Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Damra might well have been dismayed by the sight of these uncouth visitors, except that she recognized the Nimorean. He was Arim the Kite Maker, a trusted and beloved friend. The sight of him warmed and soothed her like spiced wine, even as she wondered what urgent errand could have brought him here and in such strange company. The hope immediately came to her that he had some information about her husband.

  Damra completed her inventory of the garden, noting one entrance and two exits. The Shield’s guards stood at the entrance and both exits, keeping an eye on the guests. The guards were far away. Ostensibly they would not overhear any conversation, but Damra guessed that their helmets did not cover their ears, as the saying went.

  In addition, she was acutely aware of the Keeper hovering near. He would not depart until he was certain that all guests of the Shield’s, even unexpected ones in the first garden, had been made comfortable.

  Arim straightened from speaking to the pecwae. The Nimorean bowed to Damra. His bow was formal and studied—the greeting of a stranger, a low-ranking stranger. She acknowledged the bow with a slight inclination of her head. She said nothing, looked at the Keeper.

  If the Keeper was disappointed that she did not openly question her guests in front of him, he was too well-trained to show it. He came forward to introduce himself and to ask if the guests required food or drink. He took his time about it, going through an inventory of the larder in hopes of finding something that might appeal to the visitors. Damra fumed in impatience, even as she watched carefully the expressions on the faces of the two pecwae and the barbarian youth. The Keeper spoke in Tomagi, the language of the elves. Arim made the polite response in Tomagi, for almost all Nimoreans are fluent in that language. As for the other three, either they were excellent dissimulators or they did not understand Tomagi.

  The male pecwae stared in awe at everything, from the garden to the magnificent house of the Shield that could be seen far above them, rising seven stories from the ridge on which it was built, exerting its authority over its surroundings. The female pecwae—an elderly example of that race, to judge by the wrinkles on the nut-like face—still slyly poked at the stones of the sundial with a bony foot when she thought Arim wasn’t looking. The barbarian youth appeared as impatient as Damra felt. He could not keep still, but fidgeted about as humans will, for theirs is a race that must always be doing. When he caught sight of the guards, he stared at their weapons with an interest that they would shortly consider threatening. He took a step toward them. Fortunately, Arim noted and placed a restraining hand on the youth’s arm.

  This gave Arim the excuse he needed. Cutting smoothly through the Keeper’s offerings of lemon water and barley cakes, Arim asked forgiveness for the rude behavior of his guests.

  “I think it would be best, Keeper, if we gave our sad message and then departed,” Arim said.

  Having just seen the pecwae female wrap her incredibly long and agile toes around a stone and drag it away from the mosaic, the Keeper agreed, in a faint voice, that this would indeed be best. After a formal bow and another agonized glance at the Grandmother, the Keeper left.

  “I am Damra of House Gwyenoc,” said Damra with the formal bow of introduction.

  “Arim the Kite Maker of Myanmin,” replied the Nimorean in equally formal terms.

  At such cool formality, the Trevenici looked surprised. He glanced from one to the other, as if thinking this was a strange way for old friends to conduct themselves. Arim said something in Elderspeak to the young man. The youth glanced at the guards and nodded, quick to catch on.

  The youth was tall and well-muscled. He had the type of square-jawed, clean-planed face that showed every thought on it, a face that could not keep secrets and must be discovered in a lie. His eyes were clear and met hers without flinching. Something about him was repugnant to her. She did not want to touch him. Arim introduced him as Jessan of the Trevenici and when the young man extended his hand in the human custom of clasping hands upon being introduced, Damra pretended that she did not know the custom and kept her hands at her sides.

  The Trevenici looked affronted, but Arim covered the awkward moment well. He glanced at Damra and she saw in his eyes that he understood. She saw also in his eyes a shadowed disquiet, an urgent need to speak to her in private.

  Arim introduced the two pecwae, oddities to Damra, who had never seen any of their race before. They spoke in high-pitched voices, sounding very much like chirping sparrows. The elder pecwae, known as the Grandmother, had bright eyes that stared, unabashed, straight into Damra’s.

