Chapter Four
Tracks in the stone gatehouse were encrusted with ice unaffected by torches or the gathering warmth of so many bodies inside the lowest level. The stone had charred, but not so much as the structures within the third wall, the ones closest to the Shield where demons had swarmed among the flames and screams.
Every few moments, when wind stirred the fog, the faint silhouette of the distant fortress appeared. Bastun marveled at the endurance of such a monument-hidden for so long, forgotten by the world-and shuddered at the thought of what lay buried inside.
In a corner of the room, through a small arrow slit, he stared outside and listened for the voice of Thaena. She had taken a chamber upstairs to confer with Duras and Syrolf. It had been left to the rest of the fang to keep watch over the vremyonni while binding their wounds and using wychlaren salves to staunch bleeding. Their eyes, when they found him, left little to the imagination. They were Rashemi and Bastun had chosen not to be; the berserkers were rarely open-minded on the subject of loyalty. Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, close to a sizeable crack that reached from foundation up to the ceiling and beyond. The voices of the ethran and her warriors whispered through his mask.
"Most of the fang will be fine," Duras said, "and they shall be more than ready should we encounter a second ambush."
"That is one thing I think we can be sure of," Syrolf said. "For all we know they could be on their way here now."
"No," said Duras, "I don't think they would brave pushing past the spirits we encountered to attack an enemy in a fortified position. At least, not until dawn."
"We will not wait for dawn," Thaena said, her voice firm. "These Nar have moved too close to Rashemen. They threaten our outpost at the Shield."
"Is that not the least bit coincidental?" Syrolf asked. Bastun could hear him pacing as he continued. "That the Nar are here? Now of all times?"
No one answered, and Syrolf stopped pacing. Bastun strained to hear, curious to know if these three knew something he didn't-or more importantly knew something that they shouldn't.
"What do you mean?" Thaena asked.
"Considering recent events and decisions made in-"
"Just get to the point, Syrolf," Duras said, an edge in his tone.
"The vremyonni," Syrolf answered. "No, I mean, the exile."
"You are suggesting that Bastun may be responsible for the Nar attack?" Thaena asked. "Ridiculous," Duras said.
"You haven't even considered the notion yourself?" Syrolf said. "On the ship we were attacked by rusalkas-in the presence of an ethran, no less! Now here we find Nar tribesmen and our safe paths compromised by their magic? Go downstairs and see for yourself. Not a soul down there hasn't considered that the exile is behind whatever is going on."
"There's no point!" Duras said. "What could Bastun possibly gain?"
"It is not my business to think like an exile or a murderer," Syrolf answered, "but I have some experience in trusting my gut… and keeping a sharp eye on one who has made it clear that his loyalties do not lie with Rashemen."
SyrolPs words hung in the air. Bastun fought the scream building in his chest, the pressure of his frustration almost too much to bear as he pretended to doze against the wall.
"Bastun is not a murderer," Duras said at length, his voice low, but Bastun could hear a menacing tone behind the words. He could imagine the burning stare between the two.
"And you know this for sure?" Syrolf said. "As I heard the tale, the evidence at the vremyonni's trial told an uneven tale. The theft of several scrolls? He didn't have them, but he knew what was in them. I heard they spoke of Shandaular. The death of Keffrass? No solid evidence, but he was the only one there. He stood at that trial, with the sole possession of his dead master in his hands, and requested to be exiled. A sentence traditionally carried out here in this place. He knew exactly where he would be taken."
"Do you question the judgment of your superiors, Syrolf?" Duras's voice rose further.
"Should I even bring up what they say about his sister-?"
"Enough!" Thaena snapped, and the pair fell silent.
Bastun gripped his staff tighdy in trembling hands, his thumb resting in the weapon's narrow scar as he counted his heartbeats one by one until they slowed. Though Syrolf had said little of the details, Bastun's thoughts raced with memories of the past.
"I apologize, ethran," Duras said. '
Syrolf said nothing. Thaena walked toward the wall closest to Bastun, just above him. He imagined she looked out over Shandaular from th? arrow slit there just as he had. She could surely feel as well as he that something was amiss in the fragile order the wychlaren had established in Shandaular. The Weave was strong in the city, but wild and wavering, as if it were reacting to some old wound. Their spells had worked well enough, but the taste and feel of the magic was different. Like a warning.
"We have little reason to suspect Bastun of any involvement with the Nar," Thaena said.
"I disagree, ethran," Syrolf said. "We should-"
"But," Thaena continued, quieting the warrior, "he has chosen his exile, for whatever reason, and cannot be viewed as loyal to Rashemen because of it. It is not in my nature to trust such a man or to respect his choice, but I will also not place blame on him every time I stub my toe. Our mission was to bring him to the Shield for examination by the hathran and then to see him away to the west, never to return.
"That still is our mission, but we must also work to eliminate any threat to Rashemen by discovering why the Nar are here and what they have done. If my sisters are threatened we are dutybound to assist them. We will have no summary executions unless the charges are backed by solid evidence. But we will also not be lax in our observation of the exile."
Thaena let her words sink in. Neither warrior responded.
"Am I understood?"
Bastun could only assume they agreed quietly, for the conversation ended. He opened his eyes and looked once again into the fog outside. He had to keep watching, for the faces of Ulsera and Keffrass were there when he closed his eyes. There had been fog on the day of Ulsera's funeral. It had been the last time he'd seen his parents. On the day of Keffrass's funeral he had been alone.
With ghosts and shadows residing in his mind, it took a few moments to realize that something was moving outside. He blinked and sat up, watching two faint figures stumble and push through the snow.
Guards outside the gatehouse called a warning and hailed the approaching figures. Several of the fang jumped to their feet and grabbed weapons as they rushed outside. Unwatched for the moment, Bastun got up and followed after them.
The wind whipped at his braided hair and robes as he neared the huddled figures who had fallen to their knees before the Rashemi warriors. Wrapped in a blanket, Bastun could make out a woman and a man, but as the woman raised her face into the torchlight he paused, stepping back and staring.
The woman's mask was elaborately decorated, as most wychlaren masks were, but in the details were the markings of a very different magic: forbidden symbols and runes that only graced the masks of the wychlaren's bitter rivals-the durthans.
The fang helped the woman to her feet. Seeing her mask they treated her with all the respect due to a hathran. Her companion, a pale-skinned man with sharp features, hung close by, warily watching their would-be rescuers. Bastun gritted his teeth. Loosening his fingers, he prepared to defend himself, the Weave tingling across his knuckles.
As the visitors were being led toward shelter Thaena came from the gatehouse, followed by Duras and Syrolf. Seeing the stern glare of the ethran, they halted. Bastun breathed a sigh of relief as Thaena approached, her forearms crossed defensively. She had seen as quickly as he.