the Word, was becoming stronger, its former wielder more dominant. He sensed names and betrayal among the thoughts that raced through him, and he feared he might not be able to resist another invasion.
Cold hands pressed against his back, tiny fingers reaching through the wall. Though his mind was once again alone in his head, the children flooded his emotions with their own, and he felt an echo of their madness welling within him. Behind the ethran, men who were locked in their own struggle against the spirits' influence bashed fists into the floor and walls. Punches were thrown. Warriors fell and cried out. No weapons were drawn as yet, but there didn't seem to be a need.
Bastun stared as Thaena drew her small blade. He struggled against the Rashemi guards holding him. Her eyes rested upon Duras, dagger flashing in her hand, swaying in the thrall of an anger that was not her own.
'I loved you,' Bastun said through clenched teeth, catching her gaze, then added, 'Once. I believed every day that it was true.'
She didn't truly hear him, he knew, and he felt the sickening courage of that fact, but kept on, keeping her attention, keeping her from raising the dagger against Duras.
'I imagined you were as alone as I was, told myself that we might find each other again,' he continued, every muscle in his body strained. The Rashemi guards dug bruises into his arms, their breaths ragged, eyes bloodshot. The children wept and screamed in his ears, their hands scraping down his spine. 'I trusted in dreams, and I lied my way through being without you.'
'You lied?' she asked, blinking and trying to focus on him. Trembling, blade in hand, she glanced over her shoulder at Duras.
'I lied… and I'm still lying,' he spoke over drums and howling shadows, searching for some spark of recognition. 'Because you can't really hear what I'm saying, and that's the only reason I'm saying it at all-because deep down I love the lie more than you.'
'What? I-' Thaena shook her head and stepped back.
Pain spread across his face and the room blurred. Suddenly falling, he slipped from the grip of the Rashemi guards. The floor rushed toward him, and he caught himself on his hands, his mask spinning on the ground. Warmth flowed along his cheek and jaw as the chamber came back into focus. Turning, he saw Syrolf standing over him.
He shielded his face instinctively, warding off not only another blow from the wild-eyed warrior, but his appearance from the others. Duras tackled Syrolf against the wall and held him as Bastun reached for the mask. In a daze he turned it over in his hands. Steel clanged against stone, and Thaena backed away from her dropped dagger. She looked at him and paused, as if seeing him for the first time. The moment passed quickly as she turned to the fang, helping to pull those fighting apart and organize the others.
Considering the mask for a moment, he dismissed the urge to put it back on. Lowering his arm, he faced Syrolf and stood. Retrieving his staff, he felt a wetness dripping down his neck and touched it gingerly. Blood stained his fingertips and trickled down his cheek where the warrior had struck him.
Ignoring the runescarred warrior's struggles against Duras, Bastun turned his attention instead to the shadowy spirits of the children. Spells turned through his mind as he sought another way to banish the children without wielding the Breath again. They feared the sword, but his fear of it had grown as well, afraid of becoming trapped in a past that sought to consume him.
The drums grew louder with each passing moment, thundering in his ears, though the cries and groans of the children lessened. Their shadows faltered, drawing away from the walls and floors, as if driven away by something else. SyrolPs spitting and cursing ceased, and a look of confusion crossed his face. The pounding drums reached a deep climax and then stopped.
The shadows disappeared, retreating through the east wall as a profound silence filled the void left by the Creel's instruments. Duras released Syrolf as all attention returned to the doors and whatever lay outside. A chilling presence passed through the chamber and clung to all it touched.
Anilya stepped out of the shadows where she had waited out the possessions. With a word she melted the ice encrusting a small window near the doors and stared out upon the west wall. Thaena stepped toward the durthan and then stopped, glancing back at Bastun. Her eyes darted between Syrolf and Duras as if choosing.
'Syrolf, come with me,' she said, and the warrior reluctantly complied. Though he was no longer manipulated by ghosts, they truly had only exacerbated what he already carried within him. Bastun understood the sentiment and regretted not a word he had said either. Thaena nodded at Bastun and added, 'Watch him closely, Duras.'
The vremyonni shook his head as the big warrior watched after the pair a moment before turning away. Bastun sat against the wall and rested the staff across his legs. Despite everything that had happened, he felt a bit more the exile that he sought to be, closer to freedom of one sort or another. Duras kneeled close by, staring at his bare face in silence for several breaths.
'Bastun,' he said, his voice low and hesitant, 'I don't know what's out there or what might happen before morning. But we were friends once, and I feel bound by honor to respect that friendship.'
He paused, clearing his throat and coughing as if the words were stuck. Bastun's eyes narrowed as he waited. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear what Duras had to say. Growing weary of the past and secrets, one more reminder of why he had chosen to leave Rashemen might have proved one too many.
'There's something you need to know, something I have to say-'
Bastun held up a hand, cutting him off. 'Keep it, Duras,' he said, staring at the floor. 'I don't need to know and you don't have to say it.'
'No, I must-'
'I'm finished with Rashemen, with the vremyonni, and with the past,' he said, coming to tenuous terms with the decision. 'I may not have made any peace with it, but I'm leaving it. You should, too.'
The big warrior's shoulders slumped. He sighed and stood again, clearly frustrated, but respecting his friend's wishes.
Left in relative peace for a moment while Thaena, Syrolf, and Anilya assessed what lay outside in wait for them, Bastun closed his eyes. The images remained, though the words were garbled and slurred, the language making no more sense to him than before. It was the names that he contemplated-and the history of Shandaular's fall as learned by vremyonni scholars.
The history claimed that the Nentyarch of Dun-Tharos, eager to complete his empire and expand to the far south, laid siege several times to Shandaular. The final time he sent Serevan Crell, his youngest son, and the attack succeeded in breaching the city walls and the defenses of the Shield. Most of the citizens escaped through the city's portal before it was shattered.
It had been surmised that Athumrani, Magewarden of the Shield, had accompanied the people through the portal in the king's stead. Bastun rested his hand on the Magewarden's journal and recalled the fear Athumrani had written about. Shandaular's people had found themselves in the savage land of the Shaar, far to the south, and called themselves Arkaiuns in honor of their king's sacrifice.
All of this Bastun had little reason to doubt save for one detail-Athumrani never left the Shield.
The Breath lay at his side, heavy against his leg. The mind that had taken him over and responded to Thaena's questioning had identified itself as Athumrani. He had taken the Breath from hiding and fought his way through friend and foe alike to reach the Word. He had betrayed his king's secret and left Shandaular an ice- encrusted wasteland of rubble and broken shadows. For what reason he had taken such action, Bastun could not discern. Bile rose in his throat as he imagined what could occur if he were forced to wield the weapon again, if Athumrani's presence overcame him completely.
He picked up his mask and returned it to his face, fearing that his thoughts were too visible, too transparent without the familiar protection. It was a crutch he was content to live with a while longer as he prepared himself to face the demons which had driven Athumrani to suicide-and the devils that laid in wait beyond the stones of the Shield.
Punctuating his thoughts, the Creel drums began again, echoing through the night air.
Just outside the northwest tower torches flickered in the wind, their light a stark contrast to the darkness within the open doors. Thaena watched and listened for long moments, growing anxious for the Creel or their master to reveal themselves. The drums played the rhythm of her growing expectation, but no one appeared to satisfy it.
Tearing herself away from the window, she placed a hand on SyrolPs shoulder, moving him from between her
