The Shield of Weeping Ghosts - James P. Davis [90]
The stairwell to the top of the tower was intact, and he swiftly followed the footsteps he could hear above. Not quite shadow and not quite solid, he was able to see the thick darkness gathering in pools below him. Quiet sobs and whispered insanities rose as shadowy tendrils grasped at the bottom step. Ignoring the child spirits, he gained on the durthan and climbed the last few steps just behind her sellsword guards, who could not see or hear him.
Eyeing the walls and heavy doors, Anilya strode into the room ahead of him. Shouts and curses echoed from the bottom of the tower. Her men turned to look over the railing just as she spun around, seeming to notice his odd shimmer in the air. The haft of his axe slammed into her raised arm as she attempted to defend herself. His blade whistled past her mask and she fell backward, landing on her hands. As he raised the axe to swing again, the durthan pointed a ringed finger and hissed an arcane syllable. The blade disappeared from the staff and would move no closer to her no matter how he strained to bring it to bear.
He spun away, dodging the hurled dagger of an attentive sellsword.
"You want the Breath?" he said through gritted teeth. "Then by all means-"
He reached for the sword, his hand wrapping around the hilt, fully intending to end Anilya's twisted quest in a flash of steel. Contact with the blade stopped him cold, a sensation of wracking despair crushing his anger in a vice of hopelessness. He fell to one knee as the foreign mind haunting the blade flooded his being.
Anilya gestured swiftly, halting the blades of her men.
Bastun struggled to assert himself, fearful of becoming lost again amidst misty spirits of the past. The durthan stood, studying him as he tried to rise. His eye caught the broken form of an old mirror leaning against the wall, and he looked in wonder upon the same stranger he'd witnessed before.
The bearded older man in blue robes knelt much as he did. The man tightly clutched a wavy-bladed long sword that could be none other than the Breath, which Bastun fought to release from his own hand. On the spirit's sleeve, he saw the shape of a shield surrounding a stylized archway, and he gaped in shock.
"You are a fool, Bastun," the durthan spoke in a hushed tone. "The door that blade opens could defend Rashemen better than a thousand wychlaren outposts!"
Who are you? The spirit reflection mouthed the words, and Bastun felt sorrow give way to more manageable emotions. He let go of the Breath, his hand numb, and the stranger's image faded. The implications of all he had witnessed were beginning to solidify toward a conclusion that he could not deny. In a daze, he faced Anilya.
"You care nothing for Rashemen, Anilya," he said, staggered somewhat by the vision. "Your passion lacks sincerity."
"So says the exile," she replied, then added more softly as she drew closer to him. "Why didn't you run? You could have taken the Breath and disappeared, but you didn't."
"I wouldn't abandon my friends," he said. "Thaena needs-"
"She doesn't love you," Anilya said, "and Duras doesn't understand you any more than Syrolf or the others."
"And you understand me?" He caught his breath and drew his robe over the wavy blade, backing away cautiously. Distantly, he noticed the sounds of battle far below them were fading.
"More than them," she answered. "What if you died here? The Breath unburied, left with your corpse to be easily found. You know-though you may not say so out loud-you know this power could be used for Rashemen."
"No." He blinked, the rhythm of her voice strange and compelling. "This isn't a power that can be commanded."
"Not yet." She came nearer. "There are no assurances save