Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [83]
He placed the brown leaf in the water and watched as it edged away from him. A slight current caught the miniature vessel. Its speed increased slightly as it ventured farther from shore. Bealomondore recognized beauty in the way it dipped, swayed, and occasionally twirled as if performing a ballet on the watery stage.
In his youth, he’d chosen to see beauty. His family owned a mine. They personally managed the work done there and grew wealthy from extracting precious ore from the ground. He felt the disdain of his father keenly, but he pursued the desire of his heart. To look up instead of down, to seek splendor instead of money.
The leaf passed beyond his view, disappearing around the swell of land at the center of the river.
Bealomondore surveyed his companions once again. The other tumanhofer still read. Maxon and Taeda Bel had joined Hollee in a kind of vigilance over the wizard. Fenworth had ceased moving. He stared off into the distance with his pencil still poised over the sketch pad. Paladin, Rayn, and Tipper looked content.
Any one of the groups would have made a good composition for a painting. Even Librettowit, with his nose in the book and only his forehead showing over the top, would have been an interesting study.
Bealomondore’s heart squeezed in his chest. Looming beyond this idyllic scene, an army advanced on the life he loved. He shivered as a slight breeze lifted the hair on his arms. Did the air carry despair? Did he smell the blood soaking into the ground where brave men died? Did he hear the moans of those who would never stand again?
He picked up a handful of dirt and let the excess pour off the sides of his palm as he unclenched his fingers. Grains of sand in various colors mixed with richer soil. One clump contained a sprig that once was a stem and petal of a tiny flower. If he rubbed it between his finger and thumb, the transformation would be complete. A thing of beauty decayed and disseminated to nourish another thing of beauty as it grew.
As an artist, he’d trained himself to notice small things, to see detail, honor beauty, and grasp it in his hand, allowing the structure to flow through his fingertips into the implement of his art. The pen, the pencil, or the brush carried the image to paper or canvas. He recorded symmetry, oblique lines, light, shadow, form. Now that he knew of Wulder, all his art expressed what he learned about the Creator.
He scooped up another fistful of soil, tilted his hand, and watched the dirt cascade to the ground. Nothing was as simple as it first appeared. Nothing remained unchanged, unmoved.
Bealomondore studied the wizard. Leaves, bark, and stems now formed an integral part of the man’s image. A plan was developing under that absurd hat that now sprouted a flowering vine. From the things the old man had said, Bealomondore felt sure the wizard would take charge of the three statues.
He would be relieved of the responsibility of keeping Day’s Deed out of harm’s way. He glanced around at his companions. Because he’d been in the company of these people, because he’d met Wulder, he could not turn from this awful duty and go back to the life of an aspiring artist.
He looked downriver, but the leaf had passed beyond his sight. He feared he would travel to places where beauty perished.
33
What to Do? What to Do?
Yelling like shrieking losibirds, intruders crashed through the bushes. The noise sent blood rushing to Bealomondore’s head. He pulled his sword and twisted to face the attackers. He had time to recognize the crew from the boat stop.
So they hadn’t given up and returned to the way station. I would have, he thought just before one of the mariones targeted him.
The Sword of Valor slashed forward and interrupted a downward swing meant to do him bodily harm. He pushed with all his might and turned the blade away. Jumping aside as Maxon and Taeda Bel had taught him, he managed a backward swing. His sword sliced the attacker’s midriff. The man fell, and Bealomondore turned his attention to a bisonbeck roaring toward him.