Guardians of the Lost (10 page)

The acquisition of the dwarf added to the regard in which the Trevenici held Jessan. Bashae willingly gave his friend the credit, though bringing the dwarf along had really been the pecwae's idea.

Jessan told Bashae of his good fortune. Bashae was disappointed to lose his friend, but he knew that this was the dream of Jessan's heart and so he congratulated him and spoke of how Jessan would return with so many trophies that he'd have to hire a wagon to transport them all.

The feast wound down. No one could eat another bite of roast venison or swallow another morsel of roasted corn. Before the feast had started, the villagers had gathered the choicest morsels and placed them in a basket to be given to the Grandmother, who had refused to leave the dying knight. Bashae offered to take her the basket. Jessan offered to accompany his friend.

The night was warm, the air soft and throbbed with the croaking of tree frogs.

“Grandmother!” Bashae called softly, parting the blanket that hung in the doorway. “We have brought food.”

The Grandmother came out to meet them, the stones and beads clicking and ringing. Accepting the basket without a word, she turned to go back inside.

“There's a jar of broth for Lord Gustav,” said Bashae. “I thought he might be able to drink it.”

The Grandmother halted, her hand on the blanket. She shook her head. “His body would not accept it. Do not worry,” she added, seeing the cast-down expression on Bashae's face. “He has no need of the food of this world anymore. He prepares to feast with the gods.”

She disappeared inside the healing house, letting the blanket fall behind her.

Bashae sighed deeply and brushed his hand across his eyes. “I do not want the knight to die.”

“He is an old man,” said Jessan. “And a warrior. He dies an honorable death having vanquished his foe. Your sniveling dishonors both him and you.”

“I know,” Bashae said. “I don't know why I feel this way. I guess because he's not ready to die. He has something that he has to do—urgent business, he said—and I am afraid he won't live to do it.”

“That's true of everyone,” Jessan said practically. “We all leave something unfinished behind.”

“I know,” Bashae said again.

The two started walking toward the pecwae camp. Bashae kicked the dust of the road, stared bleakly into the night. The moonlight touching the stones of the Sacred Circle caused the white rocks to gleam white, making the darkness around them seem darker by contrast.

“Would you ask your Uncle Raven to come talk to the knight, Jessan? Perhaps there is something your uncle could do to help him.”

“I'll ask him,” said Jessan. “But we don't have much time.
We're
leaving for Dunkar in two days,” he added, with proud emphasis on the plural.

“I remember. Still, I wish Raven would just talk to him.”

The two parted, yawning their goodnights. Jessan returned to his uncle's dwelling, where he found Ravenstrike already asleep. Jessan lay down on his blanket. He had a strange dream that night that two eyes were searching for him, scanning the horizon, hoping
to see him silhouetted against it. He woke during the night, troubled, but he could not tell by what.

By next morning, he did not remember the dream. Nor did he remember that he was going to tell his uncle about the knife.

It was as if he had owned the knife all his life.

G
ustav woke to pain that tore at his vitals like the claws of a black vulture. He stifled a groan, but the old woman was quick to hear even that small sound. She no longer fussed over him with her rocks and her feather-wafted smoke. She sat cross-legged on the ground at his side, her wizened hands folded in the bead-adorned lap of her skirt and gazed down at him sternly.

“It hurts you, does it,” she said, more a statement than a question.

He could not lie to her. He nodded sparingly. Any movement seemed to increase the pain done by the claws. He could almost fancy he felt the hot air of the black wings beating at him.

“I can do nothing for you,” she said flatly. “The pain is caused by the evil magic that festers inside your body.” She leaned forward, pierced him with her bright, bird-like eye. “Let go your hold on life. Your soul has escaped the evil that sought to claim it. When you abandon this body, your soul will soar free.”

She moistened his lips with water. Gustav could no longer swallow. He was ready to die. Adela waited for him and he longed to join her. Yet he could not, he must not leave this world. Not yet. He shook his head feverishly.

“You carry a great burden,” said the Grandmother. “You do not want to leave this body because you think that once you lay down the burden, no one will pick it up. You think that if you die your hope will die. That is not so. You have done your part. The burden is meant to pass on. Others will take up where you leave off. So the gods have intended.”

Gustav stared at her in wonder and concern. Had he been babbling of his quest in his pain-filled wanderings?

The Grandmother chuckled—a throaty, hearty chuckle, not the cackle he might have expected.

“Don't worry. Your discipline is strong. You have kept your lips sealed. But it was not difficult for me to see. And the dwarf has told me much.”

Wolfram. Yes, he would know of the Whoreson Knight's lifelong quest. Gustav recalled that yesterday he had considered entrusting the Sovereign Stone to the dwarf. Not a perfect choice, by any means. Gustav knew little of Wolfram, other than he worked for the monks of Dragon Mountain. One of the Unhorsed, Wolfram had been banished from his tribe, almost certainly for some criminal act. Now he earned his living as an information gatherer and peddler. Wolfram could be counted on to take the Stone to the monks, especially if Gustav made it worth the dwarf's while. Yet Gustav felt a reluctance to hand over the sacred Sovereign Stone to the dwarf. The decision did not feel right to him.

