Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [13]
Understanding dawned in Bealomondore’s brain. “So they named their children for the things they were lacking.”
“Exactly,” said Maxon and started through the undergrowth again.
Bealomondore followed quietly for a time. Maxon did a better job of guiding, slowing his pace so the artist could keep up.
Resigned to his unplanned visit to the kimen village, Bealomondore pondered his fate. Did kimens have beds to fit a tumanhofer? Would he have clothes to wear? What kind of clothes? After all, he enjoyed fine fashion and elegant garments. His sense of fashion got him accepted in the higher circles of society. At first it had been a tool to promote his art, but he had become accustomed to fine fabrics, a distinguished cut, and splendid colors.
The intrigue of experiencing life among the kimens overrode his sense of style and dignity. Would he be able to draw? Kimens had fascinating features, and he’d always wanted to capture their whimsical expressions.
He noticed his kimen was out of sight again. “Hey, Maxon.”
Maxon popped into sight, right in front of him.
He jumped. “You startled me.”
“You called?”
“What am I to do in your village? What am I to wear?”
The kimen waved his hand in the air as he turned away. “All taken care of. You’ll be fine.”
Maxon had just disappeared from view again when he whistled and exclaimed, “Uh-oh.”
Alert and wary, Bealomondore cautiously parted the branches in front of him. Maxon stood with his hands on his hips.
Bealomondore bent forward and whispered. “What is it?”
“Our lost parcel.” He pointed to a mound covered with old, moldy vegetation from the forest floor. “The ropma forgot where he delivered it.”
Bealomondore squinted and peered over the head of his small companion.
Was that a pointed ear he saw sticking out of the dark, crumbling leaves?
5
Kimen Village
Bealomondore nudged the kimen aside and knelt beside the body buried in mulch. He brushed away the debris around the ear and uncovered a familiar face. “Tipper.”
Using both hands, he cleared away the old leaves clinging to her hair and shoulders. He gently gripped her upper arms and shook. “Tipper!”
He cast a look at Maxon, who now hovered near the girl’s other side.
“She’s not dead,” said the kimen.
“Her skin’s cold.” Bealomondore touched her throat and felt a weak pulse. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Couldn’t be drugged,” Maxon murmured. “Door and Roof wouldn’t be trusted with a potion. They consume anything that even looks like food or drink.” The kimen pulled his hair. “Winkel ordered you drugged to keep the village whereabouts unknown. But this emerlindian came by a different route.” He shook his head. “Odd, decidedly odd. Roof and Door were told to rescue her from being found by the foreigners.”
Bealomondore glared at him. “Then what happened?”
Maxon leaned closer and sniffed. “Ah.”
“Ah? What do you mean, ‘Ah’?”
“She smells of awdenberry.”
Bealomondore sat back on his heels and narrowed his eyes. “Tell me what awdenberry is and what it does.” He stood. “Now!”
Maxon held his hands up in a placating manner. “Hold on. This is just an unfortunate circumstance. No permanent damage done. The ropma must have carried her through an awdenberry patch. The oil from the leaves would not have bothered them because of their thick, hairy coats. But many of the high races can’t tolerate the soporific side effects of the fruit and foliage.”
All the anger drained out of the tumanhofer. He’d grown fond of Tipper on their original quest. He found her exasperating, but he also found her tender-hearted.
Bealomondore stroked one finger down the sleeping emerlindian’s cheek. “What do we do to wake her?”
“The scent of bogswart bark should do it. You wouldn’t happen to have a piece on you?”
Bealomondore pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, holding