  “You’ve more fire in you than the others,” said the Grandmother after this rudely appraising glance. “That’s a compliment,” she added brusquely.

  “Thank you, Elder,” said Damra gravely, for one must always be polite to the elderly.

  The young pecwae was called Bashae. Damra dismissed him as a child, wondered why they had brought him on such a long journey. Perhaps that was the custom of pecwae.

  “I would like to admire the setting of the sun,” Damra said in a voice that was meant to carry to the guards. “Will you walk with me?”

  Arim agreed and, with a glance, brought the others trailing after them. She led them to the wall that faced the west, as far from the guards as the garden would permit them to walk.

  “Keep your back turned, Arim,” Damra said in low tones in Tomagi. “They may be able to read lips.”

  “Even by lamplight?” Arim smiled.

  “Even by lamplight,” Damra said quietly. “My dear friend, it is so good to see you. You have no idea how you gladden my heart.”

  “We stopped first at your home, Damra,” Arim said. “I spoke to your servant Lelo. He told me that Griffith is missing.”

  “Not missing, Arim,” Damra said with an anguish she could not suppress. “I know exactly where he is.” She cast a dark glance in the direction of the Shield’s house. “I had hoped that perhaps your arrival meant that you had some news of him…”

  “Alas, Damra,” said Arim. “I did not know he was missing until I spoke to Lelo. I regret that I do not come to bring you relief from your burdens, but only to add to them.”

  Damra remembered the reason given for their arrival—the last request of the dead. For an instant the wildly irrational fear came to her that the dead man was Griffith, but after a stricken moment, logic prevailed. Arim had said he had not known Griffith was missing and Arim was one of the few people in this world that Damra could trust.

  “You said you bore a request to me from the dead,” Damra said. “Who has died? I cannot imagine—”

  Yet, at that moment, she knew. “Gustav,” she said.

  The young pecwae’s head jerked up at this, the first word he’d understood. “Is she talking about Lord Gustav?” Bashae asked Arim. “Am I supposed to tell her now?”

  “I am sorry,” said Damra, shifting to Elderspeak. “I have been thoughtless. Please accept my apology, all of you.”

  “I accept it,” said Bashae. “What did you do wrong?”

  “It is not polite to speak a language in front of others that they cannot understand,” Arim explained. “I also add my apologies.”

  “Just get on with this,” said Jessan impatiently. “You keep saying this is urgent, Arim. We half-killed ourselves to get here and now all we do is talk and bow. Give her the knapsack, Bashae, and the message and be done with it.”

  What is there about that young human that is so repulsive? Damra wondered. She found herself wishing he were not present, yet she would not trust him out of her sight.

  “Keep your voice down, Jessan,” said Arim in rebuking tones. He looked pleadingly at Damra. “I would not speak of this here.”

  “There is nothing I can do, my friend,” she said helplessly. “The Shield’s guards will stop us if we try to leave. I cannot take you to my guest house. I think we will be safe enough in the first garden. It is probably a good idea to continue to speak Elderspeak. I doubt that the guards know the language of Vinnengael.�
�

  Elves consider Elderspeak a crude language, one that is not only beneath their dignity to learn, but which could prove corruptive to the elven mind.

  “Very well,” said Arim with a sigh. “Although the story we have to relate is best told in the light, for it is darker than darkness. My heart speaks to you before my lips. You have guessed rightly. Lord Gustav, our dear friend, is dead. He died in the village of the Trevenici, this young man’s village. The Trevenici treated him with the honor of a fallen warrior and gave him a hero’s burial. His soul has gone to join with the soul of his beloved wife. We do not grieve him.”

  “We do not grieve him,” Damra repeated, yet thinking of the wise and courageous friend she had lost, she did grieve his passing, grieved it sorely. “How did he die so far from his home? What dark deeds do you speak of?”

  “He died of wounds received in battle with a terrible foe,” said Arim. “A Vrykyl. These two”—he gestured to the pecwae and the Trevenici—“were witnesses to the battle.”

  The night air was suddenly chill, the night sky suddenly shadowed.

  “His gods be with him,” Damra said.