The Grandmother eyed him. “You refuse to die until you know who will take this burden. If you are satisfied, then you will depart?”

“Are you in such a hurry to get rid of me, Grandmother?” Gustav asked weakly with a faint smile, using the name he had heard everyone use in her presence.

“Yes,” she said bluntly. “I am a healer. Your pain is my pain. You are trying to decide who will take up the burden. You should not be the one to make such an important decision. Your judgment is clouded. You are half in this world, half in a realm of darkness.”

Gustav sighed. He knew very well she was right. “Yet, the burden
was laid on me by the gods. If I do not make the choice, who will, Grandmother?”

“You have provided the answer,” she responded, laying a cool cloth on his burning forehead. “The gods gave you the burden. They will choose the one who will take it up when you lay it down.”

“And how will they do that, Grandmother?”

She glanced toward the blanket that covered the door. “The next person who walks through that door will be the chosen of the gods.”

Gustav turned the notion over in his mind. It felt right to him. The gods had entrusted the Sovereign Stone to him. The gods had given him the strength to defeat the Vrykyl, though it had cost him his life. He had done his part. The gods would do theirs.

Gustav drew in a deep breath and nodded his head. His gaze fixed on the blanket covering the door. The Grandmother sat back and watched with him.

 

“Uncle,” Jessan said that morning, “Bashae is worried about the dying knight. He thinks the man is troubled by this unfinished business of which he spoke when we first found him. Bashae asked if you would visit him, see if there was anything you could do to help ease him.”

Ravenstrike shook his head. “The man is a Vinnengaelean and a Dominion Lord. They are supposed to be magical, although I don't know how much of that is true. I have no idea what I could do to aid him. And my leave time is almost up. We must be on the road day after tomorrow.”

“I know.” Jessan grinned with excitement at the thought. “I told Bashae that. But perhaps just speaking to the knight will help. It would mean a lot to Bashae.”

Raven shrugged. “Very well. I will speak with the knight this day without fail and if it is in my power to assist him, I will. You have much to do if you are to be ready to ride with me in two days time. You have the arrowheads, now you must make the arrows. You will need an eating knife, a hunting knife and a fighting knife. Hammerblow will make them for you, but you need to assist him and to
keep an eye on him. He is lazy and will take short cuts if you allow him. You must have a leather shirt and breeches for the journey—”

“All right, all right, Uncle,” Jessan said, raising his hand to defend himself against the barrage.

“And those are today's orders. There will be more tomorrow,” Raven called after the young man, as he departed for the blacksmith's, whistling a marching tune.

 

Ravenstrike left his dwelling, intending to go visit the knight and offer his services to the dying man. The dying have a claim upon the living and, although pressed for time, Raven would do what he could to bring ease to the man's last remaining hours. If that meant finding a young warrior and dispatching him to Vinnengael to deliver a message or deliver the body or whatever else the knight requested, Raven would see to it that the man's wishes were carried out. His steps and his thoughts had turned to the house of healing, when he heard a hissing noise behind him.

Raven continued walking, did not turn around. He knew very well who was making the hissing sound, knew it was directed at him. He decided not to respond. His sister could speak to him in a normal voice. He would not answer a snake's tongue.

“Raven!” Ranessa called sharply. She raised her voice with its shrill edge. “Raven!”

Sighing, Raven halted, turned around. Ranessa stood in the shadow of her dwelling, beckoning to him imperatively with a hand curled like a bird's claw. She was wrapped in an old blanket cast over the loose-fitting leather dress she wore slung over her body. She was filthy, had no care what she looked like.

Yet, why should she care? Raven thought, his steps slowing in reluctance as he approached her. She will never marry. No man will have her.

The morning air was cool, but pleasant. Ranessa shivered beneath her blanket, while Raven went bare-armed and bare-chested. She had built a fire inside her dwelling to warm her.

“Yes, Sister, what is it?” he asked, striving for patience.

Ranessa scowled at him, her large brown eyes narrowed against
the bright sunshine. “The evil that Jessan brought with him. What has he done with it?”

“It is armor, Ranessa,” Raven said. “Nothing more—”

She drew close to him. Her hand pressed against his chest.

“Jessan brought the evil to us,” she said, her voice low, hollow. “He gave it to you. You are responsible. The two of you. The evil poisons everything around it. Death will come to the people if it is not removed.”

She drew closer, her eyes open wide, so wide that he could see himself reflected in their strange brown-red depths. And as he saw himself in her eyes, he saw his own thoughts in her mind. He feared the same about the armor, but he had not been able to express it. That troubled him. He didn't like sharing thoughts with a mad woman. He tried to step back, but he had allowed himself to be cornered by her against the side of her dwelling. There was no place for him to go, not without shoving her out of the way, and he was loath to touch her.

