Guardians of the Lost (50 page)

The monk said nothing on that score. Her silence placed Wolfram at a distinct disadvantage.

Finishing his statement, Wolfram sat back on his chair, his eyes on the box. Fire had set the box to one side, as if it were of no importance, but her hand continued to rest on the box. Her fingers caressed the box and sometimes her gaze strayed to it.

“You'll note the seal's unbroken,” Wolfram pointed out.

Fire nodded. Breaking the seal, she opened the box.

Wolfram watched her closely. Lord Gustav had said there was a magical spell guarding the box, but, if so, Fire made short work of it. This confirmed Wolfram's suspicions that he was not in the presence of a true dwarf, who as a general rule dislike and distrust magic.

Fire withdrew from the box a vellum scroll tied neatly with a silken red ribbon. Untying the ribbon, she unfurled the scroll and read through it attentively.

Wolfram fidgeted with his bracelet. He should be tired and he was, but he wasn't. He was jittery and nervous and not quite certain why.

“All is correct and in order,” said Fire at last, lifting her head from her reading. “We will, of course, honor Lord Gustav's dying request and hand over to you the title to his lands and castle. You are now a Vinnengaelean lord, Wolfram. And a wealthy man. The Wolf be praised.”

She handed back the deed. Taking the scroll from her, Wolfram stuffed it in his belt. He didn't feel as pleased as he had anticipated. He kept his eyes on the box.

“Was that all there was?”

“Yes, Wolfram.” Fire lifted the box, held it for him to see. “May the Wolf guard your sleep.”

She rose to her feet. Wolfram was being dismissed, but he didn't feel like going yet. He remained seated.

“I know you must be weary,” Fire added. “You may go to your rest now. One of the monks will come to you tomorrow to take down your story in detail.”

“I think the Vrykyl was after the box,” Wolfram stated abruptly.

Fire nodded. “Quite possibly.”

“Why? What would a Vrykyl want with lands and a manor?”

“I believe you have figured out the answer, Wolfram,” said Fire. “You knew Lord Gustav. You knew of his quest.”

“Yes, I knew.” He shifted in his seat. “So what of the young ones? Did they make it?”

“Much hangs in the balance,” Fire replied.

Wolfram snorted. “What about Ranessa?” he demanded suddenly.

“What about her?” Fire repeated, regarding him with a mild expression.

“She's here.” Wolfram jerked a thumb in the direction of the common room. “I brought her.”

“Yes, I know.” Fire frowned slightly. “If you expect some additional reward—”

“Reward!” Wolfram bellowed. “Is that what you think of me?
That all I care about is gain? Here!” He yanked the title out of his belt and tossed it on the desk. Bouncing to his feet, he shook the arm with the bracelet in her face. “You've used me and I'm sick of it. You dropped me down in the Whoreson Knight's path. You bid me take the box. You bid me take Ranessa. Then you set the Vrykyl on me. If it hadn't been for the girl, the Wolf bless her, it'd be the Vrykyl standing on your doorstep with that box in his rotting hand and not me. Now the girl's lying down there scared out of her wits and I don't know what you want with her and all you talk about is reward! I won't stand for it anymore.”

He began to pull and tug at the bracelet. “Take it off me,” he raved. “Take it off me!”

Fire moved swiftly. Resting her hand on his arm, she wrapped her hand around the bracelet.

“I will do so, Wolfram,” she said and her voice was gentle and soothing. “But first sit calmly and listen to me.”

Wolfram glared at her, but eventually, satisfied that she meant to do as she said, he plunked himself back down in the chair.

“You won't talk me into keeping it,” he said sullenly.

“I have no intention of trying to do so,” Fire said. “Indeed, we were planning to take the responsibility from you, for your destiny now lies apart from us. I want you to understand what has happened to you and why we did what we did.

“We told you when you accepted this position of observer that the bracelet would guide you to places where we thought you might need to be. The choice is yours, Wolfram. You know that if you choose, you can ignore the bracelet. Its heat will subside and you will feel it no more.”

“I can't ignore it if I want my pay,” he muttered. Realizing the contradiction in what he'd just said, he kicked at the chair legs in irritation. “Very well, once I cared for nothing except my pay. Now it's different and I'm not exactly pleased with the difference. Answer me this.”

Wolfram looked the monk in the eye. “This quest of Lord Gustav's. It's important. Really, really important. Maybe the most important thing to happen in centuries. Why didn't you
send one of your monks to record it in person? Why did you have to send me?”

