Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  “Do you have a safe place to spend the night?” she asked Arim.

  He nodded. “The same place I always stay. You know of it.”

  “Let no one approach you,” Damra cautioned. “No one. The Vrykyl can take pleasing forms to ensnare the unwary.”

  “So Griffith told me once,” Arim said quietly. “I understand.”

  “Good.” She glanced at Jessan, at the bow and arrows he carried. “You should buy him a sword. We need all the help we can get. We will meet in the morning in the city of Glymrae, at the street of the Kite Makers.”

  Damra held out her hand to Jessan. He looked startled, but then, smiling, he clasped her hand in his. Damra shook hands with the Grandmother, like taking hold of a bird’s claw. Last, she grasped Bashae’s hand.

  “I cannot bear your burden,” she said, “but I can guard you until you reach your final destination.”

  “Where is that?” Bashae asked.

  The Grandmother poked him with her stick.

  “Morning,” she said and, turning, she walked out of the garden, considerably disconcerting the elven guards by raising her stick for a long look at them as she marched past.

  “May your ancestors watch over you this night,” Damra said softly to Arim as they parted.

  They took care to appear to separate as acquaintances, not exchanging the kiss of long-time friends.

  “May your ancestors watch over you,” Arim returned the ritual words of farewell.

  The eyes of the ancestors may well have been watching, but they were not the only ones.

  Damra returned to the guest house to find five servants from the Shield waiting patiently for her, four of them bearing trays and the fifth a message from the Shield that since she had missed the hour of dining, he had sent over delicacies from his own table. He expressed his regret that they had not been able to meet and talk again, but perhaps another meeting could be arranged in a few weeks. He was devastated that his busy schedule did not permit him to meet with her sooner. He would be delighted to read any message from her, however, and he wished her a safe and pleasant journey home on the morrow, should she decide to depart. If she decided to stay, he would most regretfully be obliged to shift her to a different guest house, since this one was needed for members of his wife’s family.

  This was telling her politely that she was to remove herself in the morning. If she chose to remain, he would be obliged to find her another place to stay, but that place would be uncomfortable and inconvenient, probably one of the temporary houses that were given over to human visitors, houses that were afterward torn down, for the stench left behind by humans was thought by elves to permeate the very walls. He made no mention of the strangers, for to do that would have been to pry into her personal business. He probably knew all about the meeting from his spies.

  The servant asked Damra if she would take her meal outside in the guest garden or inside. Damra wanted to be alone and if any other guest happened to be in the garden, she would be forced to make polite conversation. She said she would dine inside. The four servants entered the guesthouse, where, under the direction of the fifth, they arranged the trays on a table and fussed over the food to make certain that it was beautifully and correctly presented.

  The guest house was small, five people were a tight fit. Damra remained outside as they worked, walked in the guest garden alight with the small blazing sparks of fireflies. No lights glowed in the other guest houses. Damra recalled the servants telling her there was only one other guest visiting the Shield—a noblewoman of the House of Mabreton. Damra had seen the woman in passing and been struck by her beauty. Damra wondered idly if the woman’s presence proved the Divine’s growing suspicion that the Shield and the Mabretons were strengthening their alliance.

  Damra’s thoughts were a confused jumble and she attempted to sort them into some sort of order just as she sorted the mah jong tiles at the start of the game. This proved difficult, for so much had happened that she felt overwhelmed. She formed the tiles one way, then shifted them another: the Sovereign Stone, the Shield, the Divine…Griffith, always Griffith. She was so absorbed in her ponderings and anxieties that she did not notice the servants were finished, until, lifting her head, she saw one hovering on the edge of her vision. He indicated that the food was ready and asked if there was anything else they could do for her.

