The Shield of Weeping Ghosts by James P. Davis Read Free Book Online Page A

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 thