The Shield of Weeping Ghosts (The Citadels) by James Davis

Author:James Davis [Davis, James]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786963799
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2012-08-14T00:00:00+00:00

“Children,” he croaked as his throat reformed. He coughed, acclimating his lungs to breathing again. “He sent children to start his war.”

The whispers grew louder and more frenzied as the shadowy spirits shifted in and out of the walls. Standing and turning in a circle, he reached for the Breath, wary of the ghosts. He recalled their fear of the weapon below when he was fighting Ohriman, and though he pitied their fates, he would protect himself against their madness if need be.

Coming back around he froze, finding the smallest standing just a few strides away. She appeared as before, pale and dark haired. Her bright eyes regarded Bastun with curiosity and also the same odd familiarity he could not fathom. She reached up and he flinched, her movements quick and hard to follow. Touching her continually flowing hair, she brushed away several errant strands and traced her face.

Reaching up to his own face, he traced the edges of the mask in wonder.

The mask, he thought. They must have known the vremyonni caretaker! How could he have kept this secret? Lived here among them?

Even as the question occurred to him he suspected the source of that secret and sighed in understanding: the wychlaren. They would have guarded the knowledge of anyone succeeding where they had failed.

He kneeled down to her eye level. She shied away from the movement, fading for an instant, but did not leave. She averted her eyes from him, hiding her face behind an ivory hand. The others kept their distance, still agitated and confused by the strange meeting between the living and the dead.

“You were sent here to die,” he whispered.

She looked back at him, tilting her head as her eyes widened and her lip trembled. There were no more tears in her—they were left behind with her physical form—but he could see the streaks of those she had cried in life. Pleased with gaining her attention he tried to keep it, to discover why she had come to him.

“You said something before, about the cold prince,” he said.

A shudder passed through her and the others rumbled. Their chains clinked and clattered against the walls. Shivering and paler than before, she nodded just enough for him to notice. Her eyes drifted to the Breath at his side, his hand upon the hilt.

The prince, he wondered, from the Cycle?

History lessons turned through his thoughts. Late night conversations with Keffrass came to mind, along with old scrolls and bits of forgotten lore. Narrowing his eyes, he recalled the Creel. The tribe, though often perceived as mere savages, were obsessed with ancient legacies and boasted of powerful bloodlines. The idea was there, on the tip of his tongue, before the realization struck him. When he found it, the name was linked as closely to the history of the Shield and as far away from the present as the ghost that stood before him.

“Serevan Crell,” he whispered.

Mere mention of the name had an instantaneous effect. The girl disappeared. The others’ forms grew and trembled, a thundering growl emanating from the shreds of shadow they had become.

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