“It is true that our monks go out into the world, recording events as they happen. But we must be careful that we do not influence those events,” Fire explained. “Thus we think long and hard before we send out the monks. For example, there was no monk at the city of Dunkar when the taan attacked. Why? If a monk had arrived, the people would have known something momentous was in the offing and would have reacted accordingly.”

“They might have saved themselves,” he said accusingly.

“Or their army might have marched off to attack Karnu, for they believed that the Karnuans were their worst enemy,” the monk returned. “Or they might not have thought of war at all, but believed their king was going to fall ill and die.”

Fire lifted a palm, turned it over. “A myriad possibilities, but if we cause even the most minor to occur, we interfere with the workings of the gods. Our observers were there, unnoticed. They marked down what occurred and reported back to us.”

“Those who survived.”

“Yes,” said Fire. “Those who survived. They know the risks, as did you, Wolfram, when you agreed to work for us. It was up to them to run them, as it was up to you.” The monk smiled. “It is not the heat of the bracelet that causes you annoyance, Wolfram. It is the heat of your own insatiable curiosity. That is what you cannot stand.”

“Maybe,” he said, not convinced. “Maybe.” He put his hand on the bracelet and, to his surprise, it came off. He held it to the light, then laid it down with grudging respect in front of the monk. “I'm free of it now? Free to go about my life as I please?”

“You always were, Wolfram,” said Fire.

He stood up. “You're not going to tell me about Ranessa, are you? About why you wanted me to bring her to you?”

Fire hesitated, then said, “You did not bring her, Wolfram. I want you to know that. You were her guide. You shortened her journey. In time, she would have found us for her desire to do so was strong. Whatever happens, I do not want you to blame yourself.”

“Whatever happens…” Wolfram felt a chill. “Blame myself. Blame myself for what? What's going to happen?”

“A myriad paths lead us into the future, Wolfram,” said Fire. “Among them lies the path that is finally chosen, but we have no way of knowing which one that will be. Go to your rest and leave the business of the gods to the gods.”

This time, Wolfram's dismissal was final. The monk's voice was firm with a hint of coolness, warning that he risked raising her ire if he remained. He was frustrated enough and frightened enough that he might have done just that, but he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. One of the giant Omarah lingered in the hallway outside the monk's quarters.

The huge Omarah could pick up the dwarf by the scruff of his neck. Rather than endure this indignity, Wolfram departed. He would get no answers anyway. Not from that double-tongued, shape-changing thing that called itself a dwarf. And what a relief to be free of that blasted bracelet!

He was tired now, barely able to keep his feet and yawning so that he cracked his jaw. His interview had taken up the rest of the night. The advent of dawn was presaged by a faint gray light that brightened the shadowed halls. He'd check on Ranessa, then sleep the day through. He'd earned it. Clumping along, he remembered that he'd left the deed to Gustav's lands and manor lying on the monk's desk.

A dramatic gesture, but one he now regretted. He'd go back tomorrow, admit he'd made a mistake, ask for it back. He didn't want to be lord of the manor, but he could always sell the place and give the silver to a Vinnengaelean money dealer for safe keeping. He'd have enough to live on comfortably for the rest of his life.

“From now on, no more dickering for horses,” he promised himself. “Only the best horse flesh for Lord Wolfram.” He chuckled at his new title.

Entering the common room, he stopped dead in his tracks.

A pall of smoke hung in the air. The room was a wreck. Tables had been overturned. Blankets had been ripped to shreds, then burned. The rushes from the mats were strewn about the room.
The straw had been set ablaze. Still smoldering, it lay charred and blackened on the floor.

An invading army might have done less damage.

Wolfram peered through the smoke to search for Ranessa.

She was nowhere to be found.

R
anessa feigned sleep; playing possum until the dwarf had gone off, saying something to himself about having to see the monks to claim his reward. Lying on the mat, she stared up into the shadows that clustered thick around the ceiling. She had dreamed of this place for so long and now that she was here, she did not know why she had come. A voice tried to explain to her, but she couldn't understand what the voice said, for it spoke in a strange language.

The voice was patient, however, and kept repeating the words over and over, as one does to a very small child. Like a child, Ranessa grew frustrated with the voice. Throwing off the blanket, she jumped to her feet and shouted at the voice.

“I hear you, but I don't know what you want.” She glared around in anger. “Speak plainly. Speak my tongue, damn you!”

The voice spoke again, quietly, patiently, but it was all gibberish.

Outraged, Ranessa ran to the long trestle table filled with food. Grasping the table, she gave a heave, tipped it over. Bread loaves tumbled to the floor. Wooden platters rattled on the stone bricks, wheels of yellow cheeses rolled into corners. Crockery pitchers
slid off the table, smashed. Foaming ale flooded the room, filling it with a beery smell.

