The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (13 page)

“Murderer!”

The voice spoke in his ear and he stopped in his tracks. His hands shook as he turned, finding nothing, just as before. The silence afterward was stifling, and he felt as though he were twelve years old again, catching a loud whisper from across a room of fellow apprentices. His stomach churned at the

memory and his hands balled into fists on reflex.

Gooseflesh rose on his arms and neck. The light of his staff flickered like a weak candle. Nearby stone scraped against stone, growling as the maze came to life again. Shaking off the grasping tendrils of his past, he turned to run—

But found a dead end where before had been open hallway.

Something touched his arm and his mind was again flooded by memories of guilt and anger and pointing fingers. “Traitor!” the voice said.

He ran back the way he had come, but found another dead end and another. The voice whispered the words over and over again, each time stabbing into his mind. He could feel the power in the voice and tried to resist it, but it kept speaking and so he kept running. Anger filled him, welled up in his throat and pressed on his chest until he could no longer ignore the spirits’ accusations, hearing himself echoed in the hissing voices, in the empty spaces and shadows that surrounded him.

No! Those are their words, he told himself. Not mine.

The whispers responded, growing louder as they took shape, a child’s voice forming within the noise. “But you believe them,” it said.

It was Bastun who had sent Ulsera to her death, he who had lost himself the night his master was murdered. For both lives he had taken some quiet measure of responsibility. Yet in his heart, where he had always searched for and expected to find grief, he had only found rage,

“Where is your breath?” it asked.

In a screech of metal, the axe blade sprung from his staff, shining in the dark. His mind calmed somewhat, but his arms trembled and his jaw clenched.

“Nothing,” he muttered, standing straighter. “I owe you nothing. Now leave this place!”

He swung and struck the wall, sending sparks showering to the floor. The voices shrieked in pain as a shadow coalesced on

that wall, forming a twisted face. Long arms ending in wicked claws reached for him. The blackness howled in a decidedly unchildlike manner. Stepping back beyond its reach, he ran, now keeping track of each turn even as more of the shadows appeared along the walls.

He ducked and swung at them with the axe, but he did not stop.

West, he thought as he rounded another corner and stopped short, the path blocked by a young girl at the end of the hallway. The shadows retreated and the whisperers stopped.

Older than the girl he had followed into the maze, this spirit’s eyes seemed full of a pain and wisdom far beyond her years. Her dress was little more than sackcloth, and deep wounds encircled each of her pale-skinned wrists. Motes of dust swirled through her translucent form. She stared at him blankly. Just paces away, between him and the ghost, a side passage led south—or what he assumed was south.

Smelling dust and old parchment on the air, he took a tentative step toward the passage. The spirit inclined her head, her dark hair rippling and settling slowly to her shoulders as if underwater. Leaning forward, she lifted her right foot and the floor trembled as her weight shifted. Unnerved and unwilling to wait for her foot to fall, he ran and dived at the passage.

The spirit child’s step landed like the stomp of an angry dragon. The stone walls shook, and dust fell as bits of the ceiling crumbled. The floor heaved, and Bastun stumbled into the hallway, the momentum carrying him tumbling and rolling into an open space.

Falling down a short flight of stairs, he dropped his staff. Something wooden shattered beneath his weight, breaking the fall. His legs crashed against something solid and the sound of falling and ripping parchment surrounded him. Books and scrolls rested beneath his hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the quaking stone settled and the dust began to clear.

Dim light illuminated the rafters of a high ceiling and a

row of shelves to his right. The blue glow of a cloudy morning filtered in from a nearby window. He rested his head on a thick tome, blinking and coughing. Though no shadows followed him and no whispers pushed their way into his ears, he could still feel them—could still see Ulsera’s grave and Keffrass’s burned mask.

Disentangling his leg from a fallen stack of books, he pushed himself up on his elbows. The splinters of a rotted footstool crumbled beneath his left hand and he thanked the gods. His back ached well enough from the fall without the assistance of newer furniture to crash into.

“There is no shelter here.”

He froze, spying the silhouette of a figure in the dimness. The voices had spoken in unison—all very young, some male and some female, shouting, weeping, and groaning. He rose to a crouch, glancing at the floor in a futile attempt to find his staff.

