"The exile has escaped," Syrolf reported smugly. "There is a passage behind one of the columns that extends for some distance into darkness. Do you wish us to pursue him?"
Thaena stared at the walls and the ceiling, imagining the size of the Shield and the myriad of places Bastun could be. She cursed him for making things far more complicated than they already were. She swore at herself as well, for believing she might be able to trust the vremyonni despite evidence to the contrary. He had betrayed what trust she had given him, and no matter his motives, she had to assume the worst-that Syrolf might be right.
"No," she said. "Though we will consider the vremyonni a threat until proven otherwise. For now the Nar must take precedence. What is the status of the western corridors?"
"No sign of the invaders," Duras answered, looking at the floor, his tone edging on anger. "The central tower seems mostly ruined, but there are stairs ascending into the north wall."
"My scouts reported lights flickering in the northwest tower." Anilya strode forward casually. "I suspect our uninvited guests will be found there."
Thaena nodded, considering the distance involved through unwarded sections of the Shield. The hathrans used only the central-most walls and towers from which to scry and watch upon the western lands. The rest of the citadel had been observed and debated over, but no direct solutions had yet been decided upon. Though she was concerned about the Shield's curse, as one of the wychlaren she was bound to deal with the Nar and the spirits they would disturb.
"We will make our way there," she said. "Guard towers along the wall may serve as safe points should we run into trouble."
Anilya left to prepare her men.
"I doubt the Creel will give us much trouble," said Syrolf. "No," Thaena said. "I fear the Creel may be the least of our worries."
Syrolf nodded, spat in the durthans direction, and went to assist the others with the bodies. The fang would follow her, but they knew the rumors of the Shield and would feel the borders of hathran wards as they crossed them. Syrolf, second only to Duras, spoke for them all, their readiness to do what must be done for Rashemen. Thaena was not particularly fond of the runescarred warrior, but she saw in his arguments a troubling logic that she was loathe to accept.
She rested her hand on Duras's shoulder, and they shared a look of brief understanding-a truce until they might be alone. She walked into the western corridor. Wild winds whistled through tall windows on the north wall, carrying snow and a chill that felt comforting after the stifling warmth of the entrance hall. The sky outside remained a solid gray wall of thick clouds, a storm front heralding the first of many more freezing days to come.
Leaning into the window she breathed in and enjoyed the freezing air as only a Rashemi could. Laying her hands on the stone, she lowered her head and prayed to the Three for forgiveness of her decisions and victory in battle against the Shield's invaders. Ice and snow on the stone numbed her hands and sent an odd sensation through her forearms. Her first instinct was to pull away, but as her heart began to hammer in her chest she thought of all she had seen in the last few hours, and she pressed her hands harder against the cold.
She spent so much time suppressing what she felt, in order to appear cold and emotionless, wise and infallible, doing it for the sake of the fang. Her mind filled with images of battle, of wielding a sword and losing herself to the bloodlust of a berserker. All this time she had spent trying to react and lead as a wychlaren suddenly seemed such a waste. The Ice Wolves were berserkers, hunters that respected strength. She should have ordered Syrolf to slit Bastun's throat, should have executed Anilya without question. Her breathing turned ragged and throaty as she recalled missed opportunities for all the blood she should have spilled-could be spilling now if she hadn't been so weak at the sight of one of her own dead on the floor.
Bile welled in her throat in disgust as Duras's words echoed in her mind. Her lover's hypocrisy seemed boundless, defending the vremyonni, the exile that could be meeting even now with the Creel and plotting their deaths. Duras had wanted to die before, years ago when he had confided in her. He had asked her to do it, to end his guilt, and she had stupidly refused, already in love with him. She imagined cold steel in her hands, a white-knuckled grip as she plunged the blade through Duras's gut for his sins.
Thaena choked at the thought, blinking and shaking her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to pull away from the window, but something held her fast. Looking down she found thin, shadowy fingers laced through her own-long black claws of inky blackness encircling her wrists.
She stumbled back, ripping her arms away from the window and staring wide-eyed as the ghostly hands melted into shreds of smoky mist and curled away. Rubbing feeling back into het hands she approached the window cautiously, looking farther down the hallway for any other disturbances.
Wind howled past the window as before, snow fell thick and silent, but nothing seemed amiss. She gripped her stomach, the image of Duras spitted on a blade embedded in her mind. A knot formed in her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Collecting herself and catching her breath, she looked upon the stone around her as if it were alive, watching her weakness and studying her vulnerabilities. Hearing voices near the door, she took a breath and stood up straight, meeting the eyes of Duras as he led the others. The mask saved her, hid the ordeal that might've shown on her face, but Duras knew her better than the others. His brow furrowed in question and she shook her head.
Syrolf followed just behind, the fang armed and ready to meet their enemies after dealing with the dead. Bloodlust filled their eyes, and in her heart she mirrored that thirst for battle, but could not shake the fear that something in the stone walls-something long dead-was spying on them.
The two groups gathered, barely forty strong. Anilya walked confidently toward Duras and Thaena, seemingly unaware of the troubling stares between them.
"We are prepared?" Anilya asked.
Before Thaena could answer, Syrolf appeared at the durthans shoulder. "Where is your dog, durthan?" "What? "Anilya turned to Syrolf.
"Ohriman," Duras said and stepped between Thaena and the durthan. "Where is he?"
Thaena eyed the Rashemi and the sellswords, once again noticing the dangerous tension that had sparked between them. She raised her head and spotted tiny motes of shadow growing like bits of mold on the ceiling. They squirmed over everyone's heads as if tasting hate on the air and feeding from it.
"I sent my guide'-Anilya glared at Syrolf-"to examine the eastern corridors and to discover what became of your lost vremyonni. I trust you might see the wisdom in that, yes?"
Syrolf grunted and stepped back, casting a meaningful glance at Duras before rejoining the rest of the fang. Tensions calmed somewhat. The tiny shadows shrank and crawled back into their stones. Thaena shuddered, the memory of their touch still burning in her hands.
The ethran nodded at Duras, turned, and began their journey to the northwest tower. The others fell in step, scouts taking the lead ahead of her and Duras. Her head ached as she thought of the variables that surrounded her-threats on every side, strife that might erupt at the slightest misunderstanding, Bastun missing, and the Creel entrenched in her sisters' outpost.
One of the men lit a torch as they turned away from the windows and deeper into the Shield's mysteries. Shadows danced and flickered on the walls, and Thaena swore she could hear them whispering.
Chapter Ten
The sound of pages rustling as he turned them, the smell of dust and dried leather bindings-all brought Bastun back to his time among the vremyonni. Though the books had calmed him, he was growing frustrated, and time did not seem to be on his side. Not finding what he sought, he shelved another tome and searched for another that might have withstood the test of years. Faint auras of magic drew him toward several tomes. The minor spells kept the pages from growing brittle and disintegrating.