Guardians of the Lost (56 page)

Shadamehr's own bedchamber was at the end of this hallway. Cluttered with books and chests overflowing with all sorts of oddities he'd collected in his travels, the floor was strewn with his clothes, for he could never be bothered to take the time to put anything away and he refused to permit servants to go around “picking up after me.”

Shadamehr was an energetic soul. Not much given to sleep and fond of study, he was known to beat upon someone's door in the still, dead hours of the night if he thought the person might provide him with an answer to one of his endless questions.

The room belonging to Shadamehr's seneschal, the long-suffering Rodney, was on this floor. Ulaf peered in through the open door, but Rodney of the Keep, as he was known, was not in his room, nor did Ulaf really expect him to be. Responsible for handling the vast estate and all that went with it, Rodney rarely saw the interior of his bedroom. It was often joked that there must be two or three of Rodney, for he was always to be found exactly where he was supposed to be, whenever anyone wanted him.

Two of the other rooms on the floor were occupied by members of the Revered Order of Magi. One room belonged to Rigiswald, who had been Shadamehr's tutor when he was young and was now his adviser and counselor. A dapper and polished old man with a neatly clipped, very black beard of which he was vain and which most believed he dyed, the sharp-tongued old man was the most feared person in the establishment. Ulaf hoped to goodness Shadamehr wasn't keeping company with his tutor, for then Ulaf would have to interrupt them, and while he had faced down many
a monster during his travels through Loerem, he dreaded few things more in this world than a tongue-lashing from Rigiswald.

The mage's door was open. Ulaf peeped cautiously inside. The dour old man reclined in a chair near the fire with a goblet of wine in one hand and a book in the other. He was alone. Breathing a sigh of relief, Ulaf crept past.

The other room belonged to Alise, another member of the Revered Order of Magi and a long-time friend of Lord Shadamehr's. If Rigiswald was the most feared person in the household, Alise was the most loved. Almost every man who came into Lord Shadamehr's service found themselves dreaming of her fiery red hair and her vibrant green eyes. Shadamehr was not married and neither was Alise. There was much speculation about whether or not they were lovers and money had changed hands on the matter. No one had yet won or lost the bet, for if they were lovers, they were incredibly discreet. Ulaf tended to think they weren't, for he sometimes saw Alise look at Shadamehr with something in her eyes that was loving and at the same time not.

Ulaf concluded that Shadamehr must have come to visit Alise, for none of the other rooms in this wing was currently occupied. Alise's door was closed, however.

Wondering if the rumors were true, not wanting to disturb them if they happened to be together, Ulaf put his ear to the door. He didn't hear anything. He hesitated, but the news was really extremely important. Ulaf started to knock.

A strong hand clapped over Ulaf's mouth. A strong arm collared him and hauled him bodily across the hall, dragged him into the shadow of an enormous granite column.

“Don't say a word!” a voice spoke harshly in his ear, then added, “Promise?”

Ulaf couldn't speak, for the hand clamped shut his mouth, but he nodded. The hand slowly released its grip. Ulaf turned, glowering.

“You damn near gave me heart failure!”

Shadamehr raised a finger, pressed it against Ulaf's lips. “Shh! You promised.” He pointed across the hall. “Watch!”

“My lord, I've been searching for you everywhere. I have urgent—”

Shadamehr shook his head. “Not now. Watch!” he intoned.

They heard the sound of footsteps, the gentle swish of a hem-line on the floor, a woman's voice singing softly to herself an old folk tune.

Shadamehr's eyes glistened. He pulled Ulaf deeper into the shadows. “Keep your eyes on the door!” he breathed into Ulaf's ear.

Fuming, but knowing that the best way to accomplish his mission was to humor his lord, Ulaf did as he was told.

Alise walked to her door. Raising her hand, she spoke several words intended to remove the magic spell that kept the door locked. Then she stopped.

“That's odd,” she said to herself. “I must have forgotten to cast the spell this morning.”

Shrugging, she raised the black lever, pushed gently on the door and then halted with a gasp.

She stood staring in shocked amazement as every piece of furniture in her room moved rapidly away from her. Tables, couches, chairs, her desk, an ornate floor-standing candelabra went sliding and slithering over the floor, racing across the room in a mad dash that ended with all the furniture jammed up against an open window on the far wall.

