The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [119]
+ + + + +
On hands and knees Bastun crawled into the chamber of the Word, squinting through the haze of power that surrounded him. It roared in his ears, an unfelt wind rushing and turning. Every surface squirmed with Ilythiiri and Nar runes, a shimmering labyrinthine pattern that distorted all he could see. He searched for Anilya through a myriad of dark shapes, most of which seemed only mirage. He pushed farther inside, his presence causing ripples in the torrent running through his fingers and around his legs.
The fever of the Flame only grew stronger, and he allowed it to wash over him. He accepted the pain, felt deserving of it for what he had allowed to happen-what he might still allow.
Holes formed in the walls and floor, shimmering open as if the tower were tearing itself apart. Through these he saw glimpses of Shandaular and the outside world. In some the city lay as dead and ruined as he knew it to be, full of shadows and mist. In others it still burned, an eternal pyre of suffering while Narfell's cruel emissary sought the deadly secrets of King Arkaius. For a moment he wondered which of the two cities truly lay outside the threshold he had just crossed. He felt himself lying on the doorstep of nowhere, in between and hovering in a state of stilled potential-a superposition from which any possibility could occur.
Movement caught his eye as one of the dark shapes drew closer. Waves of glimmering energy, nearly invisible, rolled and parted before the figure striding toward him. The mask appeared first, darkened eyes regarding him coldly as Anilya approached. She knelt close to him, tilting her head as she studied his weakened state. Blood seeped through his robes from the wound in his side, dripping to the floor and flowing within the runes upon runes beneath him.
The time and distance between them seemed to stretch for eons, brief and enduring, near and far all at once. His every desire rose to the surface of his mind, and he found it difficult to remain focused in the strange nexus of what was still a dormant magic. He imagined his hands caressing her shoulders, drawing her close-then her face, contorted in agony as he choked the life from her. He screamed and whispered, felt unimaginable peace and exultant anger all in the space of a few moments. The Word enveloped them in its vortex of chaos. To Bastun it seemed this was the space that existed between thought and action, the heartbeat between will and the spell it summoned.
"You mean to stop me, vremyonni?" Anilya's voice carried throughout the chamber, echoed and reverberated into a nonsense that was drowned out by the power of the Word.
He could not form an answer, each breath focused on penetrating the burning aura that boiled inside of him. Sweat soaked his robes and matted his hair to his neck and mask. His bleeding was getting worse with each pounding heartbeat, and his throat was so dry that a simple skin of water would seem a blessing from the gods. He simply stared at the durthan, struggling to breathe and to maintain his focus.
"I thought not," she said, and removed her mask. She rubbed at her eyes before returning her attention to the mazelike patterns on the floor. "Though I suspect you shall be less than helpful in unraveling the secret of this puzzle, eh?"
Puzzle to you, he thought. Nightmare to me.
She strolled, searching the runes for the pattern's beginning. Tiny motes of light drifted from her fingertips and struck the floor. Bursts of energy illuminated entire sections of the engraved spellwork. More holes appeared, more ripples and tides of distortion, but little else. Within the disturbance, Bastun caught a glimpse of metal shining through the miasma. He stared at the spot, torn between thoughts of vengeance and any hope of saving