The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [49]
Raising his staff and grasping the edge of the blankets with his other hand, he pulled them away. For half a breath he wished he hadn't.
The figure, lying in repose, had been dead for some years. The skin was taut over an aged face. Yellowed white hair haloed the frail skull of an old man in plain dark robes. Lowering the staff Bastun stared at the corpse curiously until he noted, beside the pillow, an all-too-familiar mask.
"Vremyonni," he whispered, recalling the men who had come to study the Shield at the hathrans' behest. This one had obviously elected to stay behind, maybe to maintain the library or merely to lose himself in the rich history of a time long lost. Replacing the blankets reverently, Bastun whispered a quiet prayer, a small rite for a fallen brother.
He sat on the edge of the chair and studied the loft, taking note of the thick curtains, much like ones he himself had drawn after a long night of reading. Turning toward the opposite window the whole of the library was visible to him-rows upon rows of shelves, scrolls beyond counting, more books than one might read in a lifetime. Much as he felt the solemnity in a dead brother's presence, he found himself envying such a life. Peace and quiet, reading and learning, hidden away as the wychlaren willed. But free.
Glancing at the old master he considered the prospect of a peaceful death, far from the troubles and trials of people he could not understand. The breeze blew again, disturbing the curtains and allowing the light to glint off of something small on the vremyonni's hand,
Looking closer, he saw it was a ring of an odd design, nothing like the vremyonni normally crafted. Quietly begging the late master's forgiveness he lifted the hand closer to inspect the golden band. Tilting it toward the light, he made out a sigil like the one upon Athumrani's journal-the shield of Shandaular. Tiny symbols decorated the sides of the ring-a mixture of arcane runes, some recognizable, the others of Ilythiiri origin.
Another item of hybrid magic? he wondered. There was no record of it.
He made to remove the ring, and despite his curiosity he realized he was holding hands with a corpse. Though far from Rashemen and well aware of the difference between superstition and true danger, he reached into his robes, searching for a pouch he always carried. Scooping out some of its contents, he produced a fistful of soil and sprinkled it liberally over the vremyonni's body.
"The land be with you always, Old One," he said, and gently removed the ring.
Stepping back he studied the ring more closely. There was no indication of what it could do, what it was for, or why it even existed. After all Bastun had been told of the Breath and the Word and of the Ilythiiri magic that infected this place-that the caretaker had chosen to wear such an artifact seemed strange and reckless. Bastun had never questioned the Old Ones and trusted in their wisdom of crafted items, but the ring tugged upon some dim memory he couldn't readily place. Trusting instinct and the judgment of his seniors, he placed it upon his finger with a held breath.
The metal was warm and the loop somewhat loose. But even as he watched it shrunk to fit him, as many magical rings tended to do. He felt heartened that at least that particular aspect seemed normal enough. Little else occurred. Though somewhat disappointed, he decided to hang on to the artifact, its markings and design too coincidental to ignore.
Waves of nausea assaulted his stomach, and he doubled over, feeling as if he had swallowed liquid fire. His gut burned and his skin tingled with strange power. Falling to his hands and knees, he tried to pry the ring from his finger, clenching his teeth against the pain. Slowly it faded as did the cold that previously occupied the library. Collecting himself, he sat up and studied the ring again, unchanged and as mysterious as before.
Narrowing his eyes in thought,