Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Arriving at the main gate to this prison house of lost souls, the elven guides handed Damra and her friends over to a human named Rodney. The elves departed, saying they must return to their duties.

  Rodney escorted Damra and her companions to the outer courtyard, that resembled market day in Glymrae, only more confused. Stalls and lean-tos and ramshackle buildings filled the courtyard. Cattle, pigs, sheep, horses and chickens, adults of every type and variety, children of every manner and sort bellowed, hollered, bleated, baaed, clucked or screamed. Humans unwittingly entered Damra’s aura, jostled and shoved her in good-natured enthusiasm. A group of children—two humans, an elf, an ork and a dwarf—gathered around to stare with wide eyes and friendly grins at the pecwae.

  Damra was on the verge of leaving, when the crowd heaved and surged. People swirled around her, a voice shouted and a gap opened up. A man walked toward her. Some in the crowd applauded him, others cheered, a few laughed and called out to him in jest. He answered glibly, waving his hand, but not stopping. Two other humans accompanied him—a red-haired human female wearing the garb of a Temple mage and a dapper mage whose face was sour as if he’d bit into a briny pickle. By the calls and shouts, this man with the long mustache must be Baron Shadamehr.

  Damra thought the baron ugly, but then she thought most Vinnengaelean humans ugly, for they seemed chiseled out of rock with all the rough edges left on. She much preferred the looks of the fine-boned, glistening-skinned Nimorean humans. The baron had an undeniable air about him, however. Born to lead, he was a born leader.

  She stared at him with frank curiosity. After Arim had told her the story, she remembered hearing about Baron Shadamehr—the only Dominion Lord to have ever refused to undergo the Transfiguration.

  He had been the talk of the Council of Dominion Lords. They were still talking, although his refusal had taken place fifteen years ago. He’d been twenty at the time. He must be now about thirty-five.

  Halting in front of her, the Baron made a flourishing bow that would have looked silly in most humans but oddly suited him.

  “Baron Shadamehr, at your service, Dominion Lord,” he said, and he sounded respectful.

  She regarded him warily, not trusting him. He had refused a gift from the gods.

  He seemed not to notice her coolness or her hesitation.

  “My trusted advisers, Revered Brother Rigiswald and Revered Sister Alise. Whom might we have the honor of addressing?”

  “Damra of House Gwyenoc,” she said.

  “Jessan,” said Jessan briefly. He indicated the pecwae. “Bashae and the Grandmother.”

  Bashae bobbed his head.

  The Grandmother thrust her stick at Shadamehr, let the eyes have a good look. “They approve,” she stated.

  “Thank you,” said Shadamehr, glancing askance at the agate eyes. “I think.”

  He turned back to Damra. “House Gwyenoc. That name seems familiar to me, for some reason. You weren’t on the Council when I was dilly-dallying with them, were you? No, I thought not. You’re one of the new ones.”

  Hearing the term “dilly-dallying” used in reference to becoming a Dominion Lord, Damra was shocked almost past speaking. She was determined to remove herself from this madhouse as soon as possible, but she had one pressing question.

  “I am looking for a man,” she began.

  “Oh, we have several about,” Shadamehr replied with an ingratiating smile. He waved his hand. “Take your choice.”

  “You don’t understand,” Damra said, flushing. She did not like being made sport of. “He is my hus—”

  “Damra!”

  A voice she knew better than her own called her name. Arms that she loved better than her own enveloped her, held her close.

  “Griffith!” she whispered in a choked voice, embracing her husband.

  “That’s where I’ve heard her name,” said Shadamehr. “Poor man’s talked of nothing else since he came here.”

  He watched the couple cling to each other with as much pride as if he’d created them himself. Then, resting his hand gently on Griffith’s arm, Shadamehr said in apologetic tones, “I’m sorry I can’t give you more time to enjoy your reunion. But I really do have to ask your wife about this enemy army that may be down around our ears at any moment.”

