Cinnabar Shadows (8 page)

Much as Pavek loved the sensations of druid magic flowing through him, druidry might never be the
first thought in his mind when he confronted a problem. Feeling foolish, he closed his eyes and pressed his
palms into the mud. Quraite's guardian was there, waiting for him.

Elsewhere, Pavek thought, adding the image of another scummy pond that might, or might not, exist
somewhere in the grove. The guardian's power rose into Pavek and out of him. It stirred the bugs, gathering
them into a buzzing, blurred ribbon of life that abandoned Pavek without resistance or hesitation. Flushed
with his own success, Pavek sat down on his heel, sighing as residual power drained back into the land.

Every place had a guardian; that was the foundation of druidry. Every tree, every stone had its spirit.
When the Tablelands had teemed with life, the guardians of the land had been lively, too. In the current age
of sun-battered and lifeless barrens, druids could still draw upon the land for their power, but except in
places like Quraite, where the groves retained a memory of ancient vigor, the guardians they touched were
shattered. Those guardians that weren't weak were mad and apt to pass that madness to a druid who
associated too closely with them.

Quraite's guardian had no personality of its own that Pavek had been able to discover. Telhami, by her
own admission, was only a small aspect of its power and sanity. Pavek suspected that every druid who died
in Quraite became part of the guardian, and a few Quraiters who weren't druids as well. He'd sensed
another aspect from time to time: Yohan, the dwarven veteran who'd died that day when Escrissar
attacked. In life, Akashia had been Yohan's focus, the core of loyalty and purpose all dwarves needed. In
death, he still protected her, not as a banshee, but as an aspect of the guardian.

"On your feet, Just-Plain Pavek, or the bugs'll be back before you've moved a stick!"

Pavek got to his feet. Telhami was right, as she usually was. There was nothing to be gained by
thinking of the dead who protected Quraite—or Akashia, whom he would personally protect, if she'd let
him. After shedding his belt and weapons, Pavek waded into the pond. One afternoon wasn't enough to get
the stream flowing swiftly again, but before the sun was sinking into the trees, he'd hauled away enough
debris to get water seeping through the dam in several places.

"A little luck," he told the green-skinned spirit on an overhead branch, "and the stream will do the rest
of the work for us."

"You're a lazy, lazy man," she replied with approving pride.

The path took an easy route back to the clearing Pavek called home. There was a stream-fed pool for
water, a sandy hearth, and a rickety lean-to where he stored the hoe beside his sword. He'd thrown his
sweated clothes into the pool and was about to follow them when the leaves on the nearby trees began to
shiver and the grass bent low.

"Someone's coming," Telhami said from the rocky rim of the pool.

Pavek bent down and swept his hands through the grass. He cocked his head, listening to the leaves.
Telhami knew who was coming and, after another moment of listening, he did as well. "Not someone," he
corrected. "Zvain and Ruari."

"Running or walking?"

He touched the grass a second time and answered: "Running."

Ruari had his own grove, as befitted a novice druid. He had trees and shrubs, the familiar wildlife that
half-elves always attracted, and a pool of water not much bigger than he was. It certainly wasn't large
enough to entertain two energetic youths, since Zvain spent most of his time in Ruari's shadow, having no
gift for druid magic.

Pavek wasn't surprised that they were coming to visit him. Half the time they were already in
Telhami's pool by the time he returned from the grove's depths. But he was surprised that they were
running. The druid groves were only a small part of Quraite, and between the groves the land was blasted
by the bloody sun, just like every other place in the Tablelands. Usually, Quraiters walked, like everyone
else, unless they had good reason to run. He snagged his shirt before it drifted downstream and started to
follow the bending grass toward the verge.

He hadn't taken ten steps before Ruari burst through the underbrush, running easily right past Pavek to
leap fully clothed into the pool. Zvain came along a few heartbeats later—a few of Pavek's heartbeats. The
boy was red-faced and panting from the chase. Ruari might never be able to run with his mother's elven
Moonracer tribe, but no mere human was going to catch him in a fair race: an inescapable fact that Zvain
had failed to grasp. Extending an arm, Pavek caught the boy before he flung himself into the chilly water.

