Guardians of the Lost (32 page)

“There,” she said. “The eyes will keep watch. The Warrior of Darkness is still far away.”

“But getting closer,” said Arim.

“Yes.” The Grandmother sighed. “That is true. Is there no way to stop him?”

“None that I know of. Perhaps the elves might. They loathe the Void and all things pertaining to it. We might be safer in elven lands, but I do not even know that for certain.”

The Grandmother beckoned him with a finger. Arim stood almost six feet tall, the Grandmother was nearer four. He bent down, his face near to hers.

“The Warrior of Darkness is not after the amethyst, is he?” she asked in a hissing whisper.

“No,” Arim confirmed softly, unable to lie to her. “He is not.”

“He follows us for the bone knife?”

“I don't think so. I believe there is something more. The secret Lord Gustav shared only with Bashae.” Arim spoke hesitantly. “Jessan places you and Bashae in peril.”

“Don't tell
me
,” said the Grandmother caustically. She pointed toward the heavens. “Tell the gods. They are the ones who chose him. Why do you think I decided to come along? Someone had to keep an eye on them.”

Bidding Arim good-night, she gave the agate stick a final pat and an admonition to keep close watch and clicked and jingled her way to the sleeping chamber.

Arim doused the fire, so that the light would not disturb them, and poured himself a cup of honey wine from a flagon. He sat long, sipping the wine and staring at the dying embers, pondering what to say to the elven ministers, what to do about Jessan and the blood knife.

He reached a decision with the end of the wine. Rinsing out the cup so that the residue would not attract ants, he put away the cup and the flagon and went to check on his guests.

They were all asleep, deeply asleep. Bashae slept curled in a ball, one arm looped through the strap of the knapsack. Jessan slept fitfully, jerking and tossing on his mat. The Grandmother snored and snuffled. The little silver bells rang softly every time she moved.

Returning to the main room, Arim spread out his sleeping mat in front of the door. Opening an ornate chest decorated in ivory that stood in one corner, he removed a curved-bladed
sword. He lay down in front of the door, the naked blade near his hand.

He lay awake, stared into the darkness. If he was correct, the most valuable artifact in all of Loerem had just come into his possession, his care. Arim fell asleep at last, but he did not sleep well.

B
ashae awoke to darkness. For long moments, he was disoriented, couldn't recall where he was or why he was here. Memory returned and with it a knowledge of his surroundings and with that the fear he'd felt last night. He lay on his pallet, staring into the darkness, wondering if it was the middle of the night or somewhere near dawn. He had just decided it must be night when he heard a bird chirp, reminding potential rivals that this was her nesting site and to keep away. She received a sleepy sounding response and then it seemed that the entire bird community was awake, their voices blending so that Bashae lost track of the various conversations.

The darkness in the room faded to gray. He glanced over at Jessan's mat and was not surprised to see it was empty. Hearing soft footsteps, Bashae swiftly closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Jessan would be astonished to find his usually late-sleeping friend already awake. He would ask questions and Bashae didn't want to provide answers, mainly because he didn't have answers.

Bashae gave what he considered a very realistic start and grumble when Jessan shook him. Rolling over, blinking his eyes, Bashae yawned and said sleepily, “What time is it?”

“Dawn.”

“Dawn! Go away.” Bashae rolled back over. He truly hoped Jessan would leave. Not that Bashae wanted to go back to sleep. He couldn't do that. He wanted time to himself, time to think.

Jessan was persistent, however. Once he got an idea in his head, he never let go.

“Get up, you sloth!” he said. “I need your help.”

Bashae sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Help? Help to do what?”

Jessan cast a glance at the slumbering Grandmother. “Not here.”

Sighing deeply, Bashae rose to his feet and followed Jessan out to the main room. The fire had gone out, leaving only a pile of feathery ashes.

Bashae looked around. “Arim?” he called out softly.

“He's not here,” said Jessan and his voice was grim.

“Why do you say it like that?” Bashae asked. He liked the Nimorean, liked his soft voice and his gentle demeanor, liked to watch him move. “He said he'd be gone before we were awake.”

“I don't trust him,” Jessan muttered.

“You Trevenici don't trust anyone,” Bashae pointed out. “You're just angry because…”

Jessan rounded on him. “Because of what?”

“Nothing,” said Bashae. Sometimes words have points sharp as knives. Such words can draw heart's blood and leave scars that will never heal. “What is it you woke me up to do?”

Jessan walked over to the coal scuttle, pointed down at it. “I want you to pick up that stick.”

“Why?” Bashae wondered, coming over to join his friend.

“I want the knife,” Jessan said. “That is—I don't
want
it,” he added, answering Bashae's look of astonishment. “But I have to have it. If you must know, I'm going to get rid of it.”

