The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [46]
Bile welled in her throat in disgust as Duras's words echoed in her mind. Her lover's hypocrisy seemed boundless, defending the vremyonni, the exile that could be meeting even now with the Creel and plotting their deaths. Duras had wanted to die before, years ago when he had confided in her. He had asked her to do it, to end his guilt, and she had stupidly refused, already in love with him. She imagined cold steel in her hands, a white-knuckled grip as she plunged the blade through Duras's gut for his sins.
Thaena choked at the thought, blinking and shaking her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to pull away from the window, but something held her fast. Looking down she found thin, shadowy fingers laced through her own-long black claws of inky blackness encircling her wrists.
She stumbled back, ripping her arms away from the window and staring wide-eyed as the ghostly hands melted into shreds of smoky mist and curled away. Rubbing feeling back into het hands she approached the window cautiously, looking farther down the hallway for any other disturbances.
Wind howled past the window as before, snow fell thick and silent, but nothing seemed amiss. She gripped her stomach, the image of Duras spitted on a blade embedded in her mind. A knot formed in her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Collecting herself and catching her breath, she looked upon the stone around her as if it were alive, watching her weakness and studying her vulnerabilities. Hearing voices near the door, she took a breath and stood up straight, meeting the eyes of Duras as he led the others. The mask saved her, hid the ordeal that might've shown on her face, but Duras knew her better than the others. His brow furrowed in question and she shook her head.
Syrolf followed just behind, the fang armed and ready to meet their enemies after dealing with the dead. Bloodlust filled their eyes, and in her heart she mirrored that thirst for battle, but could not shake the fear that something in the stone walls-something long dead-was spying on them.
The two groups gathered, barely forty strong. Anilya walked confidently toward Duras and Thaena, seemingly unaware of the troubling stares between them.
"We are prepared?" Anilya asked.
Before Thaena could answer, Syrolf appeared at the durthans shoulder. "Where is your dog, durthan?" "What? "Anilya turned to Syrolf.
"Ohriman," Duras said and stepped between Thaena and the durthan. "Where is he?"
Thaena eyed the Rashemi and the sellswords, once again noticing the dangerous tension that had sparked between them. She raised her head and spotted tiny motes of shadow growing like bits of mold on the ceiling. They squirmed over everyone's heads as if tasting hate on the air and feeding from it.
"I sent my guide'-Anilya glared at Syrolf-"to examine the eastern corridors and to discover what became of your lost vremyonni. I trust you might see the wisdom in that, yes?"
Syrolf grunted and stepped back, casting a meaningful glance at Duras before rejoining the rest of the fang. Tensions calmed somewhat. The tiny shadows shrank and crawled back into their stones. Thaena shuddered, the memory of their touch still burning in her hands.
The ethran nodded at Duras, turned, and began their journey to the northwest tower. The others fell in step, scouts taking the lead ahead of her and Duras. Her head ached as she thought of the variables that surrounded her-threats on every side, strife that might erupt at the slightest misunderstanding, Bastun missing, and the Creel entrenched in her sisters' outpost.
One of the men lit a torch as they turned away from the windows