Somewhere between Urik and the grove, between then and now, Pavek had become the closest thing
to a father any of the three of them had ever known, though only the same handful of years separated him
and Ruari as separated Ruari and Zvain. The transformation mystified Pavek more than any demonstration
of druidry, especially on those rare occasions when one of them actually listened to anything he said. Zvain
leaned against him and would have collapsed if Pavek hadn't kept an arm hooked around his ribs.

"He said it wasn't a race—" Zvain muttered miserably between gasps.

"And you believed him? He's a known liar, and you're a known fool!"

"He gave me a twenty-count lead. I thought—I thought I could beat him."

"I know," Pavek consoled, thumping Zvain gently on the top of his sweaty head.

It wasn't so long ago that he'd been having pretty much the same conversation with Ruari, who'd
nurtured the same futile hope of besting his elven cousins at their games. Life was better for the half-elf
now. Like Pavek, Ruari had become a hero. He'd rallied the Quraiters to defend Pavek while Pavek
summoned the Don-King. Then, when Escrissar's mercenaries had been annihilated, he'd gone to Akashia's
aid, helping her to direct the guardian's power against Escrissar himself after Telhami had collapsed.

The past two sun phases had been kind to Ruari in other ways, also. The half-elf could no longer be
mistaken for a gangly erdlu in its first molt. He'd stopped growing and was putting some human flesh on his
spindly elven bones. His hair, skin, and eyes, were a study in shades of copper. There wasn't a woman in
Quraite—young or old, daughter or wife—who hadn't tried to capture his attention, and the Moonracer
women were almost as eager. Ruari had grown into one of those rare individuals who could quiet a crowd
by walking through it.

No wonder Zvain ached with envy; Pavek felt that way himself sometimes. The two of them were
both typical of Urik's human stock: solid and swarthy, good for moving rocks rather than the hearts of
women. Zvain had an ordinary face that could blend into any crowd, which, by Pavek's judgment, was an
advantage he himself had lost before he escaped the templar orphanage. The stupidest fight of a
brawl-prone youth had left him with a gash that wandered from the outside corner of his right eye and
across the bridge of an oft-broken nose before it came to an end at his upper lip. Years later, the scar hurt
when the wind blew a storm down from the north, and his smile would never be more than a lopsided sneer.
He'd put that sneer to good use when he wore a yellow robe, but here among the gentler folk of Quraite he
was embarrassed and ashamed.

Ruari surfaced with a swirl and a splash of water that pelted Pavek and Zvain where they stood.

"Cowards!" he taunted, which was enough to get Zvain moving.

Pavek hung back, waiting for the other pair to become engrossed in their bravado games before he
stepped down into the pool. A stream-fed pool still unnerved a man who'd grown up never seeing water
except in calf-deep fountains, sealed cisterns, or hide buckets hauled out of ancient, bottomless wells. Zvain
loved water; he'd learned to splash and swim as if water were a natural part of his world. Pavek liked
water well enough, provided it didn't rise higher than his knees. And at that depth, of course, he couldn't
learn to swim.

Early on, Pavek had hauled a rock into the shallows where, left to his own preferences, he'd sit and
enjoy the current flowing around him. Sometimes—about one time in three—his companions would leave
him alone. Today was not one of Pavek's lucky times. They double-teamed him, sweeping their arms
through the cold water, inundating him repeatedly until he struck back. Then, Zvain wrapped his arms like
twin water-snakes around Pavek's ankle and pulled him into the deep, dark water of the pool's center.

He roared, fought, and splashed his way back to the shallows, which merely signalled the start of
another round of boisterous fun. Pavek trusted them to keep him from drowning—the first time in his life
that he'd trusted anyone with his life. He trusted Telhami as well. The other two couldn't perceive the old
druid's spirit, but Pavek could hear her sparkling laughter circling the pool. She wasn't above lending the
youths an extra slap of water to keep him off-balance, but she'd help him, too, by making the deep water
feel solid beneath his feet, if he breathed wrong and began to panic.

The fun lasted until they were all too exhausted to stand and sat dripping instead on the rocks.

"You should learn to swim," Ruari advised.

