"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 and Anilya. The durthan stood motionless, her sellswords separated from her by the fang, as she awaited Thaena's attention. The ethran was of two minds concerning Anilya and Bastun and had no easy answers that she would readily employ against them. The matter was trivial but crucial, as the impending threat of time worked against them all.
The durthan had said nothing yet of Bastun's alleged attack upon her. With arms crossed and narrowed eyes, Thaena approached Anilya, studying her as she broke their silence.
"He tried to kill you?" she asked, keeping her tone firm but neutral.
"He tried, yes," Anilya answered.
"And do you know why?"
"No, I do not, though I stopped questioning the murderous intentions of Rashemi upon joining the durthan," she said. "Such age-old enemies rarely need reasons to spill each others blood."
"One might do well to remember that," Syrolf grumbled over his shoulder. Thaena took a breath to admonish the warrior, but exhaled calmly instead and let the statement stand. The durthan needed some reminding that their truce was temporary and that she stood on ground claimed by the wychlaren.
"Then you accuse the vremyonni of nothing?" Thaena asked.
"Only of the attempt on my life, he-"
"Threatening the life of a durthan is a trifling thing for a Rashemi to be guilty of, Anilya," she said, interrupting the durthan. "As you said yourself, age-old enemies, correct?"
"And what of his secrets? The words of the spirit beneath the wall?" Anilya asked quickly-a little too quickly to Thaena's mind. "Do you suspect him of nothing, despite his knowledge of this place?"
"What I suspect or believe has no bearing on this discussion," Thaena said, "and I am disinclined at the moment to share counsel with a durthan."
"You doubt me, despite all," Anilya said, crossing her arms and staring out the window. Tired of the durthan's flippancy, Thaena squared her shoulders and stepped toward her. Anilya could not help but meet the ethran's burning gaze, so near were their masks.
"As much as I might doubt him," she said and held the stare for a moment before continuing, "you will now join your men and await your orders. If you are displeased with my leadership, then I will fulfill your expectations of the Rashemi and our savagery. Am I clear?"
"Quite," Anilya said. She turned toward her sellswords with a leisurely step, far more calm than Thaena would have liked.
"That ought to take some fire out of you," she heard Syrolf whisper at the durthan's back.
Looking once more out the window, she studied what she could see of the tall northwest tower. Recalling the feel of the dagger in her hand made her fingers numb and brought a knot to her throat. Glancing at Duras, who stood watch over the vremyonni, she knew she would have killed him if the spirits had swayed her any farther. Stronger than Rashemi firewine those shadows were-and well more traitorous where her emotions were concerned.
For the briefest of moments as she looked upon her guardian, her lover, she regretted being of the wychlaren. The necessities of leadership were tearing them apart, testing them as never before. However, she knew her duty and felt she had been too soft in its application. Between Duras and Syrolf, she decided that Duras might not accept the decisions she would have to make. The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps his secret was all the sin he suspected it to be. For years she'd barely been able to convince him otherwise. The child he had been still lived on in the man he'd become, ever since the day Bastun had been taken away to the Running Rocks.