The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [66]
Reaching up to his own face, he traced the edges of the mask in wonder.
The mask, he thought. They must have known the vremyonni caretaker! How could he have kept this secret? Lived here among them?
Even as the question occurred to him he suspected the source of that secret and sighed in understanding: the wychlaren. They would have guarded the knowledge of anyone succeeding where they had failed.
He kneeled down to her eye level. She shied away from the movement, fading for an instant, but did not leave. She averted her eyes from him, hiding her face behind an ivory hand. The others kept their distance, still agitated and confused by the strange meeting between the living and the dead.
"You were sent here to die," he whispered.
She looked back at him, tilting her head as her eyes widened and her lip trembled. There were no more tears in her-they were left behind with her physical form-but he could see the streaks of those she had cried in life. Pleased with gaining her attention he tried to keep it, to discover why she had come to him.
"You said something before, about the cold prince," he said.
A shudder passed through her and the others rumbled. Their chains clinked and clattered against the walls. Shivering and paler than before, she nodded just enough for him to notice. Her eyes drifted to the Breath at his side, his hand upon the hilt.
The prince, he wondered, from the Cycle?
History lessons turned through his thoughts. Late night conversations with Keffrass came to mind, along with old scrolls and bits of forgotten lore. Narrowing his eyes, he recalled the Creel. The tribe, though often perceived as mere savages, were obsessed with ancient legacies and boasted of powerful bloodlines. The idea was there, on the tip of his tongue, before the realization struck him. When he found it, the name was linked as closely to the history of the Shield and as far away from the present as the ghost that stood before him. "Serevan Crell," he whispered.
Mere mention of the name had an instantaneous effect. The girl disappeared. The others' forms grew and trembled, a thundering growl emanating from the shreds of shadow they had become. The walls shook, and he thought he could hear a scream echoing amid the sound of tumbling stone and rubble. Standing on the largest piece of intact floor he could find, he held his arms out for balance and turned in circles again. He prepared for an attack.
Gradually, the shaking stopped, the growls faded, and though the spirits still hovered at the walls Bastun breathed a sigh of relief. Cautiously he knelt, taking stock of the situation. Staring up to the distant light near the top of the tower, he knew he would have to find Thaena and the others. Anilya would lead them to the Word, likely using them as fodder against the Creel.
For several moments, he contemplated the alternative- taking the Breath as far away from the Shield as possible and abandoning his old friends to their betrayer and the Creel. The long years away were apparent in that he didn't immediately reject the idea. Without the Breath, Anilya couldn't use the Word. Wasn't that what mattered?
Still… having an idea and acting upon it were very different notions. He couldn't abandon the Rashemi.
The low growls and whispers around him became tiny whimpers and fearful noises. The shadows shrank, sinking to the edge of the ruined tower's many floors. Looking around in confusion, Bastun rose cautiously back to his feet.
A cracking sound echoed from above, followed by a crash as shards of ice shattered on the stone. A mewling wail drew his attention to a block of ice on the wall. Something squirmed inside of it-a dark mass of long limbs writhing in an icy prison until a pair of glowing green eyes turned toward him from within. Raising his staff, Bastun flinched as more ice fell from behind him.
Claws scraped against ice, and leathery wings unfurled.
Taking a deep breath, he called upon his axe.
Chapter Fourteen
I374 DR, Year of Lightning Storms
The Running Rocks enjoying the quiet and the