Guardians of the Lost (30 page)

Jessan watched them depart and tried to keep his courage from departing with them. He was once more alone in this strange place with this strange man, responsible for those under his care. Jessan folded his arms, planted his feet, and got back down to business.

“Now, as I was about to say—”

“Please, sir,” said Arim mildly. “What are you called, by the way?”

“I have not yet chosen my name,” said Jessan, flushing, “but I am called Jessan. This is my friend Bashae and this is the Grandmother.”

The Nimorean bowed gracefully to each of them in turn.

“I am Arim,” he said. He made a graceful gesture. “My dwelling place is not far. If you would do me the honor to accompany me, we will find food and drink there and a place where we can speak without disturbing those around us.”

The Grandmother gazed at the Nimorean steadily. He met her gaze, held it.

“I don't know about you, Jessan,” she stated suddenly, “but I would like a place where I can soak my feet.”

Reaching out, the Grandmother rubbed her finger on the Nimorean's arm. “Does that color come off, black sir?” she asked, peering at her finger in the fading twilight. “No, it doesn't.” She sounded awed. “How do you people get the dye to stick?”

“My skin is not dyed, nor is it painted. Black is the color I was born with. All of the people of the Nimorean race have black skin.”

“Now I can die,” said the Grandmother with finality. “I have seen an elf and people with skin the color of midnight. Now I can die.”

“I hope you will not die for a long time yet,” said Arim politely.

“Ha!” The Grandmother chortled and poked at him again with her finger. “You and me both.”

A
rim's street consisted entirely of dwellings—stone and wood houses that fit snugly together with nothing but the walls separating one house from another. They were built in this manner not only to conserve space—always a premium in a walled city—but to provide warmth in the winters that were harsh and chill this far north. Few of the dwellings had windows, for that would allow the cold to enter. All the houses looked alike, their stone walls chalk white in the darkness. Bashae asked sleepily how Arim knew which one was his, but his jaw-cracking yawn prevented him from hearing the answer.

Arim used a key to unlock his door, explaining that thieves were a sad fact of life, even in Myanmin. Jessan grimaced at the strange ways of city dwellers, wondered again why any person possessed of two feet would consent to stay in such a terrible place. He said proudly that Trevenici need no locks on their doors. Arim smiled and said that Jessan must be pleased to come from such a noble race.

Jessan always felt uneasy in houses, but more so in this one, that had no windows. The dwelling was small with only two rooms, a
front room for living and the back room for sleeping. The rooms were beautifully decorated. Kites hung from the walls. Their rich colors sparkled in the light of a fire Arim built in a raised, conical fireplace that stood in the center of the room and was open on all sides. The floor was covered with beautiful, soft, thick rugs. Arim spread additional rugs down on the floor and bade his guests rest while he fixed dinner.

Bashae and the Grandmother lay down near the fire and were soon fast asleep. Jessan did not lie down but sat propped up against the door, as close to outside as he could possibly manage. He was fully determined not to sleep. He planned to keep an eye on this Nimorean. But the rigors of the day proved too much. The house was quiet, the thick stone walls shut out all noise from the city outside, the carpets helped muffle sounds inside.

Arim moved about the dwelling, murmuring that he would fix something for them to eat if they would honor him by being his guests and sharing his poor repast. He spoke softly, walked softly, his movements so graceful that he seemed to flow over the floor rather than place his feet upon it. Jessan found himself nodding off. His head slumped forward onto his chest and he slept.

He woke with a start, to Bashae's shrill voice and Arim's mellifluous tones. Bashae sat on a high stool made of rich, dark wood, polished to a gleaming gloss. The stool's legs were heavily carved with all sorts of fanciful designs. Arim stood at a counter, cooking fish, by the smell. The Grandmother slept; her snoring a backdrop to their conversation.

Angry at himself for having fallen asleep on watch, Jessan bounded to his feet and somewhat grumpily demanded to know what they were talking about.

Bashae turned to his friend. “Arim was about to tell me the story of how the first elf flew on a kite.” He turned eagerly back. “Go ahead, Arim.”

Arim formed the fish into small balls, then rolled them in ground meal laced with various leaves and spices that gave off a savory, pungent aroma. A pot holding some sort of liquid had been suspended over the fire and was starting to bubble.

