The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [48]
Though Bastun yearned to sit and read until as much dust covered him as the shelves surrounding, he pressed on, scanning quickly.
Athumrani's writing was precise and to the point, making Bastun's reading all the easier. As he neared the end, he feared he had indeed wasted the valuable spell. The last few pages, however, gave him a glimpse of what he had been waiting to see. Athumrani's script became more erratic and hurried, the words more urgent.
After months of waiting we have seen the results of Arkaius's work, and while it is a marvel of ambition and talent, his creation is monstrous. His control was tenuous at best. Even he was surprised at what he unleashed. My hands shake as I write this, and the walls still seem to hum with its power. The Word was all that we had expected and more. Far more than we could-or should-ever use. The secrets of the Ilythiiri must remain forever as they are: secrets.
The Arkaius of Bastun's studies matched the sensibilities of the man described by Athumrani. He was by all accounts a good king with good intentions, but in the last days of Shandaular he had grown desperate as NarfelPs attacks became more determined.
The Nar grow bolder each time they assault us. Nentyarch Thargaun has sent all of his savage sons with armies to break our defenses, but to no avail as of yet. I have evidence of spies among us. Even now, I cannot trust my own advisors. They have taken so much from us. From me. The Nentyarch has one last son to send, and the roads have been silent for nearly a tenday. I have studied the Breath and the Word to the extent of my abilities. Frost forms on the walls no matter how many torches we light or spells we cast to warm the citadel. Terrible cold haunts me every day. With time I feel I could unmake these terrible weapons, but the Ilythiiri magic is persistent, almost alive in the way it clings to even fragments of the runic patterns. I find it hard to concentrate on the greater good and the lives of the many, when it is all I can do to not think of her. I have no more time. The Breath must be hidden and the portal destroyed, though I fear it may not be enough. My despair is unending of late, and I question Arkaius's decision to trust me with this thing he has wrought. I shall miss our Shield, as I will our king. And my daughter…"
Several sketches followed this last entry, and Bastun tried to make sense of them, but could only identify pieces of what appeared to be an intricate map. He feared the true map was only in Athumrani's mind, and this drawing, though possibly accurate, was only a two-dimensional representation of what could be stairs up or down here, a tower or perhaps empty space there. The most he could decide upon was direction. The rest could be a network of arcane traps and dead ends.
"If nothing else, it is a start," he muttered.
He closed the journal and stared at the shelves, the walls, and the ceiling, trying to piece together what he knew of the Shield's layout with the Magewarden's drawings. Rubbing his eyes he picked up the second journal.
A cold breeze whistled through the room from the north, and he noted a sliver of light shining above one of the shelves. Curious and hesitant, drawn to the second journal, he reluctantly placed both books within his robes and stood to inspect the source of the disturbance.
A ladder stood against the shelves, leading up to a low railing. Carefully testing the rungs, he found them solid-a newer addition if not very recent. Climbing up, he peered over the top to find a small loft. Light came in through a crack in a thick curtain across the north window.
Climbing into the loft, he saw a desk, a comfortable looking if dusty chair, and against the north wall, a bed. Unfortunately, it did not appear to be empty. Keeping his staff at the ready he approached the bed, its mattress old and sagging