  “They were, Damra,” said Arim. He instinctively started to reach out to clasp her hand. Remembering where they were and who was watching, he let his hand fall. She understood. She, too, felt the need for the comfort of the warmth of another living being. The Trevenici lowered his eyes, stood staring grimly at the ground.

  “He defeated his foe,” Arim continued. “He cast it back to the Void that spawned it. Yet, not before the Vrykyl had managed to inflict his death wound.”

  “The Void tried to claim him,” said the Grandmother, startling Damra, who had forgotten the old woman’s presence. “But it did not succeed. The warriors who fight on the other side came together and joined with the knight. They were victorious.”

  “I thank you for that,” said Damra, turning to Jessan, studying him intently. “I thank your people.”

  He muttered something, but did not look up. Damra glanced at Arim. He shook his head slightly and she let the matter lie.

  “Lord Gustav knew his death was upon him. But he could not depart this world without completing what he had started,” Arim continued. “His life’s quest. I believe that he finished it.”

  Damra stared at her friend in disbelief. Gods of earth, wind, air and fire! This was no place to talk of this!

  “I am so pleased for him,” she said faintly.

  “Bashae,” Arim continued, taking his cues from her, “you may now present the lady with Lord Gustav’s gift and the words that go with it. Say exactly what Lord Gustav told you to say.”

  Abashed and subdued, Bashae held out to Damra the knapsack he had been clutching close to him. “I memorized it,” he said and now that she looked into his eyes, she realized he was no child. “Lord Gustav said, ‘Tell her that inside the knapsack is the most valuable jewel in the world and that it comes from me, who searched for such a jewel a lifetime. I give it to her, to carry to its final destination.’”

  Damra heard a sound. She could not identify it or the source, was not even certain she had heard it. The noise came from the opposite side of the wall surrounding the garden. Bowing her head, as one who is overcome with emotion, she sank down upon the stone wall and put her hand to her eyes. She cast a swift glance along the outside of the stone wall and caught a glimpse of a shadow disappearing into the night.

  “What is it?” Arim asked softly.

  “Someone was out there,” Damra replied. She stood up briskly. “Not surprising. The Shield has spies everywhere. At least they could not possibly understand—”

  She stopped talking. Arim and Jessan exchanged grim glances. Jessan averted his face, stared with a stone-cold expression out into the night.

  “What?” Damra demanded.

  “It might not be one of the Shield’s spies,” said Arim. “We are being followed. We thought we had shaken off pursuit, but perhaps…”

  The Grandmother lifted her walking stick into the air. The stick was decorated with agates made to resemble human eyes and was the ugliest thing Damra had ever seen. The Grandmother twirled the stick this way and that. The agate eyes peered out into the darkness.

  “Evil has been here,” she announced. “It’s gone now, but not far.” Rapping the stick upon the wall, she glared at the agate eyes. “Now is a fine time to let me know. What good are you? The lot of you. Bad as my children.”

  The agate eyes appeared to blink, winced. Damra almost imagined them looking chagrined.

  She shook off the fancy. “I don’t understand—”

  With a sudden jerking movement, Jessan yanked a knife from a leather sheath he wore at his waist.

  “It’s this,” he said in tones that were wholly defiant, partly shamed. He held the knife reluctantly to the light.

  The knife was made of bone, slender and delicate and stained dark with blood. Damra recognized the knife at once. She knew the full extent of their peril.

  “A blood knife. A Vrykyl follows you.” Damra’s temper flared. “You knew this, Arim, yet you brought him! That was folly, madness—”

  “No, it was faith,” said the Grandmother sharply. “Jessan was chosen, as was Bashae. The gods bound them together.”

  “That is true, Damra,” Arim confirmed. “The priestess confirmed it. Jessan took the knife unwittingly. He has accepted his burden. He might have cast the danger away, for some innocent to discover, but he bears his responsibility bravely, knowing that it may yet prove his doom.”

  Moving close, Arim said softly, “If the Vrykyl captured Jessan, Damra, he would lead the Vrykyl to us. He could not help himself. They would devour his soul to gain such information.”