Pavek shook his head, then raked his rough-cut black hair away from his face. "I keep things the way
they are so you'll stand a chance against me. If I could swim, you'd drown— you know that."
Snorting laughter, Ruari jabbed an elbow between Pavek's ribs. "Try me. You talk big, Pavek, but that's
all you do.

Yet when Ruari slipped and started to fall, Pavek's hand was there to catch him before any damage
could be done.

"You two are kank-head fools," Zvain announced when the three of them were sitting again. "Can't you
do anything without going after each other?"

Zvain wasn't the first youth, human or otherwise, whose need for attention got in the way of his good
sense. Needing neither words nor any other form of communication, Pavek and Ruari demonstrated that
they didn't need to fight with each other, not when they could join forces to torment their younger, smaller
companion. It was a thoughtless, spontaneous reaction, and although Pavek reserved his full strength from
the physical teasing, Zvain was no match for him or Ruari alone, much less together. After a few moments,
Zvain was in full, sulking retreat to the pool's far side where he sat with his knees drawn up and his
forehead resting between them.

The youngster didn't have a secure niche in the close-knit community. Unlike Pavek and Ruari, he
hadn't been a hero during Quraite's dark hours. Following a path of disaster and deceit, Zvain had become
Elabon Escrissar's pawn before Ruari, Pavek, and Yohan spirited him out of Urik. He'd opened his mind to
his master as soon as he arrived in the village. Although Zvain was as much victim as villain, in her wrath
and judgment, Telhami had shown him no mercy.

Young as he was, she'd imprisoned Zvain here, in her grove.

He'd lived through nights of the guardian's anger and Escrissar's day-long assault. Ruari said he was
afraid of the dark still and had screaming nightmares that woke the whole village. Akashia still wanted to
drive the boy out to certain death on the salt flats they called the Fist of the Sun. Kashi had her own
nightmares and Zvain was a part of them, however duped and unwitting he'd been at the time. But the
heroes of Quraite said no, especially Pavek whom she'd once accused of having no conscience.

So Zvain stayed on charity and sufferance. He couldn't learn druidry—even if he hadn't been scared
spitless of the guardian, his nights in this grove had burned any talent out of him. The farmers made
bent-finger luck signs when the boy's shadow fell on them; they refused to let him set foot in the fields.
That left Ruari, who had his own problems, and Pavek, who spent most of his time in this grove, avoiding
Akashia.

A vagrant breeze rippled across the pool and Zvain's shoulders. The boy cringed; Pavek did, too. There
was only one good reason for Pavek to return to Urik and the Lion-King's offer of wealth and power in the
high bureau: Zvain's misery here in Quraite. It wasn't noticeable when the boy was whooping and
hightailing after Ruari, but watching that lump of humanity shrink deeper into the grass was almost more
than Pavek could bear.

"Let's go," he said, rising to his feet and retrieving the shirt he'd thrown on the grass. Ruari hauled
himself out of the pool, but Zvain stayed where he was. "Talk to him, will you?" he asked the half-elf as he
wrung the shirt out before pulling it over his head.

Ruari grumbled but did as he was asked, crouching down in the grass beside Zvain, exchanging urgent
whispers that ignited Pavek's own doubts as he bent down to lace his sandals. Those doubts seemed
suddenly justified when he looked up again and saw them standing together with a single guilty expression
shared across their two faces.

"Give it up," he snarled and started toward the verge.

There was another frantic exchange of whispers, then Ruari cleared his throat vigorously. "You should
maybe bring your sword...."

Pavek stopped short. "What for?" But he headed for the lean-to without waiting for an answer. "I'm
not teaching you swordplay, Ru. I've told you that a thousand times already."

"I know. It's not for me," Ruari admitted softly. "Kashi wants you to bring it. There might be trouble.
There's something out on the Sun's Fist."

"Hamanu's infinitesimal mercy!" Pavek swore, adding other, more colorful oaths he hadn't used much
since coming to Quraite. He glanced into the nearest trees where there was no sign of Telhami. She was a
part of the guardian; she could sense what was happening out on the brutal salt plain as easily as she had
sensed Ruari and Zvain approaching earlier. He thought she would have told him if there was any danger.
"When? Where? Riders? How many?" he asked when he had the sword buckled around his waist and
neither of his glum companions had volunteered more information. "Moonracers?"