  Damra dismissed them for the night. After another turn in the garden, she entered the guest house and closed the door behind her. She glanced at the food, that was quite sumptuous, but she was too pent-up to eat. She had a great deal to do and, characteristically, she wanted to be doing it. She started to remove the food, for she would need the table for writing. The tantalizing smell of ginger made her realize she was hungry. She had not eaten all day. The delicately phrased letter she must write to the Shield—a letter that must seem to give in to his demands and, at the same time, not give in to his demands—would take her hours to compose. She would need her strength and all her wits about her.

  Damra sat down before the table. Selecting the very choicest morsels, she placed these in a small lacquered dish and then carried it to the shrine to the Honored Ancestor she had set up in a corner of the guest house. Since most elves rely upon their Honored Ancestors to offer counsel and advice, the guest house was already furnished with an area for a shrine. A screen of rice paper painted with birds in flight—to represent the souls of the ancestors—stood in a corner. Before that was a small folding table and a cushion. The guest could place personal effects on the table, light a candle and sit on the cushion for a comfortable commune with the Ancestor.

  Unfortunately, neither Damra nor Griffith had been very lucky in their Honored Ancestors. Griffith’s Ancestor was mortified to discover a member of the Wyred in the family and he had abandoned Griffith to devote all his ghostly energies to Griffith’s elder brother.

  Damra’s Honored Ancestor was a benign old soul who had been quite fond of Damra when she was a child, but was baffled by Damra now that she was grown. When Damra became a Dominion Lord, her family did not know what to make of her and so chose to politely ignore her as much as possible. The Honored Ancestor remained in touch, but she made no secret of the fact that her warrior granddaughter was a sad disappointment to her. Whenever she visited, the ghost was always quick to remind Damra that her younger sister had sixteen children and another one on the way.

  Damra lingered at the shrine a moment, arranging a spray of orchids in a vase and hoping that the Honored Ancestor would not choose this time for a visit.

  The shrine remained empty.

  Relaxed and calmer now, Damra sat down to her own meal. She lifted a spoonful of the highly spiced ginger pumpkin soup to her lips.

  “Do not eat that, Damra of Gwyenoc,” said a voice.

  Damra was startled. The spoon jerked in her hand, spilling soup onto her lap. The voice had come from the vicinity of the small shrine, yet was not the voice of the Honored Ancestor. Damra looked that direction. Seeing no ghostly figure, she glanced swiftly about the room.

  “Who are you and why do you speak to me from the shadows?” she demanded. “Show yourself to me and then tell me why I should not eat the food of my host.”

  A figure materialized from near the shrine, emerging from behind the screen. This was no ghost, friendly or otherwise. This was a mortal being, of flesh and blood. Damra was not fearful of assassins—the armor of the Dominion Lord would act immediately to protect her from danger, seen or unseen. Her first immediate thought was anger at herself for not having taken the time to search her room. She was, after all, in the house of the man who was holding her husband captive, threatening his life.

  The elf advanced into the light cast by the single candle burning at the shrine. Damra looked first to the mask tattooed around the elf’s eyes. She had very good eyesight, the eyes of the raven, but she could not make out the details of the mask that was tattooed around the eyes of every child to delineate his lineage. The elf was old, perhaps the oldest e
lf that Damra had ever seen. The tattoo mask was blurred by age.

  Stoop-shouldered, his back bent beneath the burden of his years, the elf did not walk so much as creep. He leaned heavily on a well-worn wooden cane. His wizened face was like a withered apple, lined and criss-crossed with wrinkles. His head was bald, not a single hair remained. Two dark almond-shaped eyes peered at her from beneath lashless eyelids that were red-rimmed and stretched so thin she could see the lines of the veins. His eyes were clear, not webbed or fogged by the cataracts that often come with advanced years. The eyes revealed nothing, reflected back to her the steady, unwavering flame of the candle on her tray. He spoke no further word, but seemed content to wait for her to proceed.

  At first annoyed and irritated, she was now pitying, thinking that the old man in his dotage had wandered into her guest house by mistake. Yet his voice had sounded clear and lucid, not wavering or confused. Senile or not, the old man was her elder and deserving of her respect.

