The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (14 page)

Thaena choked at the thought, blinking and shaking her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to pull away from the window, but something held her fast. Looking down she found thin, shadowy fingers laced through her own—long black claws of inky blackness encircling her wrists.

She stumbled back, ripping her arms away from the window and staring wide-eyed as the ghostly hands melted into shreds

of smoky mist and curled away. Rubbing feeling back into het hands she approached the window cautiously, looking farther down the hallway for any other disturbances.

Wind howled past the window as before, snow fell thick and silent, but nothing seemed amiss. She gripped her stomach, the image of Duras spitted on a blade embedded in her mind. A knot formed in her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

Collecting herself and catching her breath, she looked upon the stone around her as if it were alive, watching her weakness and studying her vulnerabilities. Hearing voices near the door, she took a breath and stood up straight, meeting the eyes of Duras as he led the others. The mask saved her, hid the ordeal that might’ve shown on her face, but Duras knew her better than the others. His brow furrowed in question and she shook her head.

Syrolf followed just behind, the fang armed and ready to meet their enemies after dealing with the dead. Bloodlust filled their eyes, and in her heart she mirrored that thirst for battle, but could not shake the fear that something in the stone walls—something long dead—was spying on them.

The two groups gathered, barely forty strong. Anilya walked confidently toward Duras and Thaena, seemingly unaware of the troubling stares between them.

“We are prepared?” Anilya asked.

Before Thaena could answer, Syrolf appeared at the durthans shoulder. “Where is your dog, durthan?” “What? “Anilya turned to Syrolf.

“Ohriman,” Duras said and stepped between Thaena and the durthan. “Where is he?”

Thaena eyed the Rashemi and the sellswords, once again noticing the dangerous tension that had sparked between them. She raised her head and spotted tiny motes of shadow growing like bits of mold on the ceiling. They squirmed over everyone’s heads as if tasting hate on the air and feeding from it.

“I sent my guide’—Anilya glared at Syrolf—”to examine the eastern corridors and to discover what became of your lost vremyonni. I trust you might see the wisdom in that, yes?”

Syrolf grunted and stepped back, casting a meaningful glance at Duras before rejoining the rest of the fang. Tensions calmed somewhat. The tiny shadows shrank and crawled back into their stones. Thaena shuddered, the memory of their touch still burning in her hands.

The ethran nodded at Duras, turned, and began their journey to the northwest tower. The others fell in step, scouts taking the lead ahead of her and Duras. Her head ached as she thought of the variables that surrounded her—threats on every side, strife that might erupt at the slightest misunderstanding, Bastun missing, and the Creel entrenched in her sisters’ outpost.

One of the men lit a torch as they turned away from the windows and deeper into the Shield’s mysteries. Shadows danced and flickered on the walls, and Thaena swore she could hear them whispering.

+

‘Jhe sound of pages rustling as he turned them, the smell of dust and dried leather bindings—all brought Bastun back to his time among the vremyonni. Though the books had calmed him, he was growing frustrated, and time did not seem to be on his side. Not finding what he sought, he shelved another tome and searched for another that might have withstood the test of years. Faint auras of magic drew him toward several tomes. The minor spells kept the pages from growing brittle and disintegrating.

Pulling another book down he carefully flipped through its pages and recalled the late nights, reading alone in the caverns of the Running Rocks. Master Keffrass had encouraged him to socialize with the other apprentices, but Bastun only found the company distracting. He far more enjoyed having the great library to himself. During those years after Ulsera’s funeral, after being taken away and hidden with the other wizards, he found little use—or success—in forging relationships with others. Fortunately, Keffrass kept him in some practice in regards to conversation and social skills.

Frustrated, Bastun shelved the book and stood back, taking in the image of the Shield’s library. Torn and yellowed pages littered the floor, dust and cobwebs hung between the shelves, and tiny cracks webbed through the stone beneath his boots. He felt transported into his own mind, a past corrupted by decisions gone

awry, left alone to sort out what went wrong. Sighing, he continued the search, finding yet another shelf that caught his eye.

