of the candles, this meant that the Shield had, in essence, imposed a time limit on their meeting.

  Damra was under no illusions. She knew from the moment she read the Shield’s effusive poem that her husband was being held hostage. Griffith had been missing for many months and, at first, Damra had not been overly concerned. As one of the Wyred for House Gwyenoc, Griffith often undertook secret missions for his lord. But although he could not speak of where he was or what he was doing, he could still communicate with her, sending her, by means of the Wyred, letters filled with his love for her. Through the same means, she could send letters to him, writing of her devotion and providing him with the latest court gossip.

  When his letters stopped coming, she knew immediately that something was wrong. She was desperate enough to attempt to communicate with the Wyred directly, a feat that was not easy, even for a Dominion Lord. As the saying goes, the Wyred are smoke and moon shadow. She had no luck: the Wyred seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth as far as she was concerned. She was growing frantic when the Shield’s missive arrived.

  House Gwyenoc had long sided with the Divine in his struggle for power against the Shield. Cedar of House Trovale was a progressive, a forward thinker. He saw the elven economy stagnating. He wanted to open elven lands to human, orken and dwarven traders. Faced with a growing population that was causing the walls of many elven cities to bulge and consuming more food than the land could deliver, the Divine wanted to encourage elves to migrate, to travel, to seek work in other nations.

  The Shield and those who supported him were adamant in their refusal to even consider such an idea. They claimed much of elven culture would be lost by mingling with foreigners. Humans—a boisterous, loud, vulgar and disruptive people—would bring their evil ways into elven lands, rape their women and carry off their children into their frantic, fast-paced world.

  The Divine knew to his sorrow that some of the dire events his detractors predicted might well come to pass, although he hoped that by limiting the numbers of foreigners through visas and other legal documents he could control those who entered his country. But if nothing was done, he could see a time when his country would fall in upon itself, like a house built with rotten timbers. One year of drought, of poor harvest, would bring famine and plague.

  Why did the Shield not see the danger himself? Cedar had first thought that the Shield was simply oblivious to their peril or in denial, but Cedar was becoming more and more certain that the Shield knew disaster lay ahead and was cold-bloodedly planning to use such disaster to further his own ends. He began to see that Garwina was capable of sacrificing thousands of innocents to increase his own power.

  Damra was a close friend of Cedar of Trovale and shared his suspicions concerning the Shield, one reason she had actively opposed Garwina in every move he made. She had expected him to retaliate, but had naively imagined that his anger would fall upon her. She had been prepared for that. She had not been prepared for him to strike her husband.

  As she waited for her audience, she wondered bleakly what she would do, what she would say. He was clever, she had to give the Shield credit for that much. He had caught her in a web as transparent as gossamer and strong as steel. If she denounced him, he would claim innocence, and, since she had no proof, it was his word against hers. Because her husband was one of the Wyred, he was outside the laws of elven society and not even the head of House Gwyenoc (her husband’s elder brother) could lift a finger to save him.

  The Keeper of the Keys led Damra to the Blue Grotto. The location was another insult. Located a far distance from the palace, the Blue Grotto was where the Shield met with elves of the upper middle class: burghers, minor government functionaries, and the like. The Grotto was no place for a private conversation. Although the shallow cavern with its mass of lilies and its bubbling springfed fountain was a holy site, believed to have been created by the elven spirits known as the bywca, it was surrounded by tall hedges of holly and thickly planted pine trees, a perfect hiding place for any number of spies, most notably the Shield’s own. If he needed witnesses to the content of their “private” meeting, he could always trot them out—servants who “just happened to be passing by.”

  Damra’s greatest flaw was her temper and the Shield knew it, for she had failed that particular test in her trial to become a Dominion Lord, a trial he had helped judge. She was grateful to the gods for overlooking her flaw and granting her the honor despite it and she worked and prayed daily to overcome it. The Shield used these humiliations to try to provoke her and she was determined that in this, at least, he would not succeed.

  The Shield was in attendance, but his back was turned—a terrible insult—under the pretense of admiring his lilies. Damra clenched her hand tightly around the hilt of her sword, so tightly that the hilt inflicted marks on her skin that would not fade for hours afterward. One of the Shield’s bodyguards, who were never far from him, stepped forward.

  “I must ask you to relinquish your weapons when in the Shield’s house, Damra of Gwyenoc,” said the guard.

  Damra stared at him. “I am a Dominion Lord. I am exempt from such rules. The Divine does not require Dominion Lords to yield up their weapons.” She cast a scathing glance at the Shield’s back. “Why does his servant?”

  That was nothing more than the truth. The Shield of the Divine was considered to serve the Divine and was required to swear an oath of fealty and homage on a yearly basis. Still, the Shield did not like to hear himself referred to as such. The jab told. He turned and favored her with a cold look.

  “A man who wields influence and power must of necessity make enemies, Damra of Gwyenoc,” said the Shield. “I envy the Divine his feeling of security.”

  “Don’t give in. Don’t let him do this to you,” Damra said to herself.