Alise's face flushed as red as her hair. Clenching her fists, she shouted in a furious voice, “Shadamehr!”

His lordship collapsed with laughter onto the floor, where he lay kicking his heels, rolling back and forth, prostrate with mirth.

Spotting him, Alise pounced, nearly knocking down Ulaf in her attempts to seize hold of her lord. “How
dare
you? How dare you? Look at the mess—”

“Stop this infernal row!” Rigiswald shouted and slammed his door shut with a boom.

Still laughing, Shadamehr fended off Alise's pummeling and managed to regain his feet. “One of my better ones, don't you think? Come along!” Seizing hold of Alise with one hand and Ulaf with the other, he dragged them into Alise's room. “I'll show you how it's done.”

“My lord,” Ulaf tried again, carried along not so much by physical force as by the force of his lord's enthusiasm, “I have urgent news—”

“Yes, yes, someone always has urgent news. But this,” Shadamehr pointed proudly. “This is really important. Do you see how I did it? I tied a length of rope to every stick of furniture in the room and then attached all the ropes to that great rock down there.” Shadamehr hauled them bodily across the room to where the furniture stood in a jumbled heap, a veritable cobweb of rope tied around the legs. “Then I attached a last piece of rope to the door. When the door is opened, the weight falls and hauls all the furniture with it. I call it, ‘The Vanishing Room.' Wonderful, don't you think?”

“I
don't
think!” Alise stated, glowering, though an astute observer might have seen her lips twitch with suppressed laughter. “Who's going to clean up the mess?”

“Oh, I will,” said Shadamehr. “Ulaf will help me, won't you?”

Ulaf stared helplessly at his exasperating lord, who had once been described as “a human male of middle years with a nose like a hawk's beak, a chin like an ax-blade, eyes blue as the skies above New Vinnengael and a long, black mustache of which he is very proud and is constantly smoothing or twirling.” Shadamehr stood twirling that very mustache.

“My lord, will you please listen to what I have to tell you?” Ulaf said desperately.

“If it's about the elves evacuating the eastern end of the Tromek Portal because some sort of great thundering army of monsters is supposed to come crashing through it, I've already heard,” Shadamehr said, patting Ulaf on the shoulder. “But thanks for coming to tell me.” He continued to gaze around with pride at his handiwork. “You should have seen your face, Alise.”

“You should see yours with the marks of my fingernails in it,” she returned calmly.

“You know about the army?” Ulaf demanded. “What are we going to do?”

“Can't tell yet,” Shadamehr said, dabbing at the scratches with
the lace cuff of his shirt sleeve. “Not enough information. As Rigiswald says, it is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgment. You'll just end up having to revise your plans and then you've wasted all that time.”

“Instead of spending all that time tying ropes to the legs of furniture,” Ulaf growled.

“It
was
funny, admit it,” said Shadamehr, nudging Ulaf in the ribs.

Voices called out from down below.

“My lord, there's a large rock dangling at the end of a rope—”

“My lord, an elven Dominion Lord has arrived. She came through the Portal and she—”

“Ah,” said Shadamehr with a sigh. “Now we will have our evidence.”

He put his arm around Ulaf's shoulder. “Let's go hear about this army of monsters. By the way,” Shadamehr added, eyeing Ulaf critically, “your tonsure's growing out quite nicely.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Ulaf. He gave up. “The Vanishing Room. It
was
funny, my lord.”

“One of my best,” said Shadamehr.

 

The elves believe that in the afterlife there is a prison house where those souls who have committed some terrible crime during their lifetime are sent for punishment. The souls are kept in the prison house, for they must not be permitted to return and wield influence over the living. The prison house of the souls is said to be a place of chaos and madness, for the souls are constantly trying to free themselves. Noble warriors, who have died honorable deaths, may choose to spend their eternal lives standing guard over these souls.

Upon first entering Shadamehr's Keep, Damra felt as if she had entered that same prison house, for everywhere she looked there was chaos and madness.

Elven households are tranquil, serene. Twenty elves may live in one small dwelling place, but the visitor would never be aware of it, for the elves know how to move silently and speak softly, make
themselves unobtrusive. In this castle, noise erupted around Damra. Every single person had his mouth open, shouting and hallooing, exclaiming and questioning. Twenty people made noise enough for forty.

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.”