The Breath trembled in her grip, pulling her faster. Its blade gleamed with a white torrent, the image of a blinding blizzard in waves of steel. She shivered as what little light behind her was swallowed in a slow, hesitant darkness. Stone and ice bruised as the ghostly children kept pace with her, but they did not approach the sword in her hand. Bright eyes darted in and out of those shadows, fearful to see and unable to look away.
Cautiously she turned sideways, pointing the Breath at them as she continued climbing. They slowed but maintained their morbid vigil. The stairway grew colder, the ice more jagged, and the children stopped. Their shadows retreated. Anilya felt as though she stood over an immense gulf. Shaking, she turned and stared briefly into the heart of a limitless abyss.
She averted her eyes, doubling over as the wind was stolen from her lungs. Gasping for air, she focused her eyes on the edges of the black doorway. Carved into an arch, it was a likeness of the city's shattered portal in shape only. The runes here were like those upon the Breath-Ilythiiri and human magic merged by the hands of King Arkaius. The elven symbols, once laid separate from the human ones, now locked themselves in crude knots. They seemed to writhe in the stone, wrestling one another for dominance of the pattern. Neither could win the arcane contest, but the magic stored in that struggle pulsed outward, threatening to stop the durthans heart completely.
Regaining control of herself, she straightened her back and shifted her eyes to the doorway itself. It was not black nor any shade of any color. It was a lack of light, a nothingness that looked back at her with a hungry, dark eye. She sensed the Weave bending and warping through the doorway, but not breaking, only changing as it rippled outward through the Shield and across to the edges of the city. Such was the disturbance she had detected in Shandaular's streets, the curse that had made the City of Weeping Ghosts.
Her arm rose of its own accord. Though she willed the action, the Breath at that moment wielded her as much as she wielded it. Flashes of pain and anger tore through her thoughts, as if a second mind were supplanting her intentions with its own. The Breath, the key to the Word, pierced the black veil and sank into its limitless depth. The steel was swallowed to the hilt, and her fingers brushed against the terrible dark. Countless words, screams, cries, whispers, and deaths flooded her senses, blinding her and leaving her deaf for several moments.
Spots of brightness pocked her vision as it returned. A faltering step echoed in her ears like thunder in the sudden silence. The Breath lay heavy and inert at her side, its prodding and trembling gone. Its point lay upon the floor, though she had no recollection of lowering the sword. The door stood open, its breathtaking darkness now replaced by rusted black iron. Gazing beyond, she stepped forward, the spent Breath dragging behind her, and entered the Word.
Bastun followed the footsteps of the durthan, past the dead, through churned snow, toward the northwest tower. The unnatural fever lessened a bit, the ring on his finger cooling as he left Serevan behind him, but it throbbed as he neared the source of Shandaular's woe. Weakness and fatigue clung to the hem of his robes, staggering his step slightly. His legs ached, his injuries screamed for rest, yet the path of Anilya drew him on. He needed to look upon her with eyes that knew what she had done-what she would soon do.
He fell against the door frame, wincing as the ring renewed its aura of heat. He fought the urge to throw off his cloak and cool himself. The death that hid in winter's grip was a trickster, fooling the mind into an irrational fever. Though heat radiated from him and the ring, distorting all he saw through a filter of undulating mirage, he would not risk the dangers of exposure. He contemplated the ring itself, sensing its importance but unsure of its true purpose. It was a secret neither Athumrani nor Arkaius-or even Keffrass-had written of, and he feared bringing it too close to the Word.
Something slippery caught his boot, and he lost his balance, sliding down to his hands. He swore and rose carefully to his feet. Gleaming in the half-light of stars and the burning embers of dying torches, his hands were covered in something dark and sticky. Nearby lay the source. Bent double and surrounded by a pool of blood, the corpse of a Creel shaman had been left tangled within shredded robes. His gray hair was matted to the floor, one dry bone charm crushed into the stones.
Leading away from the scene, with nary a quickened pace nor sign of struggle, were the bloody footprints of his quarry.
Another old man in her path, he thought, cut down and left for dead.