  Jessan held out the knife, moved a step toward her. “You’re a Dominion Lord, like Lord Gustav. He killed that thing. You could take this—”

  “No!” Damra recoiled. She could barely look at the knife, for it seemed to wriggle and squirm in the young man’s hand.

  Jessan straightened his shoulders, lifted his head. His lips tightened.

  “Never mind,” he said tersely. “I can deal with it.”

  Damra was moved to pity. “My husband is one of the Wyred,” she said. “An elven wizard. He has made a special study of these evil beings. He would know a way…”

  Her voice died. Griffith would know a way, but he was far from here. Far from her. He was being held captive by the Shield, who was still waiting her decision. And what was she to do? Lord Gustav’s lifelong quest had been the search for the human portion of the Sovereign Stone. If the Sovereign Stone was the jewel hidden in that knapsack, her sworn duty as a Dominion Lord was to take it with all haste to the Council of Dominion Lords in New Vinnengael.

  The humans had been waiting for the stone’s return for two hundred years. They were growing desperate. The number of Dominion Lords was decreasing. Some claimed this was due to the absence of the Stone, others to a dwindling of faith. Whatever the reason, the Stone’s return would strengthen the Vinneng-aeleans.

  Anger stirred in Damra. The gods were using her for a toy, a pawn, a plaything. To fulfill one honor-bound trust she must abandon another. Yet it seemed she had no choice.

  “I will take it,” she said. Never had words come so reluctantly. She reached out her hands for the knapsack. “In the name of the gods, I accept—Hold the sack still,” she ordered irritably. “This is no time for games!”

  “I’m not doing anything,” Bashae gasped. “It’s moving by itself.”

  “This is ludicrous,” Damra said angrily and made a snatch for the knapsack.

  Startled, the pecwae let loose his hold on it. The sack fell to the ground at her feet. Damra bent to retrieve it and, as she did so, she became aware of the magic. Now that she was sensitive to it, she could feel the magic radiate from the knapsack, a force that repelled, but did not mean to harm. Not yet. The magic was like a cushion of thick, soft thistledown enveloping the knapsack. She might force her way past the magic, plun
ge her fingers through it, but she could sense the stinging prickle of nettles beneath.

  Damra understood and began to laugh. She hoped the Father and Mother were laughing, too. Someone should find some amusement out of this.

  Arim regarded her anxiously. Her laughter had a strange note to it.

  “I can’t take the sack, Arim,” she said, when she was calm enough to speak. “I can’t touch it. Earth magic surrounds it, protects it from me.”

  “But you’re a Dominion Lord,” Arim protested, dismayed.

  “I am a Dominion Lord who is allied with the magic of the wild wind and the sea breeze, the blue sky and the towering clouds. Our magic is the magic of Air, not of Earth.” Damra sighed heavily. “Gustav could not have known when he sent the Stone to me. He knew nothing of magic.”

  Bashae retrieved the knapsack and clutched it to his breast. He looked from one to the other. “What do we do now?”

  “Sleep,” said the Grandmother emphatically.

  It was on the tip of Damra’s tongue to say impatiently that there was no time to sleep, they must leave at once. That was her way. Take immediate action. Part of her was already thinking what excuses to make to the Shield, arranging for transportation to the Portal, planning what she would need to take with her. Once she made up her mind to do something, Damra wanted it done. She was a terrible mah jong player, throwing away a chance for a kong of dragons so that she could make a chow of simples. She was the same with life, forging ahead, never stopping to consider the consequences.

  Never stopping to think of others.

  Go slowly, Damra, she counseled herself. For once in your life, go slowly. Look at them. They are exhausted. They could not travel far this night. And you. You need time to think. The fact that the human part of the Sovereign Stone has been discovered is a tremor that will crack wide open the political landscape, rock the elven nation on its foundations. You need to consider the ramifications, think what to tell the Divine and when to tell him, think how best to keep this safe and keep it secret. This might well gain you the advantage you need against the Shield. To save Griffith’s life, you must not choose the simples because they are quickest and easiest. You must wait patiently for the dragons.