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.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 arow 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 simplecantrips, 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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]