“What do you want?” he asked, hoping to stall for time. “Why are you here?”

“The cold prince will find you,” they answered, “will find us all. He will freeze your blood and give Breath to the Word. He’s coming now… again… always….”

Watching for any movement from the speaker—or rather speakers—he raised the staff. Light burst from its steel sphere, revealing the source of the voices—

The statue of an aged man in long robes.

Bastun looked around, searching for any movement, any sign of the spirits.

Several moments passed, but the voices did not return. Sweat beaded on his brow. His breath came quickly as he turned his attention to a nearby shelf. Hundreds of ancient books lay before him, most looking ready to fall apart at the slightest breeze. Ignoring the thumping in his ears and the anxious dread that prowled in the back of his mind, Bastun began to scan the spines.

The ones he sought would be more enduring, as the protected texts of wizards usually were.

Fear led him from shelf to shelf, book to book, searching for anything that might lead him to the Breath. There was no way to know how long the haunting might leave him in peace. Over and over the spirits’ last words marched in his mind.

Though the Breath drove his search, their mention of the Word intensified it.

+ + + + +

“He’s gone.”

Syrolf strode across the room, sidestepping Duras and Thaena as he drew his sword. Following his gaze, the ethran’s eyes narrowed as she realized her mistake. Bastun had disappeared.

“Search the walls!” she commanded, suspecting the vremyonni’s knowledge of the Shield had allowed him to slip away through some secret passage. The fang responded instantly, though Duras stayed at her side, the expression on his face unreadable.

“Are you surprised he left?” he asked.

“Not entirely.”

“He did nothing wrong, Thaena. If Syrolf had his way—” “He’d have killed him,” Thaena replied coldly and found herself somewhat unmoved by the fact. The look of shock on Duras’s face caused her to look away, unable to deal with his loyalty to an old friend in light of the death that surrounded them. “Bastun was selfish. He might have stayed and helped us against the Creel. He could have helped us protect Rashemen and take at least that much dignity with him into exile.”

Stepping away from Duras, she watched the fang tear down tapestries and drag them over the bodies to better inspect the columns and walls. The tapestries, maintained by simple

cantrips, depicted scenes of Shandaular’s founding and daily life. Bright colors and the woven history of a hopeful past hid faces of the dead in a grim present. Somehow the image haunted her, and a pang of fear stabbed through her heart, almost like the memory of a dream.

“So you think Syrolf is right, that Bastun is a murderer and a traitor?” Duras said from behind her.

Turning, she saw the confusion in his eyes. Despite his strength and ferocity in battle, there was an innocence in the big warrior that had drawn her to him. An innocence that was infuriating at times.

“What has he done to prove Syrolf wrong?” she asked.

“Bastun has nothing to prove. We both know that.”

“Do we? What do we really know about Bastun? He’s been gone from both of our lives for so long, you can’t possibly know that he can be trusted now. Why do you defend him?”

“Because no one else will,” he answered, and she could see the fire in his eyes. “The othlor would have executed him if he were guilty of the charges, but she did not! And we both know what happened to Ulsera.”

Thaena held up her hand, silencing him as she looked around. No one seemed to be listening. Bastun’s sister had been slain in the Urlingwood, a sacred ground of the wychlaren, forbidden to anyone not of the secretive sisterhood—under pain of death. She gave him a meaningful look, pleading with her eyes for him to understand.

“I am sorry, Duras,” she said, softening her voice. “I cannot be of two minds on this. I cannot allow the past or old friendships to affect my judgment. Not this time.”

The fire left his eyes. Duras would uphold the law, she knew. His dedication to Rashemen ran deeper than any warrior she had ever known, but he walked a narrow path and she had joined him there. Though they hadn’t seen or heard from Bastun in years, he had been a constant presence between them, an unspoken name in their tightest embraces and, at

times, an awkward silence. Duras would protect his friend, just as she had protected Duras from himself.

“Lives are at stake,” she said, “and an exile suspected of treason has gone missing, likely of his own accord. I must lead in this.”

Duras nodded and crossed his arms, but he would not meet her eyes.

