She denied them. It took all of her concentration to sing as she walked. Geth moved up to walk beside her, Wrath gripped tight in his hand, his eyes alert. Ekhaas didn’t look back to see what Chetiin and Tenquis were doing, but she could feel them close behind. She could see the ghostly duur’kala all around them, though. They drifted among the artifacts of the vault, hollow eyes upon her. Some of them whispered between the notes of their song.
Defiler. Thief. Traitor.
She could block the magic of their song, but it was harder to ignore the simple malignance of their words. She poured herself into her own song, reminding herself of why she was doing this and for whom, but the fate of Darguun and vengeance against Tariic seemed like distant things. Even if Tariic was defeated and Darguun saved, the Kech Volaar would not take her back. She would be alone.
No. A face rose in her mind-a gray-haired, gray-eyed young warlord who called her “wolf woman” and who shared his honor with her. She wouldn’t be alone because she would have Dagii.
A ghost hissed with sudden rage and lunged at her. Geth intercepted it, lashing out with Wrath. The wisp of a shroud fell to the ground and faded away.
Ekhaas kept walking and singing. She could feel sweat cold on her forehead and through her hair. Where were the stairs?
Then she spotted the nightmare figure of the stuffed dolgaunt and felt a moment of hope. Beyond the creature’s unmoving tentacles stood the strange armor of stone and crystal. Beyond that, the monument to Jhazaal Dhakaan. And beyond that…
A line of ghostly duur’kala, spectral flesh even more decayed than that of the ghosts who harried them. The dark arch of the stairs leading up out of the vaults pierced the wall just behind the silent ghosts, but it might has well have been leagues away. There was an air of tremendous age about the spirits, and Ekhaas knew, somewhere deep in her gut, that in life these duur’kala had been among the first to store their secrets in the vaults, had been the first to dwell in Volaar Draal, had perhaps been the first to call themselves Kech Volaar.
And they hadn’t yet joined in the chorus of their sisters.
Geth saw them too. “Tiger’s blood,” he murmured. He turned and looked behind them. “They’re all around us, Ekhaas.”
One of the ancient duur’kala raised a withered hand.
The chorus of the ghosts ended. For a moment, Ekhaas sang alone in the dark, her song thin in the sudden silence. The ancient duur’kala stepped forward. Ekhaas braced herself for their song, her own trailing off into a whisper. Geth raised Wrath, ready to attack. In unison, the old ghosts opened their mouths — and instead of singing, they drew breath.
It was like being caught in a gale that pulled at her rather than pushed. Ekhaas felt the air sucked right out her lungs. She choked and struggled to catch her breath, but there was no air to breathe-it rushed past her into the gaping mouths and bottomless, undead lungs of the ghosts. Dark spots filled her vision almost instantly. Tenquis wheezed and stumbled against her. Geth lifted Wrath and charged but only managed a couple of steps before his legs buckled and gave out. Ekhaas struggled to stay on her feet, fighting panic as she tried to think of some defense.
Nothing came, and still the ghosts consumed the air of the vaults. Ekhaas’s eardrums popped, and sounds became muffled and distant. Her vision became more dark than bright. Even the glowing specters became shadowy silhouettes, outlined by what seemed a brighter glow from behind them.
A glow that came from the archway. A glow with figures-real, solid figures-in it.
“By the glory of Dhakaan, cease!” The throbbing in Ekhaas’s ears rendered the ringing words as hollow echoes. “I speak for the Kech Volaar. Great mothers of the dirge, cease!”
As her vision dimmed to darkness, Ekhaas saw Tuura Dhakaan and, at her side, the black-robed figure of Diitesh. The High Archivist had her arms raised, a curiously carved block of stone clutched in her hands. “I hold the Seal of the Eternal Bond!” she screamed, trying to match Tuura’s rolling tones-and failing. “Great mothers, cease. The vaults are safe.”
However weak Diitesh’s command might have been, it was effective. The terrible pull ended. Air rushed in to fill the vacuum. Ekhaas drew in a shuddering breath and blinked, trying to clear the spots from her eyesight so she could see what was happening. The ancient ghosts had turned to regard Tuura and Diitesh and the handful of others who stood behind them. Guards, Ekhaas saw, and archivists. They huddled back, leaving only Tuura and Diitesh to face the ghosts. Diitesh raised the thing in her hands again.
“Go!” she commanded. “Begone.”
Tuura’s voice became more soothing. “Great mothers, you do your duty. Return to your rest.” She bent her head before the ancient ghosts, and, after a moment, they returned the gesture.
Then they were gone, fading back into the shadows and all of the ghosts along with them. When Tuura looked up, her eyes were squarely on Ekhaas. They narrowed. Her ears flattened, and her lips pulled back in anger.
Ekhaas’s heart sank.
A figure moved out from among the soldiers and archivists and took up a position at Diitesh’s side. Scorn and triumph twisted Kitaas’s face. “As I told you,” she said to Tuura.
The leader of the Kech Volaar said nothing, just flicked one finger. Before Ekhaas and the others could even stand, they were surrounded. Again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
17 Aryth
Tariic wanted to break her spirit. Ashi knew it from the way he watched her. Whenever they were in the same room, his eyes were on her like the eyes of a dragon. There is no escape, said that gaze. Your resistance only makes the wait more interesting.
The possibility that he might succeed frightened her. Usually the sickening dread of it went away each morning as the renewed clarity of her dragonmark’s power settled over her mind. On the days that it didn’t, she did her best to ignore the possibility. Tariic wanted to see her proud and angry, like a great cat pacing the confines of a cage. Ashi found it easy to give that to him. She stalked the halls of Khaar Mbar’ost, fury surrounding her like a cloud. Even her hobgoblin escorts took to following a pace or two back. Everyone else slipped out of her way, finding somewhere else to be. When she was called on to perform the duties that Breven d’Deneith had placed upon her, she performed with detachment. What did it matter? Warlords and clan chiefs were all under the spell of the Rod of Kings anyway. They cared about the bond between Darguun and Deneith only as much as Tariic told them to.
No one commented on the bright silver cuffs she wore. No one except Pradoor.
“I’m told you have been presented with jewelry,” the old goblin priestess had cackled when Ashi had come across her one afternoon. “Come here. Let me touch them and feel the cool metal.”
Ashi had been tempted to let her feel the cool metal in a blow across her withered face. The cuffs prevented her from attacking Tariic, but would they prevent her from attacking his associates? She’d restrained herself, though. Anything she did would find its way back to Tariic. Let him think he’d won this small victory. She’d held out her arm and let Pradoor run gnarled fingers over the silver.
On rare days she ventured out of Khaar Mbar’ost. If anyone noticed that she did so only under the hard gaze of the warrior Oraan, they didn’t say anything.
It was surprisingly easy to stop thinking of Aruget as “Aruget” and to take up calling him Oraan. His personality had altered along with his face-in imitation of the true Oraan, she supposed. It was difficult even in their private conversations to get him to acknowledge his former identity. “Why did you come back?” she’d asked him once. “Tariic knows you’re a changeling. Midian told him everything.”
“Tariic knows Aruget was a changeling and a Dark Lantern of Breland. Someone like that would have fled back to his masters. That’s what Tariic will expect. Will he think of looking for another changeling under his nose? I’ve never met Aruget. I had nothing to do with him.”