The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [103]
Smiling behind the mask, she turned as if considering his question. The wall was bereft of phantoms now. Shandaular's day was coming to yet another end. Stars flickered and winked overhead, some disappearing completely as the wraiths slowly remade themselves. A split appeared in the ice-the tip of Serevan's blade piercing the frozen barrier.
"Now?" she said, crossing her forearms and reaching out to the Weave with her will. It was a minor spell she cast, common house-magic for witches of the north dealing with harsh winters. The ice crackled as a spider web of imperfections spread beneath its surface, making it brittle and awaiting the prince's next shattering blow. "Now… we must die."
The first moans of the returning wraiths echoed above as magic swirled at her fingertips.
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Time was broken. The uncomfortable rift between what was happening and what should have happened loomed in Bastun's mind. The Breath, out of balance with the memory of itself, hung heavy at his side.
In the past, either Athumrani or Serevan had wielded the blade and opened the black door to the Word. Of the two, he could not decide who would have desired such destruction more. Between the prince's ambition and the Magewarden's hate and sorrow, both might have fulfilled the Word's purpose-and both were surely very close when it occurred.
The thought of ambition made him consider Anilya, and though he wished otherwise, he was unable to trust the durthan's act of noble sacrifice. He listened closely for the sounds of inevitable battle outside, wondering what end she might make for herself-if indeed she truly expected to die at the Cold Prince's hands.
He shook his head and smirked beneath the mask, carrying no illusions that she would die an unlikely hero for the sake of Rashemen. For that alone he almost admired her tenacity.
A scream cut through the doors. The dull clash of steel rang in muted tones and the floor shook slightly. The sounds of battle returning his focus to the moment, Bastun tried to appear casual as he scanned the scattered piles of extraneous gear left by the wall.
In the light of a nearby torch, a familiar satchel, unceremoniously tossed among the effects of the Rashemi, caught his eye. He glanced at the others. Thaena sprinkled consecrated soil over the gathered swords before her, casting magic upon them that would sharpen their edges against threats not in the world of the living. The fang waited, respectfully silent and echoing the prayers sent to the Three as they observed their own traditional rituals. Duras and Syrolf stood across from each other, the rivalry between them evident, though muted in the face of the true enemies they would soon encounter.
Taking the moment, Bastun knelt and grabbed the satchel, turning his back to the others and shielding it from view. Waving a hand over its simple latch he detected only minor spells had been put in place to deter prying eyes. It spoke volumes about Anilya's confidence that she would trust such protection among other spellcasters.
Or, he thought, it means she keeps nothing more inside than cheap wine and dried food.
Trusting his instincts and curious to discover what secrets of the durthan he could, he disarmed the latch's cantrips and reached inside. He pulled forth two large books. The first was likely the durthans spellbook bound in a dark cover, the latch on its side fairly humming with protective wards, and he set it aside carefully. Even among allies, most spellcasters kept their arcane secrets shut away and locked with painful consequences.
More screams came from outside, joined by