He ducked and swung at them with the axe, but he did not stop.
West, he thought as he rounded another corner and stopped short, the path blocked by a young girl at the end of the hallway. The shadows retreated and the whisperers stopped.
Older than the girl he had followed into the maze, this spirit's eyes seemed full of a pain and wisdom far beyond her years. Her dress was little more than sackcloth, and deep wounds encircled each of her pale-skinned wrists. Motes of dust swirled through her translucent form. She stared at him blankly. Just paces away, between him and the ghost, a side passage led south-or what he assumed was south.
Smelling dust and old parchment on the air, he took a tentative step toward the passage. The spirit inclined her head, her dark hair rippling and settling slowly to her shoulders as if underwater. Leaning forward, she lifted her right foot and the floor trembled as her weight shifted. Unnerved and unwilling to wait for her foot to fall, he ran and dived at the passage.
The spirit child's step landed like the stomp of an angry dragon. The stone walls shook, and dust fell as bits of the ceiling crumbled. The floor heaved, and Bastun stumbled into the hallway, the momentum carrying him tumbling and rolling into an open space.
Falling down a short flight of stairs, he dropped his staff. Something wooden shattered beneath his weight, breaking the fall. His legs crashed against something solid and the sound of falling and ripping parchment surrounded him. Books and scrolls rested beneath his hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the quaking stone settled and the dust began to clear.
Dim light illuminated the rafters of a high ceiling and a row of shelves to his right. The blue glow of a cloudy morning filtered in from a nearby window. He rested his head on a thick tome, blinking and coughing. Though no shadows followed him and no whispers pushed their way into his ears, he could still feel them-could still see Ulsera's grave and Keffrass's burned mask.
Disentangling his leg from a fallen stack of books, he pushed himself up on his elbows. The splinters of a rotted footstool crumbled beneath his left hand and he thanked the gods. His back ached well enough from the fall without the assistance of newer furniture to crash into.
"There is no shelter here."
He froze, spying the silhouette of a figure in the dimness. The voices had spoken in unison-all very young, some male and some female, shouting, weeping, and groaning. He rose to a crouch, glancing at the floor in a futile attempt to find his staff.
"What do you want?" he asked, hoping to stall for time. "Why are you here?"
"The cold prince will find you," they answered, "will find us all. He will freeze your blood and give Breath to the Word. He's coming now… again… always…"
Watching for any movement from the speaker-or rather speakers-he raised the staff. Light burst from its steel sphere, revealing the source of the voices-
The statue of an aged man in long robes.
Bastun looked around, searching for any movement, any sign of the spirits.
Several moments passed, but the voices did not return. Sweat beaded on his brow. His breath came quickly as he turned his attention to a nearby shelf. Hundreds of ancient books lay before him, most looking ready to fall apart at the slightest breeze. Ignoring the thumping in his ears and the anxious dread that prowled in the back of his mind, Bastun began to scan the spines.
The ones he sought would be more enduring, as the protected texts of wizards usually were.
Fear led him from shelf to shelf, book to book, searching for anything that might lead him to the Breath. There was no way to know how long the haunting might leave him in peace. Over and over the spirits' last words marched in his mind.
Though the Breath drove his search, their mention of the Word intensified it.
"He's gone."
Syrolf strode across the room, sidestepping Duras and Thaena as he drew his sword. Following his gaze, the ethran's eyes narrowed as she realized her mistake. Bastun had disappeared.
"Search the walls!" she commanded, suspecting the vre-myonni's knowledge of the Shield had allowed him to slip away through some secret passage. The fang responded instantly, though Duras stayed at her side, the expression on his face unreadable.
"Are you surprised he left?" he asked.
"Not entirely."
"He did nothing wrong, Thaena. If Syrolf had his way-" "He'd have killed him," Thaena replied coldly and found herself somewhat unmoved by the fact. The look of shock on Duras's face caused her to look away, unable to deal with his loyalty to an old friend in light of the death that surrounded them. "Bastun was selfish. He might have stayed and helped us against the Creel. He could have helped us protect Rashemen and take at least that much dignity with him into exile."
Stepping away from Duras, she watched the fang tear down tapestries and drag them over the bodies to better inspect the columns and walls. The tapestries, maintained by simple cantrips, depicted scenes of Shandaular's founding and daily life. Bright colors and the woven history of a hopeful past hid faces of the dead in a grim present. Somehow the image haunted her, and a pang of fear stabbed through her heart, almost like the memory of a dream.
"So you think Syrolf is right, that Bastun is a murderer and a traitor?" Duras said from behind her.
Turning, she saw the confusion in his eyes. Despite his strength and ferocity in battle, there was an innocence in the big warrior that had drawn her to him. An innocence that was infuriating at times.
"What has he done to prove Syrolf wrong?" she asked.
"Bastun has nothing to prove. We both know that."
"Do we? What do we really know about Bastun? He's been gone from both of our lives for so long, you can't possibly know that he can be trusted now. Why do you defend him?"
"Because no one else will," he answered, and she could see the fire in his eyes. "The othlor would have executed him if he were guilty of the charges, but she did not! And we both know what happened to Ulsera."
Thaena held up her hand, silencing him as she looked around. No one seemed to be listening. Bastun's sister had been slain in the Urlingwood, a sacred ground of the wychlaren, forbidden to anyone not of the secretive sisterhood-under pain of death. She gave him a meaningful look, pleading with her eyes for him to understand.
"I am sorry, Duras," she said, softening her voice. "I cannot be of two minds on this. I cannot allow the past or old friendships to affect my judgment. Not this time."
The fire left his eyes. Duras would uphold the law, she knew. His dedication to Rashemen ran deeper than any warrior she had ever known, but he walked a narrow path and she had joined him there. Though they hadn't seen or heard from Bastun in years, he had been a constant presence between them, an unspoken name in their tightest embraces and, at times, an awkward silence. Duras would protect his friend, just as she had protected Duras from himself.
"Lives are at stake," she said, "and an exile suspected of treason has gone missing, likely of his own accord. I must lead in this."
Duras nodded and crossed his arms, but he would not meet her eyes.
"Just remember, Thaena"-he gestured toward the fang- "where you lead, they will follow."
She heard the innocence in his voice fade. She was their ethran. What Syrolf believed, if she believed it, would become law. What the others might suspect, if she spoke aloud, they would act upon. Words-her words-could cost an innocent man his life.
Only one question remains, she thought as Syrolf approached. Is Bastun truly innocent?