Leaning at the end, small and bound by leather straps, were two worn journals. Lifting one gently and blowing away the dust on its cover, he found the imprint of a coat of arms. Much of the image was worn away, but he could make out runic writing on the edge of an ornate shield and within that the unmistakable shape of Shandaular’s portal-arch—the standard of the Shield. Carefully he unwound the cracked and dried strap and opened the book to the first page.

The writing was faded and in a language he could not readily identify. The other book bore the same coat of arms and a similar writing style. They both had regular entries in a script that bespoke of an acute skill for conveying specific symbols and shapes. He narrowed his eyes and looked around, scanning the shelves once more before gambling on the pair. Deciding quickly, he brought them to a stone bench and laid them flat.

Setting aside his staff, he summoned the words to one of the first spells he had learned. Speaking clearly, he intoned the magic while resting his fingertips on the first journal’s cover. There was no flash of light, no glow or any of the effects that other apprentices had clamored for when time came to gain more magic for their fledgling spellbooks. Bastun had seen the spell for what it truly was: a key to the knowledge in all the other books of the vremyonni library.

Opening to the first page again, the writing changed as he viewed it, the language becoming his own, and he read that page with no small amount of relief:

The Personal Writings

and Musings of Athumrani Zukar Magewarden of Dun-Tharyn and Counsel to King Arkaius of Shandaular

Picking up the journal, he sat upon the bench and began to read, turning pages gently but quickly, searching for any mention of the Breath or where it might be hidden. He knew clues were the best he might find. If the Breath had been used, what they had actually unleashed would have been clear to all. What had been intended as a weapon of defense, the stories said, was made a horrible force of destruction by the inclusion of the Ilythiiri magic they had gleaned from the portal.

Details of daily life abounded. He found notes concerning research, news from other lands, minor shortages of resources, and trade routes becoming more dangerous. Exotic creatures and spices were brought from Shandaular’s sister city in the far south, the portal causing a remarkable mixture of cultures that drew merchants and scholars in droves. Soon though, trade from neighboring villages stopped altogether. Caravans were attacked and burned, left as warning for any who might defy the rule of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos. The world around Shandaular grew smaller and smaller as Narfell crept toward its doorstep and demanded submission.

Though Bastun yearned to sit and read until as much dust covered him as the shelves surrounding, he pressed on, scanning quickly.

Athumrani’s writing was precise and to the point, making Bastun’s reading all the easier. As he neared the end, he feared he had indeed wasted the valuable spell. The last few pages, however, gave him a glimpse of what he had been waiting to see. Athumrani’s script became more erratic and hurried, the words more urgent.

After months of waiting we have seen the results of Arkaius’s work, and while it is a marvel of ambition and talent, his creation is monstrous. His control was tenuous at best. Even he was surprised at what he unleashed. My hands shake as I write this, and the walls still seem to hum

with its power. The Word was all that we had expected and more. Far more than we could—or should—ever use. The secrets of the Ilythiiri must remain forever as they are: secrets.

The Arkaius of Bastun’s studies matched the sensibilities of the man described by Athumrani. He was by all accounts a good king with good intentions, but in the last days of Shandaular he had grown desperate as NarfelPs attacks became more determined.

The Nar grow bolder each time they assault us. Nentyarch Thargaun has sent all of his savage sons with armies to break our defenses, but to no avail as of yet. I have evidence of spies among us. Even now, I cannot trust my own advisors. They have taken so much from us. From me. The Nentyarch has one last son to send, and the roads have been silent for nearly a tenday. I have studied the Breath and the Word to the extent of my abilities. Frost forms on the walls no matter how many torches we light or spells we cast to warm the citadel. Terrible cold haunts me every day. With time I feel I could unmake these terrible weapons, but the Ilythiiri magic is persistent, almost alive in the way it clings to even fragments of the runic patterns. I find it hard to concentrate on the greater good and the lives of the many, when it is all I can do to not think of her. I have no more time. The Breath must be hidden and the portal destroyed, though I fear it may not be enough. My despair is unending of late, and I question Arkaius’s decision to trust me with this thing he has wrought. I shall miss our Shield, as I will our king. And my daughter…”

Several sketches followed this last entry, and Bastun tried to make sense of them, but could only identify pieces of what appeared to be an intricate map. He feared the true map was only in Athumrani’s mind, and this drawing, though possibly accurate, was only a two-dimensional representation of what could be stairs up or down here, a tower or perhaps empty space there. The most he could decide upon was direction. The rest could be a network of arcane traps and dead ends.

