Clever answer, Thaena thought. Informative and still evasive.
There was conviction in the durthans voice, but Thaena wondered at the depths of that conviction. Many among the wychlaren were quite adept at controlling what honesties their bodies lent to their voices. Thaena imagined the power-hungry durthan were even greater masters of their own secrets.
'You realize,' Thaena said, 'when this is over, you will be the threat once again.'
Anilya's head lowered and tilted away from the ethran. Thaena could imagine the condescending smile behind the mask.
'The only true threat to Rashemen,' Anilya began, raising her head to meet Thaena's stare, 'is having the power to destroy its enemies and not using it.'
The ethran narrowed her eyes and returned her attention to the winter storm. The answer was essentially a summation of the durthan sisterhood's philosophy, but it seemed far too pointedly said to be a mere statement of opposition. Alarmed by the tone in Anilya's voice, Thaena glanced at her warriors, noting the size of the fang against the durthans sellswords. The groups were evenly numbered, but not so evenly matched.
The berserkers had shown themselves to be much more vicious in battle. Returning her stare to the western wall, she wondered what Anilya could be planning-or if she was truly planning anything at all.
'Light!' Syrolf s voice called from the bridge to the central tower.
Thaena turned and rushed to Duras's side, following his gaze to Syrolf on the bridge. Mist swirled across the span and snow flew sideways in the whipping wind, obscuring the runescarred warrior. He stood pointing toward the tower with his drawn sword.
The central tower itself was little more than a gray silhouette in the distance. But briefly, between gusts of snow and mist, Thaena saw a small flickering illumination directly across the bridge.
'It's them,' she said, feeling her own thirst for vengeance rise to the surface as if all the dead from downstairs stood with Syrolf, pointing and crying out for justice.
'Or it's a trap,' Anilya said, approaching from behind, then added as she looked to Duras, 'I thought the central tower was too damaged.'
'The lower floors, from what I could judge, yes,' Duras replied, 'but the upper floors could very well be strong still.'
Thaena considered this a moment, noticing the durthans sudden cold stare despite her earlier conviction.
Perhaps it is a trap, she thought, or something Anilya does not want us to find-or both.
'We will treat it as a trap then,' Thaena said, deciding upon a course of action. 'Anilya and I shall lead. Our magic can give us a degree of protection and destroy the Creel's element of surprise. Agreed?'
Anilya glanced once to the western wall exit, the look speaking volumes to Thaena, though it answered few direct questions. The durthan then nodded and joined Thaena at the edge of the bridge.
The fang formed up behind them, the sellswords alongside. The group began a careful march toward Syrolf who smiled grimly and stood aside to take his place behind the ethran. The cold wind sweeping across the bridge bit fiercely, a wintry beast of icy teeth and claws of snow.
Making ready for whatever lay ahead, spells ordered themselves among Thaena's thoughts. Though far from Rashemen, her magic was still formidable.
An arched doorway appeared through the snow, a blot of darkness within which the weak light of a flame burned. The bridge ended upon a circular landing, a large chamber visible through the open arch. Warriors formed up on either side of the door-the steaming breaths and fierce visages of the Rashemi on one side, the calm assuredness of professional sellswords on the other.
Slowly, she and the durthan entered the tower, forearms crossed in front of them, palms down in a spellcaster's stance. A few steps in they both stopped, scouting every inch of the chamber. The wychlaren had not yet breached the central tower. Tattered threads of tapestries hung from rusted hooks. Pieces of furniture lay crumbled to splinters and dust, leaving only corroded bits of metal intact. The windows here were high above, numerous and smaller than in the previous tower. The torch that had drawn them burned in an old wall sconce and illuminated the only other exit from the room-yet another darkened doorway.
Thaena breathed out in frustration.
'There is nothing here,' she whispered, but kept her stance all the same.
'Someone lit that torch,' Anilya said. 'Perhaps your vremyonni friend?'
Thaena did not answer, merely continued through the room toward the door. Anilya kept pace, and Duras led the others inside.
Beyond the door a dark hallway extended through the tower's center. Thaena suppressed a shudder, her imagination creating shapes moving through the shadows. She shook her head and blocked these out, sure enough that reality would craft far more convincing things for her to see in time. The passage widened, and she could make out a faint light in the distance.
The glow of more torches lit the chamber beyond the hall. Sweeping stairways curved along the walls from the balcony she stood upon, down into a once grand feast hall or meeting place. Bones lay scattered across the floor, representing enough bodies for her to envision the battle that must have once taken place here. Nothing moved. Shadows danced and climbed the walls and stairs in the light of torches across the way. Even the air smelled stale and lifeless.
At the other end of the room, matching stairways rose and wound toward a second balcony almost a full level higher. Thaena squinted into the pits of darkness at the edge of the torchlight. No other exit was visible. The opposite balcony was very near the ceiling, and swallowed in darkness. Duras stood behind her and pointed the fang toward both sides so that they could secure the stairways on either side of the lower balcony.
'I don't like this,' he whispered.
Neither did she. The Nar were being subtler than she had expected. She was bothered by something, a scent or perhaps just instinct, but the air felt thick with magic. Duras joined Syrolf at the stairway, waiting for Thaena to make a decision on their next move.
A steady noise drew her back to the first chamber. She turned back into the central corridor. Edging closer she made out a labored breathing and recalled the noise she had heard in the entrance hall-the disembodied breath and the whispering of the Shield's shadowy spirits. Peering into the room from the darkness of the hallway, she watched in horror as a robed woman staggered into view from outside.
The woman was dressed in the furs and leathers of a Creel, her face a pale white, her eyes and lips shocking shades of blue.
Thaena held onto her spell. The Creel woman seemed ready to collapse at any moment.
Noise erupted behind her, and Anilya screamed. Thaena felt the Weave twitch as Anilya cast a spell. Sounds of battle echoed from the walls. Still watching the Creel, Thaena prepared a spell herself, heart thumping in her chest as the attack they had expected arrived. She whipped her head back, seeing only a chaos of moving forms and bright lights, then returned her attention to the strange newcomer.
Coughing and stumbling, the woman's eyes bulged as weak puffs of steam escaped her lips. She fixed her stare on the ethran, hatred in her eyes, but helplessness in her expression. The skin on her forehead split and burned, revealing a pale scar in the shape of a strange sigil. She fell to her knees in the center of the room and leaned back, screaming as white light burst from her mouth and eyes.
Thaena fell back in horror, her spell lost as the woman's body tore apart in a thunder of energy that shook the walls. A wave of frigid air and ice chased the concussive force of the blast, knocking the ethran onto her back. Dazed, the sound of cracking stone roused her and she crawled toward the ice slick that had formed close to the explosion. The woman was gone, the floor a crumbling ruin that dropped away into darkness. Dust and snow drifted in the open space between Thaena and the bridge that had brought them here-the bridge from which they were now cut off.
Staring at that span of stone her eyes were drawn to a figure standing at its edge. His white hair flowed in the howling wind and his sunken eyes regarded her with a gaze that passed straight through her. Ivory skin matched the ancient armor encrusted with snow and ice. She was lost in his stare, a glare of purpose that sent chills through her body, numbing her senses. Before he turned away, Thaena noted the design on the man's breastplate-a leafless black tree on a circular red field, the standard of Dun-Tharos.
He disappeared into the snow and mist. 'Thaena!'
Duras's voice broke the odd trance in which she found herself, her head aching and her ears whining from the