“Answer me!” Ranessa cried. “Tell me what you want of me!”

The voice spoke again, soothing as a long-suffering parent with a recalcitrant toddler. The words beat in Ranessa's head, but they made no sense. She tore at her hair and thought she would go mad with fury.

She stomped on the bread. She kicked the shards of the pitchers. Grabbing hold of the blankets, she ripped the cloth and threw the rags about the room. She tore apart the mats, shredded them and flung the bits of rushes into the air so that they fell around her like dusty rain. She ran to the fire, grabbed a burning brand, and hurled it into the pile of dry rushes. They burst into flame, filled the air with smoke.

The voice spoke again. Infuriated, Ranessa clutched at her head. She screamed and shrieked and ran blindly out the door and into the night.

The monks heard the commotion, but no one went to see what caused it. They paused in their studies or opened their eyes and sat up in bed. One by one, sighing softly, each returned to work or to sleep.

The Omarah put out the fire.

 

Appalled by the ruin, Wolfram stood in the middle of the smoke-filled room and tried to gather his wits. His first fearful thought was that Ranessa had been attacked and carried off. He abandoned that notion immediately. The Omarah were on constant watch. They would never permit such a violent act to occur in the monastery. But then, what had happened?

Where were the blasted monks? They must have heard this commotion. Why weren't they here? He recalled Fire's words “Whatever happens…”

“You did or said something to her,” Wolfram said in angry accusation, speaking to the walls, for they were the only things around to hear him. “Something that upset her. It's your fault and, by the Wolf, if harm has come to the girl, I'll see to it that you pay!”

He dashed off into the night.

Ranessa roamed the mountaintop in the darkness. The voice dinned in her ears, still speaking that inexplicable language, a language that was sweet to her ears as a lullaby, or would have been, had she been able to make any sense of it. Unable to see, she stumbled over the uneven ground, blundered into boulders. She fell several times, scraped the skin off her knees and her hands. She kicked over a hay rick in the stables, terrorizing the gentle mules. The Omarah kept watch on her, to make certain she did not harm herself or anyone else in her rampage.

At last, exhausted, she collapsed onto the rocky ground and wept, painful, gulping sobs.

“I have disappointed you,” she said, when the tears were dry and her sobbing had deteriorated into hiccups. “I am sorry. I don't know what you want of me. I never have!”

The sun rose from behind the mountain. Ranessa raised her head and the bright light struck her full in the face, dazzled her eyes that were red and swollen from weeping. She blinked in the light and lifted her hand to shade her eyes. A figure came into view, walking along the edge of the precipice.

Ranessa could not see clearly, for her eyes were blurred, but the figure was short and had the appearance of a dwarf, for its shoulders were broad and it was wide about the middle. The dwarf wore orange robes and, in Ranessa's dazzled vision, seemed to have borrowed the fiery garb of the morning sun.

The dwarf did not appear to see her and Ranessa kept quiet. She was too shamed to speak, too dispirited. She watched dumbly as the figure came to the very edge of the cliff. The dwarf spread her arms.

The arms were not arms but wings—wings of fire.

Slowly, Ranessa rose to her feet.

The voice spoke and this time, Ranessa understood.

“My child,” said the voice, patient, kind and loving. “You are home.”

Tears, soft tears, tears of the heart, flowed down Ranessa's cheeks. These tears did not blind her. These tears revealed to her the truth.

With a wild, glad cry, Ranessa spread her arms and leapt off the top of the mountain into the sunrise.

 

Time and again, Wolfram called out Ranessa's name. He had made his decision. When he found her, he would take her away from this place. He didn't know what he was going to do with her, but he'd see to it that no one hurt her or scared her, ever again. After all, she had saved his life. He owed her.

The sun had not yet appeared, but dawn was close. Light filled the sky behind the mountain with red and gold. Pausing to listen, Wolfram heard what sounded like sobbing. Hastily, he headed that direction. Rounding a corner of the building, he found himself near the ledge where the monks took their daily exercise. The view from this ledge was breathtaking. Far below, the river wound among the steep, towering red rocks, a twist of blue thread stitched into red cloth. Standing on this promontory, Wolfram often wondered if he were seeing the world as the gods saw it. If so, if he was down at the river's edge, he would not be able to see himself from the peak. He would not be so much as a speck. Yet he would be there. Conversely, if he stood on the river bank and looked up at the heights, he wouldn't be able to see himself either. Yet, he would be here.

