deaths. Duras had wanted to die before, years ago when he had confided in her. He had asked her to do it, to end his guilt, and she had stupidly refused, already in love with him. She imagined cold steel in her hands, a white- knuckled grip as she plunged the blade through Duras's gut for his sins.
Thaena choked at the thought, blinking and shaking her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to pull away from the window, but something held her fast. Looking down she found thin, shadowy fingers laced through her own-long black claws of inky blackness encircling her wrists.
She stumbled back, ripping her arms away from the window and staring wide-eyed as the ghostly hands melted into shreds of smoky mist and curled away. Rubbing feeling back into het hands she approached the window cautiously, looking farther down the hallway for any other disturbances.
Wind howled past the window as before, snow fell thick and silent, but nothing seemed amiss. She gripped her stomach, the image of Duras spitted on a blade embedded in her mind. A knot formed in her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Collecting herself and catching her breath, she looked upon the stone around her as if it were alive, watching her weakness and studying her vulnerabilities. Hearing voices near the door, she took a breath and stood up straight, meeting the eyes of Duras as he led the others. The mask saved her, hid the ordeal that might've shown on her face, but Duras knew her better than the others. His brow furrowed in question and she shook her head.
Syrolf followed just behind, the fang armed and ready to meet their enemies after dealing with the dead. Bloodlust filled their eyes, and in her heart she mirrored that thirst for battle, but could not shake the fear that something in the stone walls-something long dead-was spying on them.
The two groups gathered, barely forty strong. Anilya walked confidently toward Duras and Thaena, seemingly unaware of the troubling stares between them.
'We are prepared?' Anilya asked.
Before Thaena could answer, Syrolf appeared at the durthans shoulder. 'Where is your dog, durthan?' 'What? 'Anilya turned to Syrolf.
'Ohriman,' Duras said and stepped between Thaena and the durthan. 'Where is he?'
Thaena eyed the Rashemi and the sellswords, once again noticing the dangerous tension that had sparked between them. She raised her head and spotted tiny motes of shadow growing like bits of mold on the ceiling. They squirmed over everyone's heads as if tasting hate on the air and feeding from it.
'I sent my guide'-Anilya glared at Syrolf-'to examine the eastern corridors and to discover what became of your lost vremyonni. I trust you might see the wisdom in that, yes?'
Syrolf grunted and stepped back, casting a meaningful glance at Duras before rejoining the rest of the fang. Tensions calmed somewhat. The tiny shadows shrank and crawled back into their stones. Thaena shuddered, the memory of their touch still burning in her hands.
The ethran nodded at Duras, turned, and began their journey to the northwest tower. The others fell in step, scouts taking the lead ahead of her and Duras. Her head ached as she thought of the variables that surrounded her-threats on every side, strife that might erupt at the slightest misunderstanding, Bastun missing, and the Creel entrenched in her sisters' outpost.
One of the men lit a torch as they turned away from the windows and deeper into the Shield's mysteries. Shadows danced and flickered on the walls, and Thaena swore she could hear them whispering.
Chapter Ten
The sound of pages rustling as he turned them, the smell of dust and dried leather bindings-all brought Bastun back to his time among the vremyonni. Though the books had calmed him, he was growing frustrated, and time did not seem to be on his side. Not finding what he sought, he shelved another tome and searched for another that might have withstood the test of years. Faint auras of magic drew him toward several tomes. The minor spells kept the pages from growing brittle and disintegrating.
Pulling another book down he carefully flipped through its pages and recalled the late nights, reading alone in the caverns of the Running Rocks. Master Keffrass had encouraged him to socialize with the other apprentices, but Bastun only found the company distracting. He far more enjoyed having the great library to himself. During those years after Ulsera's funeral, after being taken away and hidden with the other wizards, he found little use-or success-in forging relationships with others. Fortunately, Keffrass kept him in some practice in regards to conversation and social skills.
Frustrated, Bastun shelved the book and stood back, taking in the image of the Shield's library. Torn and yellowed pages littered the floor, dust and cobwebs hung between the shelves, and tiny cracks webbed through the stone beneath his boots. He felt transported into his own mind, a past corrupted by decisions gone awry, left alone to sort out what went wrong. Sighing, he continued the search, finding yet another shelf that caught his eye.
Leaning at the end, small and bound by leather straps, were two worn journals. Lifting one gently and blowing away the dust on its cover, he found the imprint of a coat of arms. Much of the image was worn away, but he could make out runic writing on the edge of an ornate shield and within that the unmistakable shape of Shandaular's portal-arch-the standard of the Shield. Carefully he unwound the cracked and dried strap and opened the book to the first page.
The writing was faded and in a language he could not readily identify. The other book bore the same coat of arms and a similar writing style. They both had regular entries in a script that bespoke of an acute skill for conveying specific symbols and shapes. He narrowed his eyes and looked around, scanning the shelves once more before gambling on the pair. Deciding quickly, he brought them to a stone bench and laid them flat.
Setting aside his staff, he summoned the words to one of the first spells he had learned. Speaking clearly, he intoned the magic while resting his fingertips on the first journal's cover. There was no flash of light, no glow or any of the effects that other apprentices had clamored for when time came to gain more magic for their fledgling spellbooks. Bastun had seen the spell for what it truly was: a key to the knowledge in all the other books of the vremyonni library.
Opening to the first page again, the writing changed as he viewed it, the language becoming his own, and he read that page with no small amount of relief:
The Personal Writings and Musings of Athumrani Zukar Magewarden of Dun-Tharyn and Counsel to King Arkaius of Shandaular
Picking up the journal, he sat upon the bench and began to read, turning pages gently but quickly, searching for any mention of the Breath or where it might be hidden. He knew clues were the best he might find. If the Breath had been used, what they had actually unleashed would have been clear to all. What had been intended as a weapon of defense, the stories said, was made a horrible force of destruction by the inclusion of the Ilythiiri magic they had gleaned from the portal.
Details of daily life abounded. He found notes concerning research, news from other lands, minor shortages of resources, and trade routes becoming more dangerous. Exotic creatures and spices were brought from Shandaular's sister city in the far south, the portal causing a remarkable mixture of cultures that drew merchants and scholars in droves. Soon though, trade from neighboring villages stopped altogether. Caravans were attacked and burned, left as warning for any who might defy the rule of the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos. The world around Shandaular grew smaller and smaller as Narfell crept toward its doorstep and demanded submission.
Though Bastun yearned to sit and read until as much dust covered him as the shelves surrounding, he pressed on, scanning quickly.
Athumrani's writing was precise and to the point, making Bastun's reading all the easier. As he neared the end, he feared he had indeed wasted the valuable spell. The last few pages, however, gave him a glimpse of what he had been waiting to see. Athumrani's script became more erratic and hurried, the words more urgent.
After months of waiting we have seen the results of Arkaius's work, and while it is a marvel of ambition and talent, his creation is monstrous. His control was tenuous at best. Even he was surprised at what he unleashed. My hands shake as I write this, and the walls still seem to hum with its power. The Word was all that we had expected and more. Far more than we could-or should-ever use. The secrets of the Ilythiiri must remain forever as they are: secrets.