His eyes widened as the air was pulled from his lungs. As he struggled to breathe, the ring flared with energy. Pain shot through his arm, covering his body and causing him to fall upon the steps. Darkness rolled past him from the stairway, devouring sight, breath, and all sense of time or place. His squeezed his eyes shut. Unbearable waves of heat churned in his gut like molten iron. He feared opening his eyes, afraid to find his hands charred and bleeding, his flesh sizzling and steaming against the icy stone beneath him. He knew, without having to see for himself, that the Breath had been used and the seal upon the Word had been broken.
The dark passed and the pain faded. Air flowed back into his chest, bitingly cold, and his teeth chattered as he opened his eyes. His skin was unharmed. The flames he imagined were invisible, the ash and char only in his mind. He sensed eyes upon him and turned his head toward the top of the next flight of stairs.
She stood quietly, a blank expression on her face. Sorrow had left, leaving only deep emptiness and resignation. Athumrani's daughter stared down upon him with eyes that matched the misery of her cursed existence. Her ghostly brothers and sister swirled around her frantically, though she remained unaffected by their madness. Ashen chains smashed and crumbled against the walls, crawling toward him as slow and shaking tendrils. Staring into her bright eyes, he knew she could see the spark of madness that resided within him. He could not blame her for not stopping her cursed siblings.
As the chains neared, brushing against his fingers, the little girl wavered. Her body shook horribly, blinking in and out of sight. The children wailed as they were drawn into her strange fit, and the shadowy chains receded. With a final glance, he saw in her eyes a hint of hope, a tenuous trust that he could only attribute to her familiarity with the mask he wore. The shadows faded into the walls, soaking into stone and ice until all trace was gone. Taking a deep breath, he crawled upward on hands and knees. He cursed Serevan for the pains he had inflicted upon the children, the Seven of the Firedawn Cycle.
As if summoned, the ancient song flitted through his thoughts, and he wondered at the words that came to mind.
The Nentyarch's son, by sword and curse, to tower-tall he strides,
At morning light, for Breath and Word, still there his fury came;
Though cold he found among the fire, he mourned forgotten Flame.
Ice melted at his touch as he crawled up the stairs. The walls dripped as he passed and froze again when he was gone. The Firedawn Cycle, the last passages of Shandaular's fall and the beginning of Narfell's epic rise to power and destructive war with Raumathar, sang over and over again in his head. There were many hidden bits of wisdom in the old song, such that even the oldest living othlors did not fully understand them all. Secrets of Rashemen's past were said to be revealed only to those who were ready to know.
The top of the stairs came into view, the flat expanse confusing him for a moment as he reached for the next step. He looked up and beheld the doorway, the arch carved around the opening and the hybrid magic created by King Arkaius. The weapon forged and sealed away lay open, the famed black door now ordinary iron and rust on ancient hinges. Magic alone held them together, ready to be shut again.
He blinked and wheezed for breath. The heat of the strange ring had intensified as he neared the top of the stairs. He knew what lay beyond, and he knew its terrible purpose. The Firedawn Cycle, whether by memory or some subtle magic woven into the words, had revealed one of its secrets.
Weary and determined, he crawled toward the doorway, fighting for each piece of ground he took. Anilya's shadow paced within, and he looked down to the ring on his finger.
It seemed there were indeed three artifacts, forged by a desperate king in service to his people, that had worked to seal Shandaular's fate. The durthan had taken the Breath. She had opened the door to the Word-but he alone had found, and now held possession of, the Flame. chapter Tujeoty-four
'There were places secreted among the wilds of Rashemen, where those of the wychlaren and their guardians were taken for burial. Occasionally these places were well known as sacred ground devoted to heroes or champions of the land, favored by the spirits that watched well over their rest. Other places, more secluded and visited only by the wychlaren, held those whom destiny had taken too soon. They would lie in wait for those left behind beneath the boughs of ancient trees, their graves marked only by spots of sunlight and leaves disturbed by the wind. It was the peace of such a place to which Thaena found her thoughts drifting.