“Thus,” he often reasoned, “though I cannot see the gods I know they are there. And although they may not be able to see me, they know I am there.”

He found this thought comforting.

Catching sight of movement, Wolfram saw the monk Fire taking her morning constitutional. Grunting his displeasure, Wolfram decided to confront her, demand to know what had happened to his companion.

At that moment, the sun lifted up from behind the mountain, its light warm and dazzling. Bathed in its fiery light, Ranessa rose up from behind a boulder.

Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, Wolfram hastened toward her. She did not see him. She started walking toward the monk.

Wolfram quickened his pace, hoping to intercept her before Fire noticed her.

“Girl,” he began, the word sweet in his mouth.

Ranessa gave a wild shout that drove the word back down his throat. Spreading her arms, she ran straight toward the cliff's edge. He bellowed out her name. If she heard him, she paid no attention. Terrified, Wolfram broke into a run. He was too far away. He reached the ledge in time to see her fling herself over the precipice.

Wolfram gave a wild cry of grief that echoed among the mountain peaks and covered his face with his hands.

A voice spoke to him. “Open your eyes,” said Fire. “Open your eyes and see the truth.”

Wolfram peered out from behind his fingers. The monk that had taken the shape of a dwarf was gone. Wolfram's suspicions were confirmed. A dragon stood on the ledge, her wings spread, reveling in the sun of a new dawn.

The dragon's scales burned with the fire of the sunlight. The elegant head, with its elongated snout and rows of gleaming sharp teeth, lifted to the sky. The eyes looked to the heavens, searched out the very gods themselves. The dragon's wings were orange and the sun shone through them, shimmering as through silken curtains. The long tail curved gracefully about the shining body. The taloned feet dug deep into the rock. The head turned on its long, sinuous neck. The dragon's dark eyes looked intently at Wolfram.

Shuddering, not even pleased to know that he had guessed the truth about the Heads of the Order, Wolfram looked away from the dragon. He looked down below to where he expected to see Ranessa's body lying twisted and broken on the blood-stained rocks.

She was not there.

He blinked, stared about. He couldn't find her.

“Where is she?” he demanded hoarsely.

“There,” said Fire and gazed out to the sky.

Wolfram lifted his eyes to look out over the mountain peaks. A young dragon, orange as flame, circled in the azure air. The dragon's scales gleamed new-made in the sunshine; the wings glistened, as if they were still wet from the hatching. Her flight was hesitant, tentative, for she was yet testing her strength, learning how to handle
the new body. He did not know her and yet he knew her. When she soared past him, she looked down and saw him there. He looked into her eyes and he saw Ranessa.

“You didn't know?” Fire asked him.

“No,” said Wolfram, bleakly. He was awed and proud, like a new parent, and yet lost and lonely, too. “No, how could I?”

“She bore the mark,” said Fire. “As do we all.”

Wolfram smiled then, and shook his head. “Is she your child, ma'am?” he asked humbly.

“Yes,” said Fire. “She is mine and she has come home.”

Young dragons do not hatch from eggs as do birds or other reptiles. The dragons of Loerem place their eggs inside the bodies of humans or elves, orks or dwarves. When the dragon child is born, the child takes on the appearance of the mother's race. The human mother knows no different, nurses the baby that she believes is her own. The young dragon knows no different, believes that it is human or elven or dwarven.

“Oftentimes, the children never know,” Fire said, watching her glistening-scaled daughter with affectionate pride. “Such dragon children live their lives among humans or elves, dwarves or orks, and they are content and happy with their lot. These children are lost to us. We know that and we accept it, for these children were never meant to be what we are.

“Some children, the ones in whom the blood of our kind runs strong, know from their first conscious thought that they are not what they appear to be. They know they are different. They are often unhappy, that is true,” Fire admitted. “But it is their unhappiness, their dissatisfaction with themselves that leads them to the knowledge of themselves. Ranessa is one of these. She yearned to know the truth, she actively sought it out.”

“You make a lousy dwarf, Fire, you know that, don't you?” Wolfram groused. He made a rapid dash at his eyes with his hands.

Fire looked at Wolfram and her own dark eyes were soft with sympathy. “As I told you, you were merely her guide. You shortened her journey. Eventually, she would have found us herself.”

“So you say,” he muttered.

He thought he would leave. He would make his report to the monks and then depart, maybe go see what this manor of his was like. He'd have fun ordering the servants about, if nothing else. He'd have fun until that grew tiresome and his feet grew itchy and the manor house shrank until it was too small to hold him.

Wolfram thought he would leave, but he didn't.

He sat down on the sun-warmed rock and watched Ranessa learn to fly.