Shield. There was also the durthan to consider, and the odd truce the two had forged. In the end, it didn't matter- the oath of secrecy he had given to
Keffrass contained no exceptions, no conditions under which he might impart his knowledge to another unless it were a fellow vremyonni.
Thaena glanced up at him, torchlight reflecting in the dampness of her eyes, and he felt himself break. He stepped forward, his heart racing. The thought of speaking to her filled him with dread. He hesitated, torn between duty and hope.
Deliberating, he looked up as Duras approached from behind the ethran. Releasing a held breath, Bastun felt relieved for the brief reprieve and watched. The tall warrior laid a hand upon Thaena's shoulder. She slowly stood and they embraced one another.
Duras rested his cheek upon her hair as she pressed closer to him.
'Lady Ethran,' he said. 'Guardian,' she replied.
Guardian. The word struck Bastun in the chest and he found himself speechless, his mind clear save for the image of his old friends in an embrace that spoke of far more than friendship. The bond between one of the wychlaren and her chosen guardian was unbreakable, a relationship of tale and song. The girl-nay, the woman-he had known, had thought about since that cold, rainy day of Ulsera's funeral, was gone. He shook his head, gritting his teeth as he corrected himself-she had never existed, not the way he had imagined her. Despite all, he found himself smiling, amused at himself and the boiling rage that churned within him. The heavy years rested upon his shoulders again, heavier for the realization that came over him.
The Breath waited for him somewhere within the Shield, and he needed to begin his search. The Rashemi could deal with the Nar and watch the durthan. He had to make sure the Shield and its secret were safe and secure, and he had to do it in the manner to which he had become accustomed. Alone.
Duras and Thaena shared a quiet look before parting.
As he managed his emotions toward more useful purposes, Bastun knelt and looked again at the body of the dead warrior, at the sightless eyes. He needed no hathran ritual to exile himself and had no intention of waiting for another to arrive. His countrymen had no want or need of his presence, though he chuckled to think of their talk once he was gone.
Even now Syrolf was planting poison in the ears of some of the others. Warriors looked from the dead to the vremyonni and made the signs, the whispers against the evil and misfortune that had plagued them. Bastun met their eyes, each one in turn, and burned those faces into his memory.
This is what I leave, he thought. This is what is left for me here.
Duras gathered several warriors to him, including the ever-watchful Syrolf. More than a few still cast glances at Bastun. He tensed, wondering if his old friend had finally taken to SyrolPs suspicions, but Duras motioned the warriors toward the western doorway. The group turned and nodded solemnly to Thaena who returned the gesture as they made their way out of the hall.
Bastun stood and made his way to a column at the far end of the chamber. Arcane symbols lined the tops of each column and the portal-like arches between them. The reminder of the portal kept his gaze sweeping through the hall as faded maps scrolled through his mind. There ought to be another door…
Leaning against the column, Bastun edged slowly toward the wall until he found a spot of shadow. He paused there as he contemplated what he was about to do. Anilya approached Thaena slowly, looking once toward Bastun and joining the ethran beside the body of the hathran. The pair spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially, and he felt a flash of alarm at the sight.
He felt his window of opportunity closing. Duras would not be gone long, and Bastun knew he could not escape notice forever. Struggling with the decision for a moment he cursed and slipped into the shadow, leaving his friends to their choices. He had his own to deal with.
His hand found the edge of a hidden space, cleverly concealed by the column, and he slid through the gap into a dark, narrow passage. Listening, he made sure his absence was not noticed before feeling his way down the corridor. He followed the wall for several paces, sliding his hands along the icy stone. His heart raced, though he couldn't help but taste freedom on the cold air.
Stiff cobwebs encrusted with frost and dust broke and fell as he passed. The hidden passage seemed to extend forever into the dark. Angling downward as he went, he tried to maintain his position on the map in his mind, but without proper measurements he could not be exactly sure of where he was. His hand brushed against the wall and he pulled away, feeling something cold squirm beneath his glove.
Falling back, he summoned a pale light to the top of his staff. It caught the trailing edge of an unidentifiable shadow disappearing into the black. The sensation of being watched crawled over him.
There were warded places in the Shield, protected against the strange hauntings that frequented the old fortress-this was not one of them. Nor was he likely to find many havens in the deeper corridors he sought.
Forging on more carefully, he held the light high and avoided touching the walls. The passage opened behind another column and he stepped into a larger hallway. Looking left and right he saw nothing but more ice and dust. Thin light leaked in through tall windows lining the corridor. A winter morning dawned over the Shield. Ice, snow, and stone walls were all that he could see-a world of silence, a ghost of time.
The back of Bastun's neck prickled and he spun. The hall was as empty as before, though the silence was broken by the faint sound of breathing. A cold breeze blew through the window, whistling slightly and stirring the hem of his cloak. Unnerved, he walked south along the corridor, seeking the path to the library he knew should be somewhere close by.
The breathing grew louder. He held his staff tightly, walking faster even as unintelligible words began to form on the breeze. Dark shadows swirled along the walls, avoiding the edges of his light. They were small and swift, haunting his every step with whispering laughter and wheezing sobs.
Something brushed against his leg. He spun, pointing his staff and breathing heavily. Nothing but the empty hallway.
'Bastun…' a voice said in his ear, a cold breath blowing on his neck.
He cursed and swung his staff. It passed harmlessly through the air. Spells formed in his mind as he turned and waited. His heart and mind raced.
A glint of light just around the bend in the hallway caught his eye, and a childlike face peered at him, its eyes bright and piercing before disappearing around the corner.
Cautiously, he followed. The whispering voices continued, growing louder and harsher. Somehow, he felt he had done this before, like a past dream unfolding in waking life.
A narrow passage appeared, and he just caught sight of the misty edge of what seemed to be a tattered dress disappearing into the darkness. Weeping, screaming, and whispering, the voices pressed in upon him. They touched upon his thoughts, his emotions, and he felt theirs, a forced empathy that blurred his vision as unchecked rage blossomed within him. He ran.
Spells became tattered remnants of arcane passages that he tried to grasp, but they slipped through his thoughts like grains of sand. The direction of the path felt right, though he did not recall it on any of the old maps. The voices sought entrance to his mind, and he cried out as he approached the edge of the corridor. Cursing the limitations of his memory, he stepped into the passage.
The voices stopped, leaving him light-headed. His hands still shaking, he breathed a sigh of relief.
A small flight of steps descended into the shadow, and he made his way down slowly, searching for any sign of the spirits at the edge of his light. At the bottom, the last step gave way beneath his boot and he stumbled. The sound of stone grating against stone followed him as he fell. His staff clattered away from him as he struck the floor, causing the shadows on the wall to dance as its light spun and bounced.
Pushing himself up, he reached for the staff and stopped. At the light's edge stood the translucent form of a little girl, perhaps no older than seven or eight. Her dress was stained and torn, her dark hair blowing in some unfelt wind as she watched him with eyes as bright as new-minted silver coins. The grinding sound of stone stopped, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a new wall blocking the path behind him.
Flickering shadows brought his eyes back to the staff. The little girl was gone and the light from the staff was swiftly fading, leaving him alone and lost in the dark.
Thaena stood straight and firm. She issued orders to her men, fortifying the entrance hall as best they could. She kept her eyes focused and full of the steel expected of a wychlaren, but she could not tear her gaze away from
