James Davis - The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

The second journal was truly a prize, surprising at first, yet the tone of Athumrani's writing made clear why the two books had been together. The first page declared it to be the notes of Arkaius himself, many of which concerned his experiences with the Word-due to the nature of the notes, it went well into explaining Athumrani's frantic state of mind.

Much of the king's research into the Ilythiiri had clearly been torn away, but what remained was a stunning account of the days after the first use of the Word. Bastun imagined the voice of Arkaius, carrying him and the Breath outside, along the wall, and up to the top of the northwest tower. In that tower lay a solid black door that had not opened during any living memory, a door that held the secrets of Shandaular's ruin. The king was filled with regret over what he had worked to create, and he feared for his people as he knew the Nentyarch would send yet another army to claim Shandaular's portal for their empire. Like Athumrani, he too suspected an agent of Dun-Tharos had infiltrated the Shield.

Bastun sighed in frustration. More torn pages left a gaping hole in the preparations Arkaius had made in keeping the Word secret. All that remained were the king's last thoughts, making ready for the imminent attack and his intention to sacrifice himself in destroying the portal. His people would escape to the far south and the Nentyarch would be denied his prize. Common history of the realm told of these events, though Bastun wondered who it had been-in those last moments as Shandaular was razed by the Nentyarch's army-who actually used the Word.

"I see the vremyonni hunger for knowledge is as voracious as I've heard."

Bastun started but did not turn at the sound of Anilya's voice. He kept his back to her and let his hand drift protectively to the Breath.

"Some of us find in books those things that cure the urge to seek adventure," he said, wondering how she had made her way up to him without being heard or stopped by the guard at the bottom of the stairs.

"Actually, I tend to find in them just the opposite."

"Ohriman is dead," he said, in no mood to banter around what they both knew. "If you've come sniffing around for news of him I think you'll be more successful closer to ground level."

"I didn't ask," she said. "Besides, with all the ghosts in this place, I think dead is a loose term at best."

Deftly replacing the journals in his pack, he shifted himself to face her. Resting his hands on his knees, he regarded her as he might a new kind of insect.

"I tend not to think of the dead loosely," he said. "Take for instance those Creel in the Central Tower. Interesting scars they had, do you not think? Pale, bloodless cuts and scratches-"

"The Shield itself is a ghost," she said, ignoring him, "having died long ago, its purpose unfulfilled, lost to the outside world in a shroud of mist and cold. Most scoff at the idea that any structure survives in this place at all, but those who brave the ruins, who get close enough to see, even many of them will deny that it really exists."

"And that's where it should have stayed," Bastun said, studying the durthan as she peered through arrow slits into the growing darkness outside. "Buried in mist and denial for another thousand years, useless to anyone… save for those ignorant of its history."

"You assume my ignorance?" she asked playfully, and she reached up to remove her mask. He gaped at her beauty revealed, her fair skin and dark eyes framed by short locks of night black hair. She smiled at him, a graceful curve in her full lips that barely registered as movement but which changed her entire expression. "Ignorance can be bliss, Bastun."

"Knowledge is power,'' he said, casting his gaze to the floor, avoiding the eyes and the smile that had broken his thoughts.

She leaned against the wall and slid down to sit. Her stare never left him. Her smile seemed almost to cast its own shadow over him. Avoiding sight of it did little to erase its presence. Glancing up, he watched as she rested her head on her shoulder and propped an arm over a bended knee.

"And what's the use of power," she asked, "without a little bliss now and then?"

His cautious stare became wide-eyed alarm as he watched the faint image of the wall become visible through her shoulder. Her entire image shimmered and faded away. Rising to one knee, he caught up his staff and brushed his palm against the Breath. The mental weight of the weapon's presence was making such fearful movements reflexive.

Anilya was gone. No footprints in the dust or any disturbance of the loft indicated she had been there at all.

"Illusion," he whispered.

He heard voices downstairs and walked to the loft's edge. Thaena spoke with Duras as the group prepared to brave the wall. The ethran noticed Bastun watching and gestured for him to join them. Several of the sellswords worked to unbar the western door as he descended the stairs. Nearby, observing their progress, stood Anilya. Her mask back in place, she offered him only the slightest of glances before the door opened to reveal a wall of white.

Pausing in his descent, he placed a hand over the journals at his side. Their remembered words fluttered around his quiet fears like moths to a flame.

Pulling his cloak tight over the Breath, he shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his thoughts, and walked the rest of the way down the stairs.

In a daze he stepped through the open door behind the others. Under the now clear sky he wavered a moment, leaning on the battlements and alarmed by a sudden vertigo. Mist spread out from the walls of the Shield like an ocean of smoky white, unstirred by the storm, to hide the fortress in its folds once again. He looked away from the unseen depths of the mist, feeling nauseous and focusing instead on the calm skies overhead. The night glittered and twinkled as he caught his breath and steadied himself. He marveled at the stars, though if he witnessed stars of the past or the present, he could not be sure.

They marched through the unbroken snow atop the west wall, the second of the three guard towers in sight. Thaena led the way with Duras close at her side. Bastun struggled to keep pace but found it increasingly difficult to maintain his focus. He kept close watch on the durthan, wondering if she had cast some spell upon him. Maintaining the width of the wall between them, he guided his steps by the battlements. His head ached as he eyed Anilya, who seemed not to notice him at all. As his fingers brushed the pommel of the Breath he felt an uncanny assurance that the durthan had little to do with what was occurring.

The air shimmered with movement, rippling harmlessly through Thaena and Duras, past Anilya and Syrolf. The strange wave flowed along the wall, ancient images manifesting as they had before. Nar soldiers battled silently against the Shield's defenders, making Bastun a lone witness to the muted past. Quiet screams stretched tight dying faces lit with ghostly light. He flinched and drew back as phantom swords and spears were thrust through him, finding their targets elsewhere in that other time, though his skin itched at the contact.

He kept moving as if nothing were amiss, though he could not deny the sudden urge to dash ahead of the group. His headache became a piercing stab, and he gasped as a foreign compulsion warred with his will. An absent-minded touch upon the Breath became a white-knuckled grip as he resisted the strange command to escape his captors and reach the northwest tower-the tower of the Word.

The need consumed him, ignoring all reason or caution. Stumbling forward, his legs buckled and he fell in the snow. Strange words escaped his lips, a language unspoken for centuries, but unmistakably a dialect of the Nar tongue. He muttered and spit as the others formed a circle around him.