  She conjured up the image of her husband, his warm eyes, his gentle smile. The Wyred are taught to be soft-spoken, self-effacing, taught to be neither seen nor heard. Griffith must have possessed such characteristics from birth, so naturally did they come to him. He was the perfect complement to her. He was the silent falling snow that could douse her crackling fire. The fear of losing him twisted her heart. Nothing else mattered, certainly not her pride.

  She removed both swords and handed them over in silence to the guard, who took them with a bow and backed out of their presence.

  “I came in response to your letter, my lord,” said Damra, adding impatiently, “You will forgive me if I dispense with the customary pleasantries about the weather and the fragrance of your garden. You may forgo praising my ancestors and exclaiming over my beauty. Our time is short and, as you may imagine, this matter is of paramount importance to me. You implied in your letter to me that you had news of my husband.”

  The Shield turned from perusing his lilies to gesture to a chair. Damra had no choice but to be seated. The Shield remained standing, looking down at her, placing her at a disadvantage. Fury roiled in her stomach. Keeping it in check made her physically ill.

  “You are known to be blunt and forthright—characteristics I happen to admire. I also know that you consider me an enemy, Damra of Gwyenoc,” the Shield added in sorrowful tones. “I am grieved by this. We do not agree on certain political matters, but show me two people who ever do? I would like you to think of me as your friend and that is why, when I heard that you were concerned over your husband’s mysterious disappearance, I went to great trouble and no inconsiderable expense to discover what I could about him.”

  You mean you went to a lot of trouble and expense to capture him, you ruthless bastard, Damra thought but did not say. Not trusting herself to
reply, she merely nodded her head once, abruptly, to indicate she was listening.

  “Where your husband was and what he was doing, even I cannot say, for the Wyred never divulge their secrets. He is with my Wyred now, Damra. Your husband is among friends.”

  The Father and Mother help him, Damra prayed in despair. The Wyred are trained to their art in one central, secret location. They are raised together from childhood, but then each is sent to serve his or her own House. Their loyalties to the House come first. Griffith had often opposed the Wyred of the Shield’s House. He was no more among friends than she was now, no matter how much the duplicitous Shield tried to convince her otherwise.

  She watched the Shield warily, trying to figure out the man’s game. He had gone out of his way to insult her. He was playing at being her friend. Naked steel in one hand, a turtle-dove in the other.

  “Do you know what I enjoy most about this part of my garden, Damra of Gwyenoc?” the Shield asked. He made a significant pause, then said, “The babbling of the running water. It says nothing, yet I find the sound most soothing.”

  Damra understood. Either hand she chose, she lost and he won. If he provoked her into rage, he would claim she had threatened his life. He could have her arrested, escorted in ignominy and shame from his House (not even the Divine would be able to publicly forgive her that transgression). If she accepted the turtle-dove of silence in exchange for her husband’s life, she forfeited not only her pride, but also her honor and her dearly cherished beliefs. Her defection would seriously weaken the Divine. Cedar would understand that she’d had no choice, but he would lose respect for her and she would lose the trust and esteem of a man she much admired.

  Damra knew the torment of the prisoner on the rack, whose joints are pulled farther apart with every twist of the screw. The knowledge of what she should do bound her to the torture device and the knowledge of what she wanted to do turned the wheel. Griffith would want her to remain loyal to the Divine, though it would cost him his life. If she bought his freedom, he would be disappointed and she could not bear to lose his trust.

  Yet, how she could go on without him—her steadfast friend, her most trusted advisor, her heart, her soul? Better she should die—

  “Keeper? Why do you disturb us?” The Shield sounded startled, his tone was tense.

  Damra had been staring unseeing into the flowing water, so wrenched by pain that she had not noticed the Keeper of the Keys approaching them. This must truly be an emergency, for no conversation with the Shield was ever interrupted.

  “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord,” said the Keeper with his lowest bow, “but visitors have arrived in search of Damra of Gwyenoc. A Nimorean, accompanied by two pecwae and a barbarian human, carry a message to her from one who has recently gone to join his ancestors. The message to her is this man’s dying request, my lord.”

  Damra was startled. She could think of no one she knew who would make a dying request of her, certainly not through such bizarre messengers. Her first thought was that this was another of the Shield’s tricks and she shot a glance at him.

  The Shield looked neither smug nor cunning, however. He was clearly displeased at the interruption and why not? He’d been certain of victory and now the moment had fled. He glowered at the Keeper. The Keeper cast his master a glance of apology. Among elves, the last request of the dying is considered sacrosanct and must be acted upon with the utmost reverence and respect. The moment the Keeper heard that the dead wanted to speak to her, he had been duty bound to find Damra and impart this news to her, just as she was duty bound to go meet with these people.

  Whoever they are, the gods themselves must have sent them, Damra realized. She was not free of the rack, but her tormentors had left to go take tea. By turning over the hour glass, the sands of time are rearranged, those grains on the bottom end up on the top. Hopefully, with some breathing space, she could find the answer she so desperately sought.

  She bowed her regrets. The Shield had no choice but to accept them. The guards returned her swords and Damra departed, accompanying the Keeper outside the palace grounds to the very first garden—the tradesman’s garden—for even though they carried the request of the dead, such outré visitors would never be allowed anywhere near the Shield’s palace.

