The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [80]
Retrieving the journals taken from the library, he skimmed the entries of the Shield's Magewarden, Athumrani. The fear and paranoia that filled Athumrani was evident, and Bastun suspected there was much the Magewarden had not put to paper. From beginning to end the handwriting's change from impersonal script into hurried and emotional scratching was disturbing in a way that seemed almost claustrophobic. As the walls of safety closed in on the Magewarden, so did the room seem smaller and more threatening around Bastun. The compulsion to burst through the doors and breathe fresh air was strong and familiar. He glanced at the pommel of the Breath at his side, covering it with the hem of his robe and shivering at the memory of the compulsion it had drawn over him.
The second journal was truly a prize, surprising at first, yet the tone of Athumrani's writing made clear why the two books had been together. The first page declared it to be the notes of Arkaius himself, many of which concerned his experiences with the Word-due to the nature of the notes, it went well into explaining Athumrani's frantic state of mind.
Much of the king's research into the Ilythiiri had clearly been torn away, but what remained was a stunning account of the days after the first use of the Word. Bastun imagined the voice of Arkaius, carrying him and the Breath outside, along the wall, and up to the top of the northwest tower. In that tower lay a solid black door that had not opened during any living memory, a door that held the secrets of Shandaular's ruin. The king was filled with regret over what he had worked to create, and he feared for his people as he knew the Nentyarch would send yet another army to claim Shandaular's portal for their empire. Like Athumrani, he too suspected an agent of Dun-Tharos had infiltrated the Shield.
Bastun sighed in frustration. More torn pages left a gaping hole in the preparations Arkaius had made in keeping the Word secret. All that remained were the king's last thoughts, making ready for the imminent attack and his intention to sacrifice himself in destroying the portal. His people would escape to the far south and the Nentyarch would be denied his prize. Common history of the realm told of these events, though Bastun wondered who it had been-in those last moments as Shandaular was razed by the Nentyarch's army-who actually used the Word.
"I see the vremyonni hunger for knowledge is as voracious as I've heard."
Bastun started but did not turn at the sound of Anilya's voice. He kept his back to her and let his hand drift protectively to the Breath.
"Some of us find in books those things that cure the urge to seek adventure," he said, wondering how she had made her way up to him without being heard or stopped by the guard at the bottom of the stairs.
"Actually, I tend to find in them just the opposite."
"Ohriman is dead," he said, in no mood to banter around what they both knew. "If you've come sniffing around for news of him I think you'll be more successful closer to ground level."
"I didn't ask," she said. "Besides, with all the ghosts in this place, I think dead is a loose term at best."
Deftly replacing the journals in his pack, he shifted himself to face her. Resting his hands on his knees, he regarded her as he might a new kind of insect.
"I tend not to think of the dead loosely," he said. "Take for instance those Creel in the Central Tower. Interesting scars they had, do you not think? Pale, bloodless cuts and scratches-"
"The Shield itself is a ghost," she said, ignoring him, "having died long ago, its purpose unfulfilled, lost to the outside world in a shroud of mist and cold. Most scoff at the idea that any structure survives in this place at all, but those who brave the ruins, who get close enough to see, even many of them will deny that it really