Arim smiled over his shoulder at Bashae. “First you must know something about the elves. The elven land of Tromek is divided up among seven major noble houses. These houses are often at war with each other and the story I am about to tell took place many centuries ago during one of these wars. No one knows or remembers why the war started. House Sithmara had gone to battle against House Wyval. House Wyval proved victorious, defeated their enemies in a victory so stunning that they managed to capture the noble lord who was the leader of House Sithmara, and his wife and his son.

“The noble lord requested death, for he was dishonored, and this was granted him. Before his death, he asked to bid farewell to his wife and son. He said the customary words of good-bye aloud to his son, but he whispered in the young man's ear that he was to do all he could to survive and return one day to lead their House in vengeance against their enemies. The son promised he would do so.

“The nobles of House Wyval debated long what to do with the son and heir of House Sithmara. The young man was eighteen and full grown, but in the land of the elves, that is still considered to be a child and there is no crime more heinous among the elves than to slay a child, even the child of your enemy.”

Jessan looked shocked at the idea of someone at age eighteen—his own age—being considered a child.

“You must remember that the elven lifespan is two hundred years or longer,” said Arim by way of explanation. “An elf is not considered to come to manhood until he reaches the age of twenty-five years. Until then, he or she is dependent upon the parents and may not fight in battle or marry or have any say in politics.”

“Tell about the kite,” Bashae said, brushing aside the strange ways of elves.

“The nobles of House Wyval could not put the son to death, but they could exile him and that is what they did. They sent the young man and his mother to a small house on a small island in the middle of a vast lake. They were given a year's supply of food and firewood and then left alone to fend for themselves. The nobles of House Wyval were very proud of having thought of this idea, for it
saved them from having to go to the expense of locking the two in some fortress prison where they would have to pay guards to keep watch. The water of the lake was the guard, for it was icy cold and perilously deep and the shore was far, far distant, so far away that they could not see it. Once every year, the nobles of House Wyval sent another year's supply of food and firewood, for they had left the prisoners no axes, for fear they would cut timber and build a boat. House Wyval meant to keep them captive for the rest of their lives.

“Now, the mother and son had not been given axes, but they had been given knives to cut their food. To while away the hours of boredom that hung so heavily on her hands, the mother cut sticks from the trees and made herself a kite out of some of the paper used to wrap their food. She wrote prayers to the gods on the paper of the kite and, using string from the sacks of rice, she sent the kite with the prayers skyward, hoping that the wind would carry them to the ears of the gods. The gods heeded her prayers, for one day while she was flying the kite, her son was given the idea of building a kite big enough to carry one of them to freedom.”

The Grandmother woke up and joined them in listening to the tale. Arim took the fish balls and dropped them one by one into the bubbling pot, taking care not to splash any of the hot oil.

“They set to work the next day to build a gigantic kite, the likes of which had never been seen or imagined. They had to spoil some of the food in order to have enough paper and rope and they knew that, if this failed, they would starve. So certain were they that the gods were with them in this endeavor that they carried on.

“The day came when the giant kite was finished. They had decided that the mother would travel with the kite, for she was lighter in weight than the son and they would need his strength to guide the kite and keep fast hold of the rope. He lashed his mother to the wooden cross-bars of the kite and the two bade each other the farewells of those who go to their deaths.

“Then the mother and son cried out to the gods to hear them and answer their prayers. The gods did so, sending a great wind over the lake, a wind that blew strong and lifted the kite carrying
the noble mother up into the air. The son guided the rope in his strong hands and soon the kite was nothing more than a speck in the air. He held on until his arms trembled with weariness and his hands were raw and bleeding. He lost sight of the kite and then, suddenly, the rope went slack. The kite had come down, but whether over land or over water, he had no way of knowing. For all he knew, his noble mother was dead and he would be alone on this island till the end of his days.

“He kept track of time by cutting notches in a tree. The notches were many, went up and down the bark several times. Months passed and his hope began to wane. Then, one day, he was looking out over the water when he saw a boat. His heart beat fast, for this was not the time that his enemies were accustomed to bring them supplies. To make a long story short,” Arim said, “for the fish balls are cooked and should be eaten while they are hot, in the boat was his noble mother and soldiers loyal to House Sithmara. Led by his mother, the army had fought a great battle against House Wyval and were victorious. The son was freed and went on to become a gallant leader of his people, while his mother is still honored as the Lady of the Kite, the first elf to be given the gift of flight.”

The Grandmother squatted on the floor, spread her bead skirt carefully around her.

“Liars,” was her pronouncement. “But they mean well.”