  Damra provided Shadamehr with information on the advancing taan army, telling him what Silwyth had told her. She was terse and concise, speaking the truth, but adding no embellishments. She sat close to Griffith as she spoke. The two did not touch, for elves consider public displays of affection to be boorish and intrusive, but she was intensely aware of Griffith’s body so near hers. Whenever she answered a question evasively, she could feel him stir as if he would speak. He chose not to, but allowed her to tell her tale uninterrupted. She told Baron Shadamehr what she had seen and heard at the Portal, mentioning the Vrykyl as a creature of the Void, but not naming it.

  She thought to find these humans amazed and perplexed by her news. Although they appeared concerned, they did not seem all that surprised. The Baron exchanged glances with the young man, who had been introduced as Ulaf.

  “It seems that these Vrykyl are proliferating,” said Shadamehr. “One finds them everywhere one turns around.”

  Damra glanced sidelong at Griffith, who smiled and said to her softly, “Shadamehr has first-hand knowledge of Vrykyl.”

  “To my everlasting sorrow,” said Shadamehr. “But tell me, Damra of Gwyenoc, why did the Vrykyl attack you? From what we know of these creatures, the Void is in the area of the heart, not the brain. This Vrykyl knew you were going through the Portal. Why not just allow you to go?”

  Shadamehr spoke the question in pleasant tones with the slight edge of mockery he used to speak of everything, as if nothing in this life could possibly be taken seriously. Damra didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him. She avoided the question by saying something to the effect that she could not possibly know what such monsters were thinking.

  She found she could not look him in the eye when she said this untruth and that surprised her, for she had a very low regard for this human and could not understand why lying to him should bother her. Perhaps it was the eyes themselves. Gray in some lights, blue in others, Shadamehr’s eyes were clear and alert. He listened to her with complete attention, quick to take note of every detail. She found such focused absorption disconcerting in a human.

  Once again, she felt Griffith stir restlessly beside her. Reaching beneath her tunic, she found his hand and squeezed it tightly, promising him that she would tell him everything once they were alone together. He squeezed back, but his eyes, when they looked at her, were troubled.

  As to Jessan, Bashae and the Grandmother, Damra had warned them before they arrived at the Keep to say nothing of the Sovereign Stones to anyone. She was worried, at first, thinking that among humans, they might feel inclined to talk.

  Jessan sat silently, listened and watched, said nothing. Trevenici are known to be distrustful of strangers and are almost always reclusive and withdrawn until they come to know people. Shadamehr appeared to understand this about the young man, for, after offering one of the Revered Magi to heal his hand—an offer Jessan abruptly refused—Shadamehr said nothing else to the Trevenici, although he included him in the conversation by looking at him often.

  As to Bashae and the Grandmother, they sat transfixed, unmoving. Bashae held his knapsack to his chest, the Grandmother held fast to the agate-eyed stick. They might have both been deaf and dumb, for they evinced no reaction to anything.

  “I think we have enough information for the moment,” Shadamehr said at last, rising to his feet. He looked at Damra and Griffith and smiled. “We’ll let these two lovebirds have some time alone.”

  Damra would have left the baron’s presence then and there, but Griffith lingered to speak to him.

  “Shadamehr,” he said, “what are we going to do? An army of ten thousand!”

  “Yes, that does pose a bit of a problem, seeing that there a
re only about two hundred of us,” said Shadamehr. “I’ll have to give this matter some thought.”

  Reaching out a lanky arm, he draped it over the shoulder of the red-haired female mage, who promptly sought to escape.

  “Round up the others, will you, Alise? Ulaf, take charge of our guests. All but Griffith and his lady love. They can likely manage on their own.”

  The moment the two elves were alone in Griffith’s chamber—a small room located in the far west wing of the Keep—they made up for months of enforced absence with sweet kisses, pausing in their lovemaking to talk of what had happened, often speaking at the same time so that they were constantly interrupting each other.

  “I would still be a prisoner of the Wyred, if it were not for Silwyth,” said Griffith.