“Just remember, Thaena”—he gestured toward the fang— “where you lead, they will follow.”

She heard the innocence in his voice fade. She was their ethran. What Syrolf believed, if she believed it, would become law. What the others might suspect, if she spoke aloud, they would act upon. Words—her words—could cost an innocent man his life.

Only one question remains, she thought as Syrolf approached. Is Bastun truly innocent?

“The exile has escaped,” Syrolf reported smugly. “There is a passage behind one of the columns that extends for some distance into darkness. Do you wish us to pursue him?”

Thaena stared at the walls and the ceiling, imagining the size of the Shield and the myriad of places Bastun could be. She cursed him for making things far more complicated than they already were. She swore at herself as well, for believing she might be able to trust the vremyonni despite evidence to the contrary. He had betrayed what trust she had given him, and no matter his motives, she had to assume the worst—that Syrolf might be right.

“No,” she said. “Though we will consider the vremyonni a threat until proven otherwise. For now the Nar must take precedence. What is the status of the western corridors?”

“No sign of the invaders,” Duras answered, looking at the floor, his tone edging on anger. “The central tower seems mostly ruined, but there are stairs ascending into the north wall.”

“My scouts reported lights flickering in the northwest

tower.” Anilya strode forward casually. “I suspect our uninvited guests will be found there.”

Thaena nodded, considering the distance involved through unwarded sections of the Shield. The hathrans used only the central-most walls and towers from which to scry and watch upon the western lands. The rest of the citadel had been observed and debated over, but no direct solutions had yet been decided upon. Though she was concerned about the Shield’s curse, as one of the wychlaren she was bound to deal with the Nar and the spirits they would disturb.

“We will make our way there,” she said. “Guard towers along the wall may serve as safe points should we run into trouble.”

Anilya left to prepare her men.

“I doubt the Creel will give us much trouble,” said Syrolf. “No,” Thaena said. “I fear the Creel may be the least of our worries.”

Syrolf nodded, spat in the durthans direction, and went to assist the others with the bodies. The fang would follow her, but they knew the rumors of the Shield and would feel the borders of hathran wards as they crossed them. Syrolf, second only to Duras, spoke for them all, their readiness to do what must be done for Rashemen. Thaena was not particularly fond of the runescarred warrior, but she saw in his arguments a troubling logic that she was loathe to accept.

She rested her hand on Duras’s shoulder, and they shared a look of brief understanding—a truce until they might be alone. She walked into the western corridor. Wild winds whistled through tall windows on the north wall, carrying snow and a chill that felt comforting after the stifling warmth of the entrance hall. The sky outside remained a solid gray wall of thick clouds, a storm front heralding the first of many more freezing days to come.

Leaning into the window she breathed in and enjoyed the freezing air as only a Rashemi could. Laying her hands on

the stone, she lowered her head and prayed to the Three for forgiveness of her decisions and victory in battle against the Shield’s invaders. Ice and snow on the stone numbed her hands and sent an odd sensation through her forearms. Her first instinct was to pull away, but as her heart began to hammer in her chest she thought of all she had seen in the last few hours, and she pressed her hands harder against the cold.

She spent so much time suppressing what she felt, in order to appear cold and emotionless, wise and infallible, doing it for the sake of the fang. Her mind filled with images of battle, of wielding a sword and losing herself to the bloodlust of a berserker. All this time she had spent trying to react and lead as a wychlaren suddenly seemed such a waste. The Ice Wolves were berserkers, hunters that respected strength. She should have ordered Syrolf to slit Bastun’s throat, should have executed Anilya without question. Her breathing turned ragged and throaty as she recalled missed opportunities for all the blood she should have spilled—could be spilling now if she hadn’t been so weak at the sight of one of her own dead on the floor.

Bile welled in her throat in disgust as Duras’s words echoed in her mind. Her lover’s hypocrisy seemed boundless, defending the vremyonni, the exile that could be meeting even now with the Creel and plotting their deaths. Duras had wanted to die before, years ago when he had confided in her. He had asked her to do it, to end his guilt, and she had stupidly refused, already in love with him. She imagined cold steel in her hands, a white-knuckled grip as she plunged the blade through Duras’s gut for his sins.