Arim ladled out the steaming fish balls, placing them in lacquered bowls decorated with pictures of flowers and beasts and filled with rice. Accustomed to roasted meat for every meal, Jessan had been dubious about eating this strange dish, but either he was extremely hungry or the fish balls were delicious, for he devoured several of them and when those were finished he was pleased to see Arim make more. He did not eat the rice, which he found gooey and tasteless.

Jessan tried once again, in between fish balls, to tell Arim the story of Lord Gustav, the reason they had come. But Arim said that business was never discussed during meals, for it was harmful to the digestion. After he had cleaned up, he brewed tea made of rose hips and hibiscus. This he drank from a cup made of porcelain so thin that
Bashae could see the firelight through it. He offered the tea to his guests. The Grandmother and Bashae accepted. Jessan declined, said he would drink nothing but water.

“Now please tell me about Lord Gustav,” Arim said, “and why he has sent you to visit me.”

Bashae told his tale. He would have started immediately with the fight by the lake, but Jessan, who liked things orderly, made him back up and tell how they had met the dwarf and to start from that point. Arim was a good listener. He kept his eyes fixed on Bashae and if he interrupted, it was only to ask for clarification of a detail.

Bashae came to his favorite part of the tale. “The lake water bubbled and boiled. Lord Gustav stared into the lake, his sword drawn. He warned us that something evil was coming right behind him, and that he must fight it and we were to keep well away. Then there came out of the water a knight wearing black armor that was terrible to look upon. It was so horrible that I was more afraid than I'd ever been in my life. Even Jessan was afraid, weren't you?”

Jessan said defensively, “The knight told us we were wise to be afraid for the thing was a creature of the Void, a Vrykyl—”

Arim sprang to his feet. His tea cup fell from his hand, landed on the carpet, so that it did not break, but the tea splashed over the Grandmother.

“A Vrykyl,” Arim said in hollow tones. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. We did not know that was the name of the Void warrior at the time, but the dwarf told us later.”

“A Vrykyl following Gustav,” Arim said to himself. He bent down, picked up the empty tea cup and returned it to the counter. His hand was shaking. “Forgive my weakness. Please continue with your tale.”

Bashae cast an uncertain look at Jessan, who shrugged, not knowing what to make of this. Bashae described Gustav's battle with the Vrykyl and their own roles in it. Arim smiled to hear that they had helped the Dominion Lord to kill the vile creature, but his smile was tremulous and he sighed deeply.

When Bashae came to the part about Jessan taking the Vrykyl's
armor, Arim looked at Jessan and the Nimorean no longer smiled. His face was serious and grave.

“That was foolish,” he said quietly.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Jessan demanded irritably. “It was good armor, the best I had ever seen. My uncle Raven said so.”

“Where is the armor now?” Arim asked.

Jessan was not going to answer. It wasn't any of this man's business.

“Where is the armor now, Jessan?” Arim asked and the gravity in his voice compelled Jessan to reply.

“My uncle Raven has it,” Jessan said. “He took it with him to Dunkar.”

Arim said something in Nimorean.

“What does that mean?” Jessan demanded.

“I said, ‘May the gods be with him,'” Arim replied, his voice somber.

Jessan flinched. He had discounted all notion that the armor could be evil. But now, after waking morning after morning from the debilitating nightmares, he was not so certain. Fear for his uncle chilled him, twisted his stomach so that the food he had eaten was suddenly cold, hard rock.

“I didn't know!” Jessan cried, jumping to his feet and pacing about the small room that seemed to be closing in on him. “It was just armor. Nothing more.” He yanked open the front door, took in breaths of air that was not fresh, for it smelled of the city, but at least relieved his feelings of being trapped and caged. “Nothing more.”

He stood a while longer in the open doorway, then turned slowly to look back inside. The Grandmother stared into the flames. Bashae regarded him with pity and understanding. Arim's face revealed nothing of what he was thinking. Jessan licked dry lips.

“What could the armor do? How can armor be evil? It's just armor, isn't it?” he repeated.

Arim sighed deeply. Rising to his feet, he walked over to where Jessan stood and laid his hand upon the young man's arm. Ordinarily, Jessan did not like to be touched by anyone, especially a
stranger. But the man's hand was warm against Jessan's chill skin, the man's touch comforting.

“What a heavy burden to lay upon one so young,” Arim said. “Still, the gods must have their reasons. Do not blame yourself, Jessan. You had no way of knowing. No, the armor of a Vrykyl is not merely armor. It is…their flesh, their bone, their skin. When the Vrykyl was slain, what happened? Inside the armor was nothing but dust, right?”