quite far. He must have been below the Shield's central tower.
Broken stairways and dangling doors hung from the walls. Large chunks of ice remained frozen to the stone, collecting the snow that fell from above. Voices echoed from somewhere, but he couldn't make them out, the magic of his mask lost in his current state. The potion would not last long enough for him to reach the top. He would have to wait for the effects to wear off.
Somewhere within his shapeless body was the ancient blade, the Breath, now free of its secret grave. The magnitude of such a well-concealed legend on his person was astounding, and he couldn't help but think of the Firedawn Cycle and the lyrics he'd heard once for every year of his life.
… to steal the Breath, to seal the Death Of the Shield and speak the Word. Of the Shield and speak the Word.
Once again the Breath was to be stolen from the Shield and, he imagined, by those who did not understand what they were stealing. Even hcidid not fully understand the relationship between the Breath and the Word-their strange merging of Nar and Ilythiiri magic-only the destruction that the two were capable of. As he considered, shadows gathered at the edges of the rubble, coalescing hands and bright eyes as the child-ghosts observed his spiritlike form. Their clinking chains and faint whispers echoed around him, but they did not attack.
Seven children in chains, he thought curiously.
The Cycle came to mind again, and the ancient lyrics revealed another of the Shield's dark secrets. Pity flooded his being, seeming to carry a palpable weight as the potion wore off. His hands felt the stone beneath him, his knees pressed under the growing weight of his returning body. The Breath pulled at his belt as the song tumbled through his thoughts.
They came at dawn to break the wall, by Seven were they led. To frozen walls and to weary core, Seven cross'd the plain,
To gates of Shandaular, of fallen kingdom, Seven came.
Shattered souls, bound in chains, by Nentyarch's crown, the Seven came.
'Children,' he croaked as his throat reformed. He coughed, acclimating his lungs to breathing again. 'He sent children to start his war.'
The whispers grew louder and more frenzied as the shadowy spirits shifted in and out of the walls. Standing and turning in a circle, he reached for the Breath, wary of the ghosts. He recalled their fear of the weapon below when he was fighting Ohriman, and though he pitied their fates, he would protect himself against their madness if need be.
Coming back around he froze, finding the smallest standing just a few strides away. She appeared as before, pale and dark haired. Her bright eyes regarded Bastun with curiosity and also the same odd familiarity he could not fathom. She reached up and he flinched, her movements quick and hard to follow. Touching her continually flowing hair, she brushed away several errant strands and traced her face.
Reaching up to his own face, he traced the edges of the mask in wonder.
The mask, he thought. They must have known the vremyonni caretaker! How could he have kept this secret? Lived here among them?
Even as the question occurred to him he suspected the source of that secret and sighed in understanding: the wychlaren. They would have guarded the knowledge of anyone succeeding where they had failed.
He kneeled down to her eye level. She shied away from the movement, fading for an instant, but did not leave. She averted her eyes from him, hiding her face behind an ivory hand. The others kept their distance, still agitated and confused by the strange meeting between the living and the dead.
'You were sent here to die,' he whispered.
She looked back at him, tilting her head as her eyes widened and her lip trembled. There were no more tears in her-they were left behind with her physical form-but he could see the streaks of those she had cried in life. Pleased with gaining her attention he tried to keep it, to discover why she had come to him.
'You said something before, about the cold prince,' he said.
A shudder passed through her and the others rumbled. Their chains clinked and clattered against the walls. Shivering and paler than before, she nodded just enough for him to notice. Her eyes drifted to the Breath at his side, his hand upon the hilt.
The prince, he wondered, from the Cycle?
History lessons turned through his thoughts. Late night conversations with Keffrass came to mind, along with old scrolls and bits of forgotten lore. Narrowing his eyes, he recalled the Creel. The tribe, though often perceived as mere savages, were obsessed with ancient legacies and boasted of powerful bloodlines. The idea was there, on the tip of his tongue, before the realization struck him. When he found it, the name was linked as closely to the history of the Shield and as far away from the present as the ghost that stood before him. 'Serevan Crell,' he whispered.
Mere mention of the name had an instantaneous effect. The girl disappeared. The others' forms grew and trembled, a thundering growl emanating from the shreds of shadow they had become. The walls shook, and he thought he could hear a scream echoing amid the sound of tumbling stone and rubble. Standing on the largest piece of intact floor he could find, he held his arms out for balance and turned in circles again. He prepared for an attack.
Gradually, the shaking stopped, the growls faded, and though the spirits still hovered at the walls Bastun breathed a sigh of relief. Cautiously he knelt, taking stock of the situation. Staring up to the distant light near the top of the tower, he knew he would have to find Thaena and the others. Anilya would lead them to the Word, likely using them as fodder against the Creel.
For several moments, he contemplated the alternative- taking the Breath as far away from the Shield as possible and abandoning his old friends to their betrayer and the Creel. The long years away were apparent in that he didn't immediately reject the idea. Without the Breath, Anilya couldn't use the Word. Wasn't that what mattered?
Still… having an idea and acting upon it were very different notions. He couldn't abandon the Rashemi.
The low growls and whispers around him became tiny whimpers and fearful noises. The shadows shrank, sinking to the edge of the ruined tower's many floors. Looking around in confusion, Bastun rose cautiously back to his feet.
A cracking sound echoed from above, followed by a crash as shards of ice shattered on the stone. A mewling wail drew his attention to a block of ice on the wall. Something squirmed inside of it-a dark mass of long limbs writhing in an icy prison until a pair of glowing green eyes turned toward him from within. Raising his staff, Bastun flinched as more ice fell from behind him.
Claws scraped against ice, and leathery wings unfurled.
Taking a deep breath, he called upon his axe.
Chapter Fourteen
I374 DR, Year of Lightning Storms
The Running Rocks njoying the quiet and the smell of old books, Bastun stood alone in the center of his small room. Fresh snow melted on his boots and dripped from the hem of his robes. No one had seen him leave. No guards came to witness his return. Two days alone, beyond sight of his fellow wizards and the laws that bound him to remain hidden from the world. Free, more than he'd been in nearly two decades, and he had returned to the Running Rocks.
He was vremyonni, currently the youngest of the Old Ones, and no other place in Rashemen would have him. This was his place. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and lashed out. His knuckles met the stone wall. The familiar sting lanced through his wrist, and his fury subsided for a moment or two, blood welling into old cuts and scratches.
'Welcome back.'
Keffrass's voice did not startle him. His master was as much a part of the Rocks as the whistling drafts in the upper caverns or the pages rustling in the library.
