Guardians of the Lost (38 page)

“Shakur…” The name hummed through the knife.

She felt his response.

“Valura.”

Shakur detested her. He was jealous of her standing with Dagnarus. She knew this and reveled in it; one of her few remaining pleasures. Bound together by the blood knife and, more importantly, through the Dagger of the Vrykyl, they had no choice but to work together. The time would come, perhaps, when one would be forced to destroy the other, but that time was not now. They worked for one goal—their lord's ascendancy.

“You spoke to me of a Trevenici youth and two pecwae. You said it was possible that they might have something to do with the human part of the Sovereign Stone.”

“Yes…Why? Have you heard something about them?”

“Do you have a description? What do they look like?”

“A blasted Trevenici and two blasted pecwae is what they look like,” Shakur returned.

“Is there nothing special about them?”

“One—the Trevenici—carries Svetlana's blood knife.”

Valura peered over the wall. The Trevenici youth paced the garden, back and forth in a manner that was highly offensive to his elven host, for all who entered the gardens are supposed to be lost in wonder and admiration. The Nimorean spoke to him, rested a hand on his shoulder, tried to placate him. As a shark senses even the tiniest amount of blood spilled into the vastness of the ocean, Valura sensed the presence of the blood knife in the vastness of the Void. The knife was in the possession of the Trevenici.

“Yes, he has it, Shakur.”

“I was following him by that means, for he foolishly used it to kill. He must have been warned, however, for he has not used it for many weeks now. Where are you? More important, where are they?”

“The Trevenici and his companions are inside the first garden of the Shield's palace in Glymrae.”

“What in the name of the Void are they doing there?” Shakur was astonished.

“They have come to see a Dominion Lord—one Damra of Gwyenoc. They say they carry a request from a dying man—”

“That's it!” Shakur was exultant. “That's got to be the Sovereign Stone! Either that or at least knowledge of it. I am with our lord near the Tromek Portal. If I kill a few horses, I can be there in days—”

“Not soon enough,” said Valura coolly. “Remain with our lord. I will deal with this.”

She could not imagine her good fortune—to be able to present Dagnarus with two portions of the Sovereign Stone: the elven and the human. Particularly the human, the prize he'd sought for over two hundred years, the prize he'd murdered to obtain, the prize that he'd nearly died trying to possess. He would honor her for this, honor her and perhaps he might even love her again.

Shakur was furious. He, too, saw this as a way for her to rise to greater power. His rage was cold.

“This is too important for one of us to handle alone. I insist that you wait for me.”

“You are not my master, Shakur,” Valura said. “You are far away and I am near at hand. I will do what must be done.”

He fumed, impotent, threatening. He knew she was right—time was of the essence—but her being right made him all the more angry.

“I will speak to our lord about this, Valura!”

“You do that, Shakur,” she said and thrust the blood knife back into her belt. Retaining the image of the gardener, she crouched behind the wall, dug among the roots and bulbs, and listened.

 

Damra entered the first garden in company with the Keeper of the Keys. Her gaze swept the garden, took in everything, not a difficult
task, for unlike the elaborate, maze-like gardens farther up the hill, the first garden was small and open to view. Concentric circles of colored flowers surrounded a sundial mosaic. By day, the stones gleamed in the sunlight. Time's shadow swept across the face of the sundial, lightly touching the marked hours before passing on. The sundial was in full shadow now, for the sun had set.

The evening dinner hour approached. Servants moved about the garden, lighting candles placed inside decorative wrought iron lamps that stood at intervals along the garden wall. The light shone on a pecwae female, squatting on her haunches, rummaging among the stones that formed the sundial. At this very great insult, the Keeper sucked in a shocked breath and was about to call the guards. Fortunately, the Nimorean became aware of the pecwae's unconscionable conduct. He left off speaking to the barbarian youth and moved hastily to remonstrate with the pecwae.

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.