The Arkaius of Bastun's studies matched the sensibilities of the man described by Athumrani. He was by all accounts a good king with good intentions, but in the last days of Shandaular he had grown desperate as NarfelPs attacks became more determined.
The Nar grow bolder each time they assault us. Nentyarch Thargaun has sent all of his savage sons with armies to break our defenses, but to no avail as of yet. I have evidence of spies among us. Even now, I cannot trust my own advisors. They have taken so much from us. From me. The Nentyarch has one last son to send, and the roads have been silent for nearly a tenday. I have studied the Breath and the Word to the extent of my abilities. Frost forms on the walls no matter how many torches we light or spells we cast to warm the citadel. Terrible cold haunts me every day. With time I feel I could unmake these terrible weapons, but the Ilythiiri magic is persistent, almost alive in the way it clings to even fragments of the runic patterns. I find it hard to concentrate on the greater good and the lives of the many, when it is all I can do to not think of her. I have no more time. The Breath must be hidden and the portal destroyed, though I fear it may not be enough. My despair is unending of late, and I question Arkaius's decision to trust me with this thing he has wrought. I shall miss our Shield, as I will our king. And my daughter…'
Several sketches followed this last entry, and Bastun tried to make sense of them, but could only identify pieces of what appeared to be an intricate map. He feared the true map was only in Athumrani's mind, and this drawing, though possibly accurate, was only a two-dimensional representation of what could be stairs up or down here, a tower or perhaps empty space there. The most he could decide upon was direction. The rest could be a network of arcane traps and dead ends.
'If nothing else, it is a start,' he muttered.
He closed the journal and stared at the shelves, the walls, and the ceiling, trying to piece together what he knew of the Shield's layout with the Magewarden's drawings. Rubbing his eyes he picked up the second journal.
A cold breeze whistled through the room from the north, and he noted a sliver of light shining above one of the shelves. Curious and hesitant, drawn to the second journal, he reluctantly placed both books within his robes and stood to inspect the source of the disturbance.
A ladder stood against the shelves, leading up to a low railing. Carefully testing the rungs, he found them solid-a newer addition if not very recent. Climbing up, he peered over the top to find a small loft. Light came in through a crack in a thick curtain across the north window.
Climbing into the loft, he saw a desk, a comfortable looking if dusty chair, and against the north wall, a bed. Unfortunately, it did not appear to be empty. Keeping his staff at the ready he approached the bed, its mattress old and sagging beneath the weight of whoever lay within. Simple sheets and thick fur covers obscured the figure, which gave no indication of sensing Bastun's presence.
Raising his staff and grasping the edge of the blankets with his other hand, he pulled them away. For half a breath he wished he hadn't.
The figure, lying in repose, had been dead for some years. The skin was taut over an aged face. Yellowed white hair haloed the frail skull of an old man in plain dark robes. Lowering the staff Bastun stared at the corpse curiously until he noted, beside the pillow, an all-too-familiar mask.
'Vremyonni,' he whispered, recalling the men who had come to study the Shield at the hathrans' behest. This one had obviously elected to stay behind, maybe to maintain the library or merely to lose himself in the rich history of a time long lost. Replacing the blankets reverently, Bastun whispered a quiet prayer, a small rite for a fallen brother.
He sat on the edge of the chair and studied the loft, taking note of the thick curtains, much like ones he himself had drawn after a long night of reading. Turning toward the opposite window the whole of the library was visible to him-rows upon rows of shelves, scrolls beyond counting, more books than one might read in a lifetime. Much as he felt the solemnity in a dead brother's presence, he found himself envying such a life. Peace and quiet, reading and learning, hidden away as the wychlaren willed. But free.
Glancing at the old master he considered the prospect of a peaceful death, far from the troubles and trials of people he could not understand. The breeze blew again, disturbing the curtains and allowing the light to glint off of something small on the vremyonni's hand,
Looking closer, he saw it was a ring of an odd design, nothing like the vremyonni normally crafted. Quietly begging the late master's forgiveness he lifted the hand closer to inspect the golden band. Tilting it toward the light, he made out a sigil like the one upon Athumrani's journal-the shield of Shandaular. Tiny symbols decorated the sides of the ring-a mixture of arcane runes, some recognizable, the others of Ilythiiri origin.
Another item of hybrid magic? he wondered. There was no record of it.
He made to remove the ring, and despite his curiosity he realized he was holding hands with a corpse. Though far from
Rashemen and well aware of the difference between superstition and true danger, he reached into his robes, searching for a pouch he always carried. Scooping out some of its contents, he produced a fistful of soil and sprinkled it liberally over the vremyonni's body.
'The land be with you always, Old One,' he said, and gently removed the ring.
Stepping back he studied the ring more closely. There was no indication of what it could do, what it was for, or why it even existed. After all Bastun had been told of the Breath and the Word and of the Ilythiiri magic that infected this place-that the caretaker had chosen to wear such an artifact seemed strange and reckless. Bastun had never questioned the Old Ones and trusted in their wisdom of crafted items, but the ring tugged upon some dim memory he couldn't readily place. Trusting instinct and the judgment of his seniors, he placed it upon his finger with a held breath.
The metal was warm and the loop somewhat loose. But even as he watched it shrunk to fit him, as many magical rings tended to do. He felt heartened that at least that particular aspect seemed normal enough. Little else occurred. Though somewhat disappointed, he decided to hang on to the artifact, its markings and design too coincidental to ignore.
Waves of nausea assaulted his stomach, and he doubled over, feeling as if he had swallowed liquid fire. His gut burned and his skin tingled with strange power. Falling to his hands and knees, he tried to pry the ring from his finger, clenching his teeth against the pain. Slowly it faded as did the cold that previously occupied the library. Collecting himself, he sat up and studied the ring again, unchanged and as mysterious as before.
Narrowing his eyes in thought, he noticed the light in the chamber growing dimmer. Standing and rushing to the window, he looked out at the sky. The clouds had grown thicker and darker. Eerie, silent lightning flashed, and the wind gained more strength. Shandaular's mists rose and fell like troubled waves, and they clung to the ruins despite the weather. Gooseflesh rose on the nape of his neck, and he turned, finding the bright eyes of the smallest of the spirits spying upon him from the ladder.
Her appearance startled him and touched upon the memory of Ulsera-both the spirit and his sister seemed roughly the same age, both of them long dead. The little girl, barely translucent, her face marked by cruelty, regarded him with a mixture of pity and fear. Tentatively he took a breath and made to address the spirit, but she disappeared in a blur.
Running to the railing he searched the library floor, looking for any sign of the ghost. With the sudden feeling of being watched, he found her bright, unnerving eyes again. She huddled in a narrow doorway on the west wall, pale fingers clinging to the edge. Bastun was intrigued by the spirit, sensing an odd familiarity in her eyes, but he could not discern if this was only the memory of his sister imposed upon the translucent features of the young girl.
As they stared at one another, his eyes were drawn to a strange glow just above the doorway. Etched into the stone was a tiny, simple marker-a vremyonni symbol. He touched his mask and felt foolish for having worn it so long even while alone. It had been such a part of him he'd forgotten it was there-and fortunately so, for he could not have seen the symbol without it.
Looking back down, he saw that the spirit was gone. Disheartened by the loss of an opportunity to speak with her, he noted the direction of the corridor, the vremyonni marker, and the sketches from Athumrani's journal. Though he felt as tossed by chance as any snowflake in the winter storm outside, he whispered a final farewell to the vremyonni and climbed down the ladder.
Approaching the doorway, the glow from his staff flickered, and he prepared himself to make the acquaintance of the Shield's spirits once again.
