The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [42]
The voices of children whispered behind him. Tiny hands brushed his arms and facet passing through his robes and mask. Their touch was freezing and penetrating, bringing forth anger, fear, and memories that only confused him further. Scant information existed on the specific nature of the Shield's spirits, and Keffrass had not dwelled on the subject. Bastun could not deny his sense of curiosity, but his sense of self-preservation came first.
He mumbled, trying to maintain his concentration. A vremyonni sanctuary, a library, lay somewhere nearby-at least he thought so. The distance he had traveled so far would account for much more space than the maps had showed.
Stopping, he pressed himself against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to remember every turn. The rough map in his mind spun and readjusted as he attempted to regain his bearings in comparison to the location of the library. It was near. He knew he was close. He felt his robes being tugged at from behind and he pulled back, suddenly annoyed as if at a pestering child.
"Stop!" he shouted, feeling immediately foolish at having done so.
They did stop. The whispers hushed, the breathing faded away, and even the air felt less chilled.
Opening his eyes, he stared blindly into the dark. His mind cleared of intrusion and he quickly worked out an idea of his direction. There was no way to be certain, but it was all he had. Almost as an afterthought he tried his staff and managed a dim glow from the steel tip. Breathing a sigh of relief he studied the walls and turned toward what he hoped was west.
The walls were rough cut and black as coal, swallowing the edges of what little light he could manage. Taking tentative steps forward he watched and listened for the return of the spirits. After turning two corners without incident he strode more confidently, eager to escape the maze of corridors. If there were any clues to the Breath's whereabouts, the vremyonni would have them hidden in the library.
The artifact had been forged as a key in the defenses against the encroaching empire of Narfell, but had been deemed far too dangerous to use even in the saving of Shandaular. It was hidden away, buried and forgotten in secrets and stone. The Ilythiiri magic used in its construction had made it indestructible, so King Arkaius had sealed it away where it would be forgotten. Unfortunately for Shandaular, that secret hadn't been kept well enough. Bastun could only hope that the Breath, like the Shield itself, had all but been forgotten by the world.
"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