light. His staff felt heavy and cold, its magic subdued by the maze. The corridors grew and changed the farther he went, the walls scraping his shoulders at times and echoing his footsteps across what seemed great chasms at others. Though he felt very alone, lost in the Shield, he was crowded by the strange haunting that had found him and that refused to let him go.
The voices of children whispered behind him. Tiny hands brushed his arms and facet passing through his robes and mask. Their touch was freezing and penetrating, bringing forth anger, fear, and memories that only confused him further. Scant information existed on the specific nature of the Shield's spirits, and Keffrass had not dwelled on the subject. Bastun could not deny his sense of curiosity, but his sense of self-preservation came first.
He mumbled, trying to maintain his concentration. A vremyonni sanctuary, a library, lay somewhere nearby-at least he thought so. The distance he had traveled so far would account for much more space than the maps had showed.
Stopping, he pressed himself against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to remember every turn. The rough map in his mind spun and readjusted as he attempted to regain his bearings in comparison to the location of the library. It was near. He knew he was close. He felt his robes being tugged at from behind and he pulled back, suddenly annoyed as if at a pestering child.
'Stop!' he shouted, feeling immediately foolish at having done so.
They did stop. The whispers hushed, the breathing faded away, and even the air felt less chilled.
Opening his eyes, he stared blindly into the dark. His mind cleared of intrusion and he quickly worked out an idea of his direction. There was no way to be certain, but it was all he had. Almost as an afterthought he tried his staff and managed a dim glow from the steel tip. Breathing a sigh of relief he studied the walls and turned toward what he hoped was west.
The walls were rough cut and black as coal, swallowing the edges of what little light he could manage. Taking tentative steps forward he watched and listened for the return of the spirits. After turning two corners without incident he strode more confidently, eager to escape the maze of corridors. If there were any clues to the Breath's whereabouts, the vremyonni would have them hidden in the library.
The artifact had been forged as a key in the defenses against the encroaching empire of Narfell, but had been deemed far too dangerous to use even in the saving of Shandaular. It was hidden away, buried and forgotten in secrets and stone. The Ilythiiri magic used in its construction had made it indestructible, so King Arkaius had sealed it away where it would be forgotten. Unfortunately for Shandaular, that secret hadn't been kept well enough. Bastun could only hope that the Breath, like the Shield itself, had all but been forgotten by the world.
'Murderer!'
The voice spoke in his ear and he stopped in his tracks. His hands shook as he turned, finding nothing, just as before. The silence afterward was stifling, and he felt as though he were twelve years old again, catching a loud whisper from across a room of fellow apprentices. His stomach churned at the memory and his hands balled into fists on reflex.
Gooseflesh rose on his arms and neck. The light of his staff flickered like a weak candle. Nearby stone scraped against stone, growling as the maze came to life again. Shaking off the grasping tendrils of his past, he turned to run-
But found a dead end where before had been open hallway.
Something touched his arm and his mind was again flooded by memories of guilt and anger and pointing fingers. 'Traitor!' the voice said.
He ran back the way he had come, but found another dead end and another. The voice whispered the words over and over again, each time stabbing into his mind. He could feel the power in the voice and tried to resist it, but it kept speaking and so he kept running. Anger filled him, welled up in his throat and pressed on his chest until he could no longer ignore the spirits' accusations, hearing himself echoed in the hissing voices, in the empty spaces and shadows that surrounded him.
No! Those are their words, he told himself. Not mine.
The whispers responded, growing louder as they took shape, a child's voice forming within the noise. 'But you believe them,' it said.
It was Bastun who had sent Ulsera to her death, he who had lost himself the night his master was murdered. For both lives he had taken some quiet measure of responsibility. Yet in his heart, where he had always searched for and expected to find grief, he had only found rage,
'Where is your breath?' it asked.
In a screech of metal, the axe blade sprung from his staff, shining in the dark. His mind calmed somewhat, but his arms trembled and his jaw clenched.
'Nothing,' he muttered, standing straighter. 'I owe you nothing. Now leave this place!'
He swung and struck the wall, sending sparks showering to the floor. The voices shrieked in pain as a shadow coalesced on that wall, forming a twisted face. Long arms ending in wicked claws reached for him. The blackness howled in a decidedly unchildlike manner. Stepping back beyond its reach, he ran, now keeping track of each turn even as more of the shadows appeared along the walls.
He ducked and swung at them with the axe, but he did not stop.
West, he thought as he rounded another corner and stopped short, the path blocked by a young girl at the end of the hallway. The shadows retreated and the whisperers stopped.
Older than the girl he had followed into the maze, this spirit's eyes seemed full of a pain and wisdom far beyond her years. Her dress was little more than sackcloth, and deep wounds encircled each of her pale-skinned wrists. Motes of dust swirled through her translucent form. She stared at him blankly. Just paces away, between him and the ghost, a side passage led south-or what he assumed was south.
Smelling dust and old parchment on the air, he took a tentative step toward the passage. The spirit inclined her head, her dark hair rippling and settling slowly to her shoulders as if underwater. Leaning forward, she lifted her right foot and the floor trembled as her weight shifted. Unnerved and unwilling to wait for her foot to fall, he ran and dived at the passage.
The spirit child's step landed like the stomp of an angry dragon. The stone walls shook, and dust fell as bits of the ceiling crumbled. The floor heaved, and Bastun stumbled into the hallway, the momentum carrying him tumbling and rolling into an open space.
Falling down a short flight of stairs, he dropped his staff. Something wooden shattered beneath his weight, breaking the fall. His legs crashed against something solid and the sound of falling and ripping parchment surrounded him. Books and scrolls rested beneath his hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the quaking stone settled and the dust began to clear.
Dim light illuminated the rafters of a high ceiling and a row of shelves to his right. The blue glow of a cloudy morning filtered in from a nearby window. He rested his head on a thick tome, blinking and coughing. Though no shadows followed him and no whispers pushed their way into his ears, he could still feel them-could still see Ulsera's grave and Keffrass's burned mask.
Disentangling his leg from a fallen stack of books, he pushed himself up on his elbows. The splinters of a rotted footstool crumbled beneath his left hand and he thanked the gods. His back ached well enough from the fall without the assistance of newer furniture to crash into.
'There is no shelter here.'
He froze, spying the silhouette of a figure in the dimness. The voices had spoken in unison-all very young, some male and some female, shouting, weeping, and groaning. He rose to a crouch, glancing at the floor in a futile attempt to find his staff.
'What do you want?' he asked, hoping to stall for time. 'Why are you here?'
'The cold prince will find you,' they answered, 'will find us all. He will freeze your blood and give Breath to the Word. He's coming now… again… always…'
Watching for any movement from the speaker-or rather speakers-he raised the staff. Light burst from its steel sphere, revealing the source of the voices-
The statue of an aged man in long robes.
Bastun looked around, searching for any movement, any sign of the spirits.
Several moments passed, but the voices did not return. Sweat beaded on his brow. His breath came quickly as he turned his attention to a nearby shelf. Hundreds of ancient books lay before him, most looking ready to fall
