The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [31]
The shadows left behind melted among the ruins, their voices quieter but no less disquieting.
The gates were open slightly, just enough to allow one to pass through, and Bastun stood to peer in at the ancient castle. Thaena and Duras came to look as well, and Bastun wondered if they had any idea of what they were truly seeing.
The tops of its high walls and multiple towers were lost in the low clouds, their surfaces remarkably untouched by times ravages, as if the citadel had been frozen and set aside. Bastun marveled at the magic that must have been used in its construction. Little decoration broke up the austere architecture save for the stylized archway above the gate, made to resemble what the portal must have once looked like.
Stepping back, he leaned against the cold surface of the gate and slid down to his knees once again. He collected his thoughts and rested his head on his staff. The others were still calming down, some invigorated by the run through the streets and others already checking their weapons. The latter reminded him that the Creel would be waiting. He knew this in his gut. The lack of any Rashemi guards at the gate lent proof.
Spells came to mind on instinct, and he closed his eyes to inventory the arcane passages held in his memory. An undercurrent of rhythm flowed through his thoughts as he recalled the Firedawn Cycle as well, the tune resurfacing as he worried about the Shield's safety in the shadow of the fortress. The memory of Keffrass's voice echoed among his thoughts.
Where is your breath?
He cast a quick glance toward Anilya and Ohriman, careful to shield his eyes beneath hood and mask. They stood apart from the others, talking in whispers and watching him. He focused the magic of his mask to eavesdrop on their conversation even as pieces of the Cycle sang themselves in the back of his mind.
… to shake the stones, to break the bones Of the Shield and steal its Breath, Of the Shield and steal its Breath.
A grim smile spread across his lips as he heard everything but the voices of the durthan and Ohriman.
Secrets, secrets, he thought, everyone has a secret.
"So be it," he whispered and got back to his feet, surrounded by distrust and enemies, with more likely lying in wait just ahead. It had been a cold day when Keffrass had entrusted him with the secrets of Shandaular, and he couldn't have imagined the day he used them would be colder still.
Somewhere inside-still hidden and buried, he hoped-lay the folly of Shandaular's desperate king and the true cause of the city's ruin.
He had to find the Shield's secret and ensure its safety.
He had to find its Breath.
Chapter Seven
Nightal2, I376DR, the Year of the
Bent Blade
The snow was smooth and unbroken, the wind light and silent. Even the mist thinned as they neared the Shield, giving Bastun a better view of their surroundings as the group made its careful way across the courtyard to a series of rising steps.
The fortress loomed over them, the tops of its towers lost in darkness. High walls bridged one tower to the next, curving the entire structure into a wide embrace of stone and ancient ice.
Keffrass's journals had contained sketches of what he had seen, his thoughts written with a mixture of fear and fascination. Before they'd been stolen along with several other scrolls and maps, Bastun had pored over them, devouring all that he could. The Shield's emptiness, abandoned corridors and silent battlements, had caught his imagination like nothing else he had studied. Standing in its shadow, he could understand his master's apprehension. Frozen in time, it stood in stark contrast to the ruined city