  “Honored Father, you come upon me by stealth in the night. You speak to me as if you know me and you bid me not eat my food. I ask that you explain these mysteries. Who are you, sir? What is your House, your name?”

  The elf crept forward until he stood very close to the table. He moved slowly, with deliberation, placing the iron shod end of the cane on the floor with gentle care so that it did not thump. All the while, his red-rimmed eyes gazed at her intently.

  “My House is the House of Kinnoth,” the elf answered, his voice feeble, as if every breath were one to be measured out with care, not wasted on words when it might be needed to provide life. “The House accursed. As for my name, once it had meaning and honor, but those are lost to me. My name is Silwyth.”

  “Silwyth of House Kinnoth!” Damra repeated, amazed and shocked and disbelieving. She frowned. “I know of only one of that name and he lived many years ago. He died in dishonor.”

  “There is only one of that name and he yet lives in dishonor,” returned the elf calmly.

  “You are…Silwyth!” Damra stared at him. “Is that possible? You must be…near three hundred years of age.”

  “The gods have been kind to me,” said Silwyth with a dark and bitter smile.

  Damra shook her head. “Your life is forfeit here. You are an outlaw, the sentence of death is placed upon your head. I myself could slay you where you stand and I would be deemed a hero.”

  The old man nodded and shrugged. His hands were gnarled, the flesh stretched taut so that the smallest bones and tendons and veins were clearly visible. He was clad all in black in the rough clothes of a peasant: loose pants and long tunic, open at the neck. His feet were bare, the skin leathery, cracked and callused.

  “My life is forfeit everywhere I walk. But I am not the one in immediate danger, Damra of House Gwyenoc.” Lifting the cane, the old man used it to point to the soup. “If you had eaten that you would now be either dead or dying. The magical armor of a Dominion Lord protects against many weapons, but not against those that are ingested.”

  Damra laid down the spoon. She took care to wipe her fingers on the lap cloth. She looked back to the old man. If what was said of him was true, she was in the presence of one of the most treacherous elves ever to have been born.

  “Garwina of Wyval is many things, most of them onerous, but he is not a murderer. At least,” she amended, thinking of Griffith and the fact that his life was in peril, “the Shield would not murder a guest. His own House would rise against him if he committed such a heinous, dishonorable act. As for concealing the crime, that would be impossible. The servants have seen me. Many people know I came here, not the least of whom is the Divine. There would be questions asked—”

  “And questions answered,” Silwyth stated. “You died of heart failure, Damra of Gwyenoc. Foxglove has that effect. Such a death would be surprising in a woman your age, but not unknown. However, you are right. Garwina of Wyval did not commit this act against you. His is not a mind for such subtleties.”

  No, but yours is, apparently, Damra thought, eyeing the old man warily. Though he dressed like one, he was no peasant. She heard the mellow ring of culture in his voice, education, the kind attained only by the nobility, who have leisure to study. Silwyth of House Kinnoth, reviled in story and song, had been of noble blood.

  “Why do you tell me this? Why warn me? What do you hope to accomplish?” Damra demanded.

  “That my House may be restored to honor and to its place on the rolls of Tromek. My House can attain this goal through an act of great courage or an act of great compassion. I was responsible for the downfall of my House,” said Silwyth. His voice lowered. “Not only that, but I was responsible for the destruction of a very beautiful, very noble lady. My time in this world is fast coming to an end. Before I leave to serve my sentence in the prison house of the dead, I would do what I can to make right the terrible wrongs that I caused in life.”

  “You choose to do this now, at the end of your life?” Damra’s tone was scornful.

  “I have worked toward this goal many long years,” Silwyth returned. “I have traveled far distances with one aim in mind—to thwart the plans of the one who was once my prince, the one who is now Lord of the Void. Some small good have I done already, although few take note of it. The greater good I am now prepared to accomplish—with your help, Dominion Lord.”

