The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [73]
Thaena rubbed her hands together in frustration, tying her fingers in knots-a habit she had not indulged since she was a child. Tears rolled from her eyes and spilled into the corners of her mouth. Her mind struggled to escape, trapped in a labyrinth of magic and false emotion. Snow, swords, and shadowy wings overwhelmed her senses. She recoiled in horror and sadness. The part of her that fought the spell, that knew what was happening, used her voice to scream. Spells slid among her thoughts with a slippery grace, swimming through the cracks of nonsense she could not banish.
Random memories of childhood asserted themselves. She recalled running through the forests with her friends, finding insects and birds, identifying them to give names to the beasts in her world. Few butterflies visited Rashemen, save in the spring, and she did not remember any of them with wings as large and black as the creature that Duras fought a mere stride away.
They are not butterflies, she told herself. I am in danger. We are all in danger. I have to help.
Then the cold eyes overwhelmed her moment of clarity, and again she felt small and confused.
"I wish Bastun were here," she whispered. "Bastun would know what they are."
+ + + + +
Bastun stepped out into the howling wind, cloak pulled tight against the bite of winter, but no such chill came. He leaned into the gale, averting his eyes from the multitude of blinding flakes, and carefully crossed the bridge. Warmth spread throughout his body, and he feared the poison was not yet done with him, but there was no pain. Curious, he continued his crossing, loosening his cloak and marveling at the comfort he felt in weather known to kill the unprotected.
Once again, he gazed upon the strange ring. No Rashemi would need such protection from the winter-not that they would admit anyway. The old vremyonni bore the ring for some other purpose, something that nagged at his thoughts as he crossed the bridge.
A knot of dread rested in his stomach at the idea of rejoining the others, and he slowed. The Breath was a secret he was bound to maintain. Though he had taken the oaths as a vremyonni, there was no lack of wisdom in keeping the Shield's secrets safe. The durthans presence was proof enough of that. His stride quickened as he contemplated how best to explain his absence. At the halfway point of the bridge, the warmth he felt was pierced by a chill at his back.
Looking over his shoulder he stared through the tower door. The darkness within the tower shifted and trembled, shreds of it licking outward into the snow. He became suddenly aware of the drop on either side of him and the distance back to the west tower. Edging his feet along, he kept a wary eye on the spirits, who had slipped through the walls and were following him again. His heart raced and his breath quickened. The children had not approached him very closely since he had gained possession of the Breath, but as his path would take him toward the Word, he feared the spirits might become bolder. The power between the two artifacts had taken every life, cursed every soul within the city to unrest.
Measuring his steps, he kept one hand on the Breath, counting on its presence to ward off their madness. Whispers and voices came to him on the wind. The spirits' bright eyes regarded him from within their shadows, shaking and turning as if agitated. The voices grew louder, and he realized he was not listening to the children.
Shouts rang out from somewhere to his left. Through the snow he could see nothing, but the familiar hiss of blades being drawn from leather scabbards was unmistakable. Words of magic drifted in and out of focus. A man'scream