The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [117]
The Nentyarch's son, by sword and curse, to tower-tall he strides,
At morning light, for Breath and Word, still there his fury came;
Though cold he found among the fire, he mourned forgotten Flame.
Ice melted at his touch as he crawled up the stairs. The walls dripped as he passed and froze again when he was gone. The Firedawn Cycle, the last passages of Shandaular's fall and the beginning of Narfell's epic rise to power and destructive war with Raumathar, sang over and over again in his head. There were many hidden bits of wisdom in the old song, such that even the oldest living othlors did not fully understand them all. Secrets of Rashemen's past were said to be revealed only to those who were ready to know.
The top of the stairs came into view, the flat expanse confusing him for a moment as he reached for the next step. He looked up and beheld the doorway, the arch carved around the opening and the hybrid magic created by King Arkaius. The weapon forged and sealed away lay open, the famed black door now ordinary iron and rust on ancient hinges. Magic alone held them together, ready to be shut again.
He blinked and wheezed for breath. The heat of the strange ring had intensified as he neared the top of the stairs. He knew what lay beyond, and he knew its terrible purpose. The Firedawn Cycle, whether by memory or some subtle magic woven into the words, had revealed one of its secrets.
Weary and determined, he crawled toward the doorway, fighting for each piece of ground he took. Anilya's shadow paced within, and he looked down to the ring on his finger.
It seemed there were indeed three artifacts, forged by a desperate king in service to his people, that had worked to seal Shandaular's fate. The durthan had taken the Breath. She had opened the door to the Word-but he alone had found, and now held possession of, the Flame.
Chapter Twenty-Four
There were places secreted among the wilds of Rashemen, where those of the wychlaren and their guardians were taken for burial. Occasionally these places were well known as sacred ground devoted to heroes or champions of the land, favored by the spirits that watched well over their rest. Other places, more secluded and visited only by the wychlaren, held those whom destiny had taken too soon. They would lie in wait for those left behind beneath the boughs of ancient trees, their graves marked only by spots of sunlight and leaves disturbed by the wind. It was the peace of such a place to which Thaena found her thoughts drifting.
Dirt filled the lines in her palms, found its way beneath her fingernails. Dreamlike she turned them over, studying the stains of Rashemen's soil, as Duras lay quiet and unmoving before her. The ritual had been instinctual, a simple prayer for the protection of his spirit and the soil to protect his body from the ravages of undeath. Slowly her hands reached for his, to cross them over his chest along with his sword.
Somewhere nearby a terrible roar thundered. Unhallowed voices whispered through the air as a numbing cold drew mist and steam from the throats of the living. She blinked, her eyes dry and sore, and shook her head as she focused on her task.
It is my task, she thought. It is what I can do for him-what I could not do before.
She lifted his left hand. Small and pale, an old scar crossed through his palm, a sign of undying friendship between two young boys torn apart by an untimely death. The death and the funeral thereafter had lived with Ouras ever since, had spilled from him years later and helped forge the bond between ethran and guardian that now ached within her breast. He had never let go, crushed by guilt of the boy he'd been-guilt she could not soothe from his haunted memory.
"What I could not do," she said. "Give him peace."
Something slid across the floor nearby. Shambling footsteps drew nearer. Blearily she looked up into the face of one of her warriors. His eyes were glazed over, mouth agape and moaning as his awkward gate forced air through his lungs with each lurching step.