“If nothing else, it is a start,” he muttered.

He closed the journal and stared at the shelves, the walls, and the ceiling, trying to piece together what he knew of the Shield’s layout with the Magewarden’s drawings. Rubbing his eyes he picked up the second journal.

A cold breeze whistled through the room from the north, and he noted a sliver of light shining above one of the shelves. Curious and hesitant, drawn to the second journal, he reluctantly placed both books within his robes and stood to inspect the source of the disturbance.

A ladder stood against the shelves, leading up to a low railing. Carefully testing the rungs, he found them solid—a newer addition if not very recent. Climbing up, he peered over the top to find a small loft. Light came in through a crack in a thick curtain across the north window.

Climbing into the loft, he saw a desk, a comfortable looking if dusty chair, and against the north wall, a bed. Unfortunately, it did not appear to be empty. Keeping his staff at the ready he approached the bed, its mattress old and sagging beneath the weight of whoever lay within. Simple sheets and thick fur covers obscured the figure, which gave no indication of sensing Bastun’s presence.

Raising his staff and grasping the edge of the blankets with his other hand, he pulled them away. For half a breath he wished he hadn’t.

The figure, lying in repose, had been dead for some years. The skin was taut over an aged face. Yellowed white hair haloed

the frail skull of an old man in plain dark robes. Lowering the staff Bastun stared at the corpse curiously until he noted, beside the pillow, an all-too-familiar mask.

“Vremyonni,” he whispered, recalling the men who had come to study the Shield at the hathrans’ behest. This one had obviously elected to stay behind, maybe to maintain the library or merely to lose himself in the rich history of a time long lost. Replacing the blankets reverently, Bastun whispered a quiet prayer, a small rite for a fallen brother.

He sat on the edge of the chair and studied the loft, taking note of the thick curtains, much like ones he himself had drawn after a long night of reading. Turning toward the opposite window the whole of the library was visible to him—rows upon rows of shelves, scrolls beyond counting, more books than one might read in a lifetime. Much as he felt the solemnity in a dead brother’s presence, he found himself envying such a life. Peace and quiet, reading and learning, hidden away as the wychlaren willed. But free.

Glancing at the old master he considered the prospect of a peaceful death, far from the troubles and trials of people he could not understand. The breeze blew again, disturbing the curtains and allowing the light to glint off of something small on the vremyonni’s hand,

Looking closer, he saw it was a ring of an odd design, nothing like the vremyonni normally crafted. Quietly begging the late master’s forgiveness he lifted the hand closer to inspect the golden band. Tilting it toward the light, he made out a sigil like the one upon Athumrani’s journal—the shield of Shandaular. Tiny symbols decorated the sides of the ring—a mixture of arcane runes, some recognizable, the others of Ilythiiri origin.

Another item of hybrid magic? he wondered. There was no record of it.

He made to remove the ring, and despite his curiosity he realized he was holding hands with a corpse. Though far from

Rashemen and well aware of the difference between superstition and true danger, he reached into his robes, searching for a pouch he always carried. Scooping out some of its contents, he produced a fistful of soil and sprinkled it liberally over the vremyonni’s body.

“The land be with you always, Old One,” he said, and gently removed the ring.

Stepping back he studied the ring more closely. There was no indication of what it could do, what it was for, or why it even existed. After all Bastun had been told of the Breath and the Word and of the Ilythiiri magic that infected this place—that the caretaker had chosen to wear such an artifact seemed strange and reckless. Bastun had never questioned the Old Ones and trusted in their wisdom of crafted items, but the ring tugged upon some dim memory he couldn’t readily place. Trusting instinct and the judgment of his seniors, he placed it upon his finger with a held breath.