The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [79]
He told them of the hidden passages, ghostly children, and the secret library. He spoke of a deep armory and becoming trapped in the central tower's collapse. The varrangoin, the climb, the dying Creel, and the falling bridge… all he told, but the Breath and the Word he kept to himself.
"This prince," Thaena said after he had finished, "what do we know of him? I was not aware the Nar had princes-or kings for that matter."
"It is said that in the last days of Shandaular," Bastun said, reciting the bits of history as he knew them, the poetry of the Firedawn Cycle unwound by vremyonni historians, "the Nentyarch Thargaun of Dun-Tharos had sent all but one of his sons against the walls of the city. This last son was called Serevan Crell, a prince of old Narfell."
"You cannot mean to say-" Duras said. "That was centuries ago. Longer!"
Though the warrior had broken his silence, Thaena sat transfixed in her own thoughts. Bastun did not press her on the subject. Clearly she knew something more.
"I can only vouch for what the Creel woman spoke to me," he said to Duras, though he kept his eye on Thaena. "But Narfell was once favored by powerful fiendish lords, and Serevan was suspected a sorcerer of some talent."
"Even if it is true, or even possible," Thaena said, standing and staring at the ceiling and walls as if being watched, "why now:
"Now?" Bastun asked. "You've seen the spirits of this city, the way they act, as if Shandaular is falling every day. The idea of now means very little to those lost in the suffering of the past."
She looked at him-or rather her mask looked at him, for it was a wychlaren stare he felt and not the eyes he had just witnessed outside. There was judgment in the mask and authority to carry out the judgment. For a short time he had forgotten that mask, and it seemed he was going to be reminded.
"This is not the past, Bastun," she said, an edge like iron sliding coldly along the undertone of the statement. "This is now and we must act accordingly. We cannot be swayed by what might be or what once was, Nar magic or fallen princes be damned."
"And what if it matters?" he asked. "What if those things are a part of this? What if you are wrong?"
She tilted her head and regarded him before replying. "If I am wrong, then why did you come back?"
The cold iron hiding in her voice slid home and buried itself in his gut. Even Duras looked at her sharply. She had done all but call him a coward, and he yearned to answer her question with the truth.
But he didn't. He swallowed his words, gritted his teeth, and allowed the moment to wash through him.
His staff clattered to the ground next to him and he took it with a steady hand. His thumb already rested in the wood's grooved scar.
"You are not to leave my sight until this is finished," she said, then made her way to the stairway. "We will wait out the storm and make our way to the northwest tower. As long as you are useful you will not be treated as a prisoner… or worse."
He listened as her footsteps faded down the stairs, felt the gaze of Duras on him before the big warrior left him. Bastun eased himself down on his injured shoulder, pulling his cloak tight as he closed his eyes. Wrapped in cloth and pressed beneath his weight, the Breath remained cold even as he succumbed to a fitful sleep.
+ + + + +
The day waned to evening and Bastun awoke in the hushed silence of the guard tower. The storm's howl had lessened to a moan, and he settled in to study the worn spellbook from his pack. Lighting a small candle, he pored over pages written in his own hand. The medium of ink and parchment had a calming effect on his mind, allowing him to focus on only those spells he felt would be necessary in the fight to come. Time became a stranger, something