  The Shield cursed the Father and Mother, as Damra had blessed them. Garwina had had her where he wanted her and she had managed to escape him. On reflection, however, he grew calmer. Flutter as she might, she could not free herself of the web. She would meet his terms. He’d seen the suffering in her eyes. She would never sacrifice her husband.

  “Pecwae…Trevenici…” Valura murmured to herself.

  The lovely Lady Godelieve had been abandoned. Taking the form of an underling gardener she had killed in anticipation of just such a need, Valura had been eavesdropping on the Shield’s meeting with the Dominion Lord. Kneeling in the dirt, pretending to pluck out the weeds growing beneath the bougainvillea, she was a person of no consequence, no significance, invisible to the eyes of most in the Shield’s household.

  Valura kept the illusion of the gardener and made her way to the first garden. She took the servants’ route, for it would never do for her to be seen on the main walkway. The guards took notice of her, for the lowliest servant might be a hidden assassin. They made a routine search for weapons, but found nothing. The magic of the Void kept the blood knife invisible to prying eyes. Having taken the short route, Valura reached the garden well in advance of Damra and the Keeper.

  Valura dropped to her knees behind a low stone wall and peered cautiously up over the edge. Spying the four waiting visitors, she placed her hand upon the blood knife.

  “Shakur…” The name hummed through the knife.

  She felt his response.

  “Valura.”

  Shakur detested her. He was jealous of her standing with Dagnarus. She knew this and reveled in it; one of her few remaining pleasures. Bound together by the blood knife and, more importantly, through the Dagger of the Vrykyl, they had no choice but to work together. The time would come, perhaps, when one would be forced to destroy the other, but that time was not now. They worked for one goal—their lord’s ascendancy.

  “You spoke to me of a Trevenici youth and two pecwae. You said it was possible that they might have something to do with the human part of the Sovereign Stone.”

  “Yes…Why? Have you heard something about them?”

  “Do you have a description? What do they look like?”

  “A blasted Trevenici and two blasted pecwae is what they look like,” Shakur returned.

  “Is there nothing special about them?”

  “One—the Trevenici—carries Svetlana’s blood knife.”

  Valura peered over the wall. The Trevenici youth paced the garden, back and forth in a manner that was highly offensive to his elven host, for all who entered the gardens are supposed to be lost in wonder and admiration. The Nimorean spoke to him, rested a hand on his shoulder, tried to placate him. As a shark senses even the tiniest amount of blood spilled into the vastness of the ocean, Valura sensed the presence of the blood knife in the vastness of the Void. The knife was in the possession of the Trevenici.

  “Yes, he has it, Shakur.”

  “I was following him by that means, for he foolishly used it to kill. He must have been warned, however, for he has not used it for many weeks now. Where are you? More important, where are they?”

  “The Trevenici and his companions are inside the first garden of the Shield’s palace in Glymrae.”

  “What in the name of the Void are they doing there?” Shakur was astonished.

  “They have come to see a Dominion Lord—one Damra of Gwyenoc. They say they carry a request from a dying man—”

  “That’s it!” Shakur was exultant. “That’s got to be the Sovereign Stone! Either that or at least knowledge of it. I am with our lord near the Tromek Portal. If I kill a few horses, I can be there in days—”

  “Not soon enough,” s
aid Valura coolly. “Remain with our lord. I will deal with this.”

  She could not imagine her good fortune—to be able to present Dagnarus with two portions of the Sovereign Stone: the elven and the human. Particularly the human, the prize he’d sought for over two hundred years, the prize he’d murdered to obtain, the prize that he’d nearly died trying to possess. He would honor her for this, honor her and perhaps he might even love her again.

  Shakur was furious. He, too, saw this as a way for her to rise to greater power. His rage was cold.

  “This is too important for one of us to handle alone. I insist that you wait for me.”

  “You are not my master, Shakur,” Valura said. “You are far away and I am near at hand. I will do what must be done.”

  He fumed, impotent, threatening. He knew she was right—time was of the essence—but her being right made him all the more angry.

  “I will speak to our lord about this, Valura!”

  “You do that, Shakur,” she said and thrust the blood knife back into her belt. Retaining the image of the gardener, she crouched behind the wall, dug among the roots and bulbs, and listened.

  Damra entered the first garden in company with the Keeper of the Keys. Her gaze swept the garden, took in everything, not a difficult task, for unlike the elaborate, maze-like gardens farther up the hill, the first garden was small and open to view. Concentric circles of colored flowers surrounded a sundial mosaic. By day, the stones gleamed in the sunlight. Time’s shadow swept across the face of the sundial, lightly touching the marked hours before passing on. The sundial was in full shadow now, for the sun had set.

  The evening dinner hour approached. Servants moved about the garden, lighting candles placed inside decorative wrought iron lamps that stood at intervals along the garden wall. The light shone on a pecwae female, squatting on her haunches, rummaging among the stones that formed the sundial. At this very great insult, the Keeper sucked in a shocked breath and was about to call the guards. Fortunately, the Nimorean became aware of the pecwae’s unconscionable conduct. He left off speaking to the barbarian youth and moved hastily to remonstrate with the pecwae.