Realms of Valor - James Lowder [107]
smoke-tinted jars filled with glass beads, mounds of books, carefully balanced pyramids of scroll cases, and many objects the druid couldn't identify peeked out between the crates. Galvin continued to gape at the dust-covered collection until a hand on his shoulder brought his attention back to the old man. “My granddaughter,” Drollo began. “She's only five. I was categorizing a new shipment when she wandered off. I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention to her.” “Your grandchildren are older than I am,” the druid noted. When Drollo didn't reply, Galvin found himself staring at the old man. At one time Drollo had been tall, with square shoulders and a long stride, but the seasons had taken their toll on his frame. Now he stood stooped over, his upper back a hump and his shoulders rounded and turned toward his chest. The skin hung on his bones as if it belonged to someone larger, falling in folds like the worn, oversized robes he wore. His wispy gray hair matched the color of the spiderwebs that clung to nearly everything in the tower. Only his eyes showed a spark. With considerable effort Drollo bent and carefully placed the weasel on one of the few sections of slate floor that was free of clutter. The creature wriggled furiously to shake the rain from its fur, then darted around the pool of water forming from Calvin's dripping clothes and slid behind a crate marked “Alguduire feathers.” The old man huffed, then stretched out an arm to grasp a nearby crate. Using it for support, he righted himself. Drollo rubbed his hands together nervously and looked about for something. At last, after gathering his thoughts, he met the druid's gaze. “I used to play with your grandchildren,” Galvin said a bit more loudly. “I used to run after them in the marketplace close to three decades ago. They're older than I by several winters.” “Did I say 'granddaughter? Er, she's the child of one of my grandchildren, or one of my grandchildren's children,” the old man said, shaking his head. “The years have sped by so quickly that I can't recall. She calls me Grandfather. That's what's important.” “And you're certain she's here?” Drollo nodded absently. “Somewhere. I call her, but she doesn't answer. Maybe she's playing a game on me. Maybe she's hurt.” “Her mother?” “Isaura. She's a hundred miles away,” Drollo replied. “The girl's spending a few months with me. Isaura thought it would do me good to have some company. But she'll have little to do with me anymore if she learns of this.” “So you sent Elias for me.” Calvin's tone was sympathetic. He could tell the old man was frightened, and the druid never remembered him being concerned about anyone-only about the junk he collected. “How long has she been missing?” “Two days,” the old man answered quickly. “Perhaps three. But not more than that, I don't think. Time runs together.” Drollo stared into Calvin's emerald green eyes. “I sent Elias as soon as I noticed her gone.” “We'll find her,” Galvin stated simply, hoping his tone would help lessen Drollo's worry.
The druid tugged his cloak loose and glanced about for a rack. There was a pole-shaped object behind a large crate, but it was well out of reach. Shrugging, he laid the dripping garment across a tall, narrow crate lettered “frangible.” Next came