  Damra pondered, not yet prepared to trust him, but ready to hear him out.

  “Then who wants to kill me?” she asked.

  “The one who watched you from behind the wall in the first garden this night.”

  “It seems that the person must be you, Silwyth of House Kinnoth,” said Damra, folding the lap cloth and placing it on the table. She had most definitely lost her appetite. “How long have you been spying on me?”

  “I was there,” Silwyth admitted readily. “But not to spy on you, Damra of Gwyenoc. I came following another. The one I followed led me to you. She and I both eavesdropped. I learned some most intriguing things. And so did she.” He jabbed at the bowl again with the cane. “Thus, the foxglove in the soup.”

  “You have admitted you are an outlaw, disgraced, dishonored. I do not know your game, but I begin to suspect that you want money.” Damra rose to her feet. “I thank you for the warning. Whether it is true or not, you are due a reward for your trouble—”

  “Do not dismiss me so lightly, Damra of Gwyenoc,” Silwyth’s voice hardened. “Valura thinks you are dead. She will be here soon, for she comes to steal the object in the knapsack. You heard her, behind the wall. You searched for her and she was forced to flee. Thus she did not see you try to take the knapsack from the pecwae and fail. That was good fortune, for otherwise she would be paying a visit to the pecwae and his friends this night. They would not survive the encounter. As it is, she came after you.”

  “Again, I thank you for the warning—”

  “Do you know what she is, Damra of Gwyenoc? She is a Vrykyl. How frustrating it must have been for poor Valura.” Silwyth smiled, dark, tight. “To find the prize Dagnarus has been seeking for two hundred years and not be able to take it. How she must have longed to slay you in the garden, seize the prize then and there. But she has other business this night, important business. She dared not risk a battle, one that would draw attention and involve the Shield’s guards. Poisoning you was much easier, quicker, safer.”

  Damra was silent, troubled.

  “You do not believe me,” said Silwyth and he sounded more sad than offended. “My proof will walk through that door. What will you do when the Vrykyl comes?”

  “If what you say is true—”

  “It is.”

  “—then when this evil being comes, I will slay it—”

  “No, that you must not do, Damra of Gwyenoc. As I said, Valura has other business this night, business she conducts for her lord Dagnarus. She must be allowed to proceed with that business, for then the plots and intrigues of Garwina of Wyval will be revealed and you will have the proof you need to force him to
free your husband.”

  Damra’s temper snapped. “You know a great deal about my personal affairs, old man. Too much!—”

  “Far too much,” he agreed, and there was pain in his voice, his eyes were shadowed.

  Damra glared at him, frustrated. Heated words would gain her nothing and might lose her a great deal. Striving to calm herself, she looked away from the infuriating old man and looked back at the bowl of soup, now tepid. She looked at the screen behind which the old man had hidden. She looked at the shrine of the Honored Ancestor, who had comforted the lonely little girl, but who was incapable of helping the woman, no matter how much Damra longed for it.

  “Very well. I will do as you suggest. I will wait to see if this Vrykyl materializes.” Once committed, Damra was ready to proceed. “When is she likely to appear?”

  “With the depths of the night,” said Silwyth. “She will expect to find you dead.”

  Damra gave an exasperated sigh. “This is ludicrous. The moment she touches me, she will discover that I am very much alive. The blessed armor will act to guard me from the Void. I will have no choice but to slay her.” Damra pondered the problem. “I could use my power to create an illusion of death—”

  “Illusions trick the living mind. The Vrykyl do not live. They are given existence by the Void and, as such, they can see through any illusion. But if you are adept at your part, Damra of Gwyenoc, Valura will not touch you or even come near you. She has no care for you. She comes for one thing, the thing that is to her more precious, more valuable than all the jewels and all the gold in all the world.”

  “The object is not as valuable as that,” said Damra, off-handedly, not wanting to admit that she knew what the old man was talking about.