Bashae's spirits lifted. “Are you? What will you do with it?”

“I thought about it last night. I'm going to take it to the Temple our friends told us about.”

“I think it's a good idea, Jessan,” said Bashae, adding hesitantly, “But the Trevenici said only the Nimoreans are allowed in the Temple—”

“The gods chose me,” said Jessan. “They can deal with it. I've staked my soul.”

At this juncture, Bashae knew better than to argue. Once a Trevenici “stakes his soul,” he will do what he says or die in the attempt.

“Do you know how to find the Temple? All these streets—” Bashae made a helpless gesture.

“Sharp Sword told me that there is one street called Queen's Row that runs through the center of Myanmin. The street leads from the wharves to the south to the temple in the north and goes past the military barracks. He told me about it in case I wanted to join them later. That street is only six streets west of Kite Makers Street. All we have to do is to find it and follow it north to the temple.”

“Won't Arim be worried when he comes back and sees that we're gone?”

“The Grandmother will be here,” Jessan said shortly. “He knows we wouldn't go off and leave her.”

Bashae thought this over and decided it sounded logical. He picked up the stick with the eyes. Jessan started to reach into the scuttle, to take the knife. He paused, straightened up, glared at the stick.

“Move it away,” he ordered.

“But, Jessan—”

“I don't like it watching me.”

Hiding his smile, Bashae carried the stick into the room where the Grandmother lay sleeping. He laid the stick down beside her hand. Mumbling to herself, she reached out, rested her hand on the stick and smiled in her sleep.

“There,” Bashae said, returning. “It can't see you.”

Jessan reached into the coal scuttle and, after a moment's hesitation, snatched up the knife. Grimacing, he thrust the knife swiftly into a leather pouch that he used to hold flints for making fires. His forehead was covered with sweat. He was pale around the lips.

“Let's go,” he said.

Intent on not losing their way, both looked at the road ahead. Neither thought to look behind.

A devout people, the Nimoreans regularly consult the gods before almost any undertaking that is likely to have an effect on their lives. The gods are seen by the Nimoreans to take an active role in all aspects of life, from family affairs to business matters. The Nimorean Queen is also High Priestess, both political leader and spiritual.

The Myanmin Temple was located in the northern part of the city and was one of the oldest structures in the city, having been among the first to be built when the exiled Nimrans made their way north some three hundred years ago.

The street Jessan and Bashae followed ended at the city wall. A gate led through the wall into a pine forest. As they were about to enter beneath the tall trees, Bashae halted.

“What?” Jessan demanded.

“This forest is old,” Bashae said, awed. “Old and magical. Can't you feel it? It makes my fingertips tingle.”

“It's dark enough, that's for sure,” said Jessan, eyeing the forest uneasily. “Does it seem angry?”

Bashae considered. “No, not at the moment. But I think it could be angry, if it wanted to be.”

Jessan heaved a great sigh. “We've come this far…” His face dark, he plunged into the forest. Bashae followed, after nearly breaking his neck in an attempt to see to the very tops of the tall pines.

All along their route, people cast curious glances at the pair, some even pausing involuntarily to stare at the pecwae. The Nimoreans are a polite people, however, and no one interfered with them.

The two walked beneath the pine trees. Jessan ranged far ahead and kept gesturing impatiently to Bashae, who meandered along beneath the thick shadows, inhaling the sharp scent and running his hands through the pine boughs.

They emerged from the pine trees to see a wondrous sight, a sight that few others besides Nimoreans ever beheld. An area of green grass soft and smooth as silk encircled a vast canyon carved of magic and loving hands. The temple structure, built entirely
below ground, was a half mile across and a half-mile deep. The top rim of the temple wall was made of granite that was carved in the shapes of animals, done in relief. It was said that every animal known to walk Loerem was represented in the carvings, all many times larger than life and so realistic that the lion seemed ready to pounce and the fawn ready to toddle off on unsteady legs.

Below the border of animals was a border done all of birds and winged creatures and below that were the fish and the animals who live in the sea. Interspersed among all the animals were the plants of the world and the sea.

At each of the four cardinal points was a dragon, one for each of the elements: earth, air, fire and water. The stone dragons kept watch over the stairs that led down into the Temple.

Nimorean males stood guard. Chosen for their height and stature and courage in battle, every one of them stood well over six feet five inches tall, with powerful arms and broad chests. They wore immense helmets, decorated with black feathers, that made them appear even taller. Each was clad in shining bronze armor of ancient design, but modern make. Each held a painted shield as big as he was and an enormous spear, also decorated with feathers. They held the spears together, tip-to-tip, to form an entryway through which every person seeking admittance into the temple had to pass. The guards said no word to anyone approaching the stairs, but looked over each with keen, glittering eyes.