“Where did you put the armor?” she demanded in soft, sibilant tones.

“The armor is stowed someplace safe,” he said thickly.

“Poison,” she said, staring at him through a tangle of thick black hair. “The poison will bring death and misfortune to the people. And the fault will be yours. Yours and Jessan's unless you end it.”

Shivering, though the morning was warming fast, she turned abruptly and vanished inside the smoky darkness of her dwelling.

Raven remained standing outside her dwelling a moment, waiting for his heartbeat and his breathing to return to normal. He pondered uneasily what he should do. He tried to convince himself that it had been the madness speaking. But, if so, then the madness was growing on him, as well, for he felt the truth of her words in his heart.

He was particularly bothered by her use of the word, “poison.” The armor was stashed in the cave with the food that was meant to feed the village should there be a drought or the crops were flooded out or the rains didn't come.

Still thinking of Ranessa's warning, Raven once more headed for
the house of healing, to visit the knight. But as he came to the point where two roads converged—one road leading to the healing house and the other leading to the cave, Raven saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Looking back he was disconcerted to see the dwarf, Wolfram, strolling out from behind Ranessa's dwelling.

The dwarf had his hands thrust into his pockets. He walked with a limp and nodded his head in friendly fashion to Raven as he passed him by. Raven gave Wolfram a sharp glance, wondering if the dwarf had overheard Ranessa's words. Then Raven recalled that if the dwarf had heard anything, it wouldn't matter. No dwarf could speak Tirniv.

“Ranessa is right about one thing,” Raven admitted to himself, wiping sweat from his forehead. “The armor is causing me nothing but trouble. The sooner I rid myself of it, the better. Jessan will be so caught up in the excitement of leaving that he will forget about it.”

Raven altered direction, took the road that led to the cave. Caught up in his troubles, he did not see Wolfram change his direction. Had Raven looked back, he would have seen that he now had two shadows—his own long, tall shadow and another shadow that was short and squat and moved nearly as quietly as the first.

 

Bashae slept late that morning, worn out from the adventurous journey. The sun had climbed far into the sky before Bashae rolled out from under the blanket in the Grandmother's dwelling. He stretched pleasantly, dozed a few more moments, listening drowsily to the scoldings and frettings of the birds, preoccupied with nest-building.

He came out of his tent to find only about half the pecwae up and stirring. The rest were asleep, some in their crude lean-to style shelters, others lying on the ground, covered over with blankets of leaves, visible only when inadvertently stepped on. The only excuse a Trevenici had for not rising with the dawn was that he had died during the night. By contrast, few pecwae ever saw a sunrise.

The pecwae consider sleep a time when they visit another world, a world in which they are able to perform the most wondrous
feats, a world that is frightening and beautiful, a world in which they are immortal, for though terrible things might happen in the sleep world, the pecwae who visit it generally return to this one. Seeing no need to forcibly leave one world just to come to another—especially if they are doing something important or pleasant in the sleep-world—few pecwae see any need to rise early.

Bashae ate berries and bread left over from last night's feast and then decided he would take some food to the Grandmother and see how the poor knight was faring this morning.

Bashae was on his way to gather fresh berries when he came upon Palea, returning from the direction of the Trevenici village. Palea was a year or two older than Bashae and his intended mate, whenever they each got around to it. They were already casual lovers and had been since the age of fourteen. Palea had borne a child, but whether Bashae was the father or not was uncertain. Children were raised by the pecwae community at large and the mother in particular.

“Have you been to the Village?” Bashae asked. “Did you see the Grandmother?”

Palea shook her head. “I took her some food, but the basket you gave her from last night was sitting outside the dwelling and it was still full, so I just added mine to it and left. I thought perhaps she might be visiting the sleep-world and I did not want to disturb her.”

Bashae nodded in understanding. No one ever woke anyone unless it was a most dire emergency, for fear that the person wrenched unexpectedly from the sleep-world might not be able to find his way back to this world. Such a person, caught half in the sleep-world and half in this world, would be most confused. This was what had happened to Jessan's aunt Ranessa, so the Grandmother said.

Worried about the knight, Bashae set out for the house of healing.

Wolfram had an easy job, trailing Ravenstrike. The suspicion that he might be surreptitiously followed would never occur to the honest and uncomplicated mind of the Trevenici warrior. He never
once glanced back. Wolfram kept to the shadows of shrubs and bush more out of force of habit than necessity.

The dwarf had, of course, understood every word that had passed between Ravenstrike and his sister, just as he had understood much of the conversation he overheard between Raven and Jessan.

Wolfram had taken an early dislike to the sister, a dislike tempered by a certain grim amusement. He found it ironic that the girl, who was clearly as mad as a marmot, was the only one who could see the evil currently at work in the village. His amusement was replaced by alarm, however, when he noted that the silver bracelet grew warm whenever he was in the mad woman's presence. He couldn't imagine what interest the monks could have in a crazy person. He had none, certainly, and he planned to keep his distance.