the body.
Though she'd refused to remove the ruined mask, the hath-ran's hands-dotted with the first few spots of age and rough with years of grinding spell components-suggested she was roughly ten years older than the ethran. Glimpses of pale skin between cracks in the mask made Thaena's knees weak and her stomach turn. Absently, her hands reached for the mask over her own face, assuring herself that they could not see, should not see, how frightened she was.
The mask was the guardian of emotion, demanding respect and submission to the wychlaren rule, but like the hathran before her, it was a target for their enemies. Thaena cultivated the anger that rested in her gut, saved it and nourished it with the scene around her. Fury was the only thing that would keep her standing, keep her moving and leading until the Creel were ousted from the Shield.
Her gaze betrayed her determination though, constantly returning to the body of her sister.
She knelt solemnly, drawn to the hathran-as if by seeing every detail, perhaps she could keep it from happening again; as if she could keep death at bay by spying its true nature in the wounds of the dead. Folding her hands across her lap, she bowed her head as if intoning a ritual. It was a show for the berserkers, using what they called the vyrrdi, the mystery of the wychlaren, to allay their fears.
One of the hathran's hands rested close her knee, a red scratch running across the wrist, a fingernail broken. The scratch traveled up the arm, growing deeper as it neared the elbow- i
'I once watched over the body of a hathran.'
Thaena flinched, startled by Anilya's voice. 'I–I have no intention of discussing your-'
'Not one that I had slain,' Anilya interjected and knelt just behind her. 'But one that had taken me under her wing, in Rashemen.'
'In Rashemen?' Thaena asked. 'You were an ethran?'
'Yes. Many years ago-more than I care to admit.'
'How did-how did she die?' Thaena asked.
'We were investigating reports of a Thayan spy near Mulsantir,' Anilya said. 'We discovered him, along with others, gathering information about our defenses for the zulkirs. They were prepared for us and fought like madmen. My hathran was cut down by the arrows of Thayan assassins.'
'I am sorry,' Thaena said and meant it.
Anilya edged closer to Thaena's side, looking sidelong at her through her dark mask and its darker covering of sigils. 'You could say I've moved on since then.'
Thaena looked back to the body. The scent of smoke lingered in Anilya's presence, bringing to mind the bodies raised by her magic. She could trust the durthans hatred of the Creel, but Thaena knew she was far from trusting the durthan herself.
'I was to be made hathran soon after that. The othlor would have sent me to the Urlingwood for the ceremony, but I refused. I wished to extract answers from the Thayan spy, make him tell us what he knew, how much he had told to his masters, and use him to strike back against Thay. And they refused me.'
'So you left?' Thaena asked, though she expected Anilya's answer.
'Not right away,' the durthan replied, 'but I certainly never made it to the Urlingwood. Not while I thought there was more that could have been done-could still be done-for Rashemen.'
'Then why the durthan?'
'Because they know the power that our land holds must be protected.'
'The wychlaren are quite capable of-'
'Defending? Maybe, for a time perhaps.' Anilya leaned forward, catching Thaena's eye. 'But for how long?'
'We have done well enough so far,' Thaena answered, though in the back of her mind her reasoning felt flimsy. She broke the stare, pretending to watch the western doors for the return of Duras.
'Defense is well and good, but our enemies still exist, still want what is not theirs.' The durthans voice was softer but carried a passion that Thaena could not deny. 'As long as we tolerate the existence of our enemies we will see no end to useless deaths such as these.'
Anilya pulled from her belt a small smooth stone and laid it upon the lap of the hathran, whispering quiet words before rising to her feet.
'Imagine this chamber as the whole of Rashemen, Thaena. Should we defend this meager hall alone and leave all else to barbarians and outsiders? Or do we venture forth and make war before war comes to claim us?' She turned to leave and added, 'And what boundaries can one place on war?'
The scent of smoke remained in the air for several breaths after Anilya had gone.
Thaena pondered the durthans words. Looking again at the hathran, broken and lifeless, all spark of the power she'd possessed gone, Thaena found anger much easier to accept. Of course they would track down the monsters that did this, lay down their bodies alongside the dead they had taken, but she wondered how long before the next attack, the next incursion on wychlaren territory.
She imagined her own body lying on a cold stone floor, being watched over by an ethran, and wondered what she would say to that young girl if she had power to say anything. Leaning closer to the hathran, she studied the stone Anilya had left with the body. Smooth and oval, colored with flashes of silver and streaks of green, it was beautiful and hauntingly familiar. Her eyes widened as she realized where she had seen such a stone-lying on a shelf beside her mother's bed. It had been a gift from a passing hathran.
Where she had been raised such stones, taken from the depths of the River Ashan, were considered precious. The bearer was said to be guarded by Rashemen and those to whom the stone was given were afforded peace among the land's wilds and waters. She glanced toward the durthan, moved by the unexpected gift from an enemy-a former ethran-and saw her in a very different light.
Reaching out to touch the stone's smooth surface and relive the faint memory of listening to her mother sing while cooking, she was startled to hear labored breathing next to her ear. She drew her hand back, flinching, and looked around. No one was there. The hathran lay as still and silent as before. A chill crawled up her spine as a whispering floated through the chamber.
The shadows near the ceiling seemed deeper and blacker as she scanned the chamber. The whispering quieted and the breathing faded away, but she could not shake the feeling of being watched. She stood and took one last lingering gaze upon her fallen sister, allowing the image to feed her resolve in solving this mystery.
The Creel were not known for stealth or subtlety, but something very sudden had to have occurred to overcome so many at once. Wards guarded those areas of the Shield in use by the Rashemi, guarded them against the broken spirits that might have committed such a massacre. If those wards had been compromised…
Thaena recalled the durthans mention of the mysterious Nar leader, a wielder of magic that had slipped through their attempts at scrying.
She looked to the walls and ceiling, seeking the source of whatever the Creel had unleashed inside the Shield. Closing her eyes, she sought the Weave around her, its presence ragged around the edges. It was very different here than in Rashemen-more cultivated, but also more chaotic, much like a Rashemi might compare the Shield to a forest. Shaking her head, she opened her eyes slowly, stone walls feeling narrower and confining, as if they would close in at any moment.
Footsteps echoed dully from the western doors. Duras, followed by Syrolf, entered the room, his face pale and troubled. Waves of relief flooded through her, and she strode toward him as quickly as modesty would allow. He smiled weakly, appearing out of breath as she neared and embraced him. Duras was her anchor, unchanging and steadfast. She clung to his familiarity and strength.
Though he was warm and assuring in his easy silence, she felt sudden flashes of fear for him as the faint sound of whispering returned and unseen eyes stared cold daggers into her. Her mask was no guardian against that invisible watcher, and she held on to Duras a little longer this time-a little longer than modesty would normally allow.
Chapter Nine
The darkness stretched forever, twisting and turning and destroying every hope that Bastun had of finding