  Tall and slender, Griffith was graceful and careful in his movements, as are all elves. He rarely raised his voice, yet there was a confidence about him that spoke of vast resources of energy and conserved power. Thus is the leopard still dangerous even when it sleeps. The elaborate tattooed mask of the Wyred emphasized his high cheekbones and made it seem as if his chin was more pointed than it really was. Damra ran her finger along that chin and kissed the point.

  “Silwyth!” she exclaimed. “He told me he freed you, but I must admit that I found that difficult to believe. Why should he?”

  Griffith regarded her in astonishment. “Why should he? Because you sent him to free me. He said that you had sent him and that I was to come here, where you would meet me when you had the chance. I was not to try to get in touch with you, for that would put both our lives in danger.”

  “Griffith,” said Damra, sitting back to stare at him in equal astonishment, “I did not send him. I never even knew he existed before he saved my life from the Vrykyl. I had no idea where you were, what had become of you. For all I knew…”

  She shuddered, and he clasped her tightly in his arms.

  Theirs had been an arranged marriage, as are all marriages among the elves: high born or low. Considered societal outcasts, the Wyred often find it difficult to marry outside their own order. Yet such marriages are encouraged, in order that the Wyred receive an influx of fresh blood; the elves having discovered long ago that interbreeding of magi dilutes the magical powers of their offspring. No family will permit an eldest child, either son or daughter, to marry a Wyred, but perhaps a fifth or sixth child and especially a twelfth or thirteenth child may be married off to one of the outcasts without fear of damaging the family’s honor. To make the marriage even more attractive, the Wyred always see to it that their members come well dowered.

  Damra and Griffith had first met on their wedding day, customary among elves. Fortunately for both, they had been so smitten with each other that they disgraced their families by gazing at each other with lovesick eyes during the ceremony and then fleeing afterward in unseemly haste to the bedroom.

  “We are together now, and that is what matters,” said Griffith, smoothing her hair and gently kissing her tears from her cheeks.

  “Yes,” said Damra, wiping her face. “Yes, but I fear we’re not going to be able to celebrate our reunion just yet. We have to leave here, Griffith. We have to leave immediately. We must go to New Vinnengael and we must reach there ahead of this army of the Void.”

  “Of course we must, my dear,” said Griffith, “but there is no need to rush off at once, is there?” He watched his wife in some bemusement for she had left the bed on which they were relaxing and started stowing his clothes in her pack. “I would like to wait to hear what Lord Shadamehr plans to do. If he leaves, as well, we would be better advised to travel with—”

  “No,” said Damra, straightening. “No. You and I will leave together.”

  “My love—”

  “You don’t understand, Griffith!” Glancing back at the closed door, she came close to her husband. She took hold of his hands, held them fast and whispered in his ear, “I carry with me the elven portion of the Sovereign Stone.”

  Griffith was astounded. “What? How—”

  “The Shield tried to steal it, or rather one of the Vrykyl tried. Garwina’s working with the Vrykyl, Griffith. That’s why they chased us in the Portal. Silwyth warned me this would happen. He took the Stone out of the dead hand of the Vrykyl and gave it to me. I must take it to the Council of Dominion Lords. And that is not all. Those people I came with. The young pecwae carries the human portion of the Stone.”

  Griffith regarded her in dazed confusion, helpless to say a word.

  “So you see, Griffith, the heavy burden of responsibility that I bear. That is why we must leave at once. If these should fall into the hands of the Void Lord—”

  Griffith rose from the bed. “We have to tell Shadamehr.” He started for the door.

  Damra caught hold of him, dragged him back. “What? Are you mad? I don’t trust him—”

  “Why ever not?” Griffith asked, puzzled. “He passed the Test for a Dominion Lord—”

  “But he refused the Transfiguration. What kind of man does that?”

  “A man who has questions and concerns, Damra,” Griffith replied, his tone grave. “A man who feels that the Council is becoming too political. You yourself have said much the same. You said the Council should have taken action, should have spoken out when Karnu seized the orken holy site of Mount Sa’Gra.”