The guards spotted Jessan and Bashae the moment the two walked out of the tree line. The guards' eyes flicked back to them constantly, never letting them out of their sight.

Jessan knew that if the gods did not dwell here, they were frequent guests. His steps slowed. The knowledge of his terrible burden weighted him down so that it seemed he wore shoes of iron.

Bashae, the fearful, the coward, was quite at his ease here. He was now the one who ranged ahead and he halted only when he realized that his friend had stopped walking. Bashae regarded Jessan in concern.

“What's the matter?”

“They know,” was all Jessan could manage to say. “They know.”

“Do you want me to go ahead?” asked Bashae.

Jessan couldn't reply, but he nodded.

Bashae walked toward the guards, but when he drew near, his own confidence lagged. He'd never seen people so big, didn't know that they came that way. He looked into the stern faces for some sort of sign, but although they watched him, their eyes gave nothing away. Knowing that Jessan was depending on him, Bashae gulped and walked forward, clutching the knapsack. He passed through the pointed spears. No one said a word. Turning, he grinned at Jessan and motioned for him to follow.

His face grim, his jaw so tight that it quivered, Jessan took a step forward. With a swift and sudden movement, the guards crossed their spears, barred his way.

“Let him pass,” said a voice.

Jessan turned. So intent had he been on the guards that he had not noticed the sudden silence that had fallen over those behind him. He saw the Nimoreans sinking to the ground on one knee, placing one hand to the earth and the other over their hearts.

A Nimorean woman stood before him. She wore white silk robes threaded through with gold; a golden girdle, studded with emeralds; golden arm bracelets, warm against her ebony skin; gold ear rings and a golden band circling her head. Her black hair was shorn close, her eyes were large, wide set and luminous.

Jessan had never seen anyone so beautiful and the first thought that came to him was that she was one of the gods. This thought was confirmed by the fact that all the Nimoreans were down on their knees. He thought perhaps he should prostrate himself, as well, but he couldn't quite seem to make his body obey his brain's commands.

A flash of movement caught his eye. Arim appeared, emerging from the forest. Reaching Jessan's side, Arim knelt down before the woman.

“High Priestess, forgive him this sacrilege,” Arim said. “He is my guest and does not know the ways of our people. Let his punishment fall instead upon me.”

“No sacrilege here,” said the priestess. “He comes in humility.
His heart beneath the shadow is good. He and his friend may enter. You may come with them, Arim the Kite-Maker.”

Breathing a relieved sigh, Arim rose to his feet. Bowing again to the priestess, he said, “First, I must make my explanation for my behavior to these gentlemen for following them without their knowledge.”

The High Priestess inclined her head in gracious permission.

Arim turned to Jessan and Bashae. “I had to be certain of you both. I hope you understand.”

Jessan's first inclination was to be angry, but the thought of the terrible object that he carried and the realization that he'd done little to earn anyone's trust caused him to swallow his bile. He nodded, his face rigid.

Bashae regarded Arim intently. “Can
we
be certain of
you
?”

Arim was taken aback for a moment. Because the pecwae was small, like a child, Arim had expected him to think like a child. He realized he had made a mistake.

“You can be certain of me,” Arim said. “I swear by the gods in whose presence we now come.”

“Good enough,” said Bashae. “For now.”

At the command of the priestess, the guards lifted their spears. The priestess indicated with a gesture of her hand that Arim and the Trevenici were to precede her.

The way down was long, the stairs steep, for they had been carved into the side of the cliff. At the bottom of the stairs was a vast courtyard, whose paving stones were made of white marble, flecked with gold. Benches and fountains provided solace and refreshment for those weary after their long descent. At the north end of the courtyard stood two double doors made of bronze, marked with the symbol of the Queen of Nimorea—a white bear formed of inlaid marble.

“I've never seen a white bear before,” said Bashae and then he clapped his hand over his mouth, for his shrill voice rang throughout the courtyard.

“Yet, we have them in our country,” the priestess answered him with a smile. “When our Princess Hykael led her people to this
land, they came upon a white bear, blocking their path. The people were frightened, for they knew that the white bear had been sent by the gods. The people begged the Princess to flee the bear. The Princess refused to heed them. She walked forward to meet the white bear, saying that if it slew her, then she knew that the gods had punished her for her misdeeds. She came before the bear and knelt at its feet.

“The white bear turned and walked away. The Princess followed and so did all her people, though the white bear led them away from the main trail. The people heard a terrible noise, like thunder that was not in the heavens but on the ground. They found out later than an avalanche had swept down out of the mountains and wiped away the trail. Had they walked that path, they would have been killed, every one of them. The white bear had guided them to safety. Princess Hykael named the white bear sacred and it is death now to any who would slay one.”