  “If I criticize the Council, I do so as one of them,” Damra returned. “He abrogated that right with his cowardly refusal to humble himself to the gods.”

  “You may have a point there,” Griffith admitted with a wry smile. “I can’t imagine Baron Shadamehr humbling himself before anyone, the gods included. But you are wrong if you think him a coward, Damra, or anything less than honorable and loyal and just.”

  Griffith gestured to the door and the Hall beyond. “Ask those people out there and they will tell you tales of lives he has saved and injustices he has righted. He knows about the Vrykyl for he encountered one and barely escaped with his life. Whether he is a Dominion Lord or not, he is a true knight, not only of Vinnengael, but of all people everywhere.”

  “I think he has cast a spell over you, Husband,” Damra said, half-jesting and half-concerned.

  Griffith flushed. He had not meant to speak with such passion. “I have come to like Baron Shadamehr very much during the month I have spent here. I was doubtful as you when I first arrived, but I was able to do a small service for him. During the time when we were together I saw the courage and caring that lies below his devil-take-me attitude. Oh, he has his eccentricities. You have only to glance out the window to see a large rock hanging from the second story to know that. But his faults and foibles are of the gentler sort.”

  Griffith paused, observing his wife. She looked tired, weary to the point of dropping. Her shoulders were stooped as if the burden she bore was a physical one and she seemed to have aged years in the months during which they had been apart.

  “I think you should tell him, Damra,” Griffith said quietly. “If for no other reason than he knows the best and fastest way for us to travel to New Vinnengael, and he can provide us escort and protection.” Griffith took his wife in his arms, kissed her forehead. “The decision is up to you, of course. I am merely your advisor.”

  “My best and most trusted advisor,” said Damra, nestling into her husband’s arms.

  She rested her head against his breast, listened to the beating of his heart. Her expression was solemn, for this decision was hers alone to make. Silwyth sending Griffith here, Silwyth sending her here…all so strange and inexplicable. Silwyth himself, disgraced scion of a fallen House. He had by his own admission committed murder and worse. How could she trust him? Yet, how could she not trust him, for he had saved her life and saved the Sovereign Stone.

  “You are tired,” said Griffith. “Lie down and sleep and think no more of this until you are rested.”

  “I will lie down, but not to sleep,” Damra said and taking her husband by the hand, she led him back to their bed.


  Ulaf offered to escort Jessan, Bashae and the Grandmother to a guest hall where they could eat and drink and catch up on their sleep.

  “And I will fix your hand,” Bashae said to Jessan, who gave an abrupt nod.

  As for the Grandmother, she thrust the stick in Ulaf’s face, then said something in the pecwae language, that was like a twittering of birds. Apparently her opinion was favorable, for Jessan made a gesture that indicated Ulaf was to lead and they would follow.

  They crossed a crowded courtyard, shoved their way past knots of people who stopped each other to ask if they’d heard the news, telling it if they hadn’t and discussing it if they had. Some argued that Shadamehr should stay and fight, despite being vastly outnumbered, and others maintained that, no, he should evacuate the Keep. The merchants were already making preparations to depart. The soldiers eyed the walls of the Keep with martial interest and spoke knowingly of mangonels and belfry towers and boiling oil.

  Ulaf kept up a one-sided conversation with his companions. Affable and easy-going, he had a gift for putting people at ease, one of the reasons Shadamehr had chosen him to go along with the newcomers.

  Ulaf spoke of many topics, watching Jessan closely to see which might interest him. Trevenici lands are not far from Dunkarga. Many Trevenici fight for the Dunkargan military. Hoping to gain some information about what had happened in that land, Ulaf mentioned that he had recently been in Dunkar, saying that he’d been studying at the Temple of the Magi there. Seeing a flicker of interest in Jessan’s eyes, Ulaf pursued the subject.

  “I know some of the Trevenici warriors,” he said. “There was a Captain whose name was Raven—”

  Reaching out his good hand, Jessan grabbed hold of Ulaf. “Captain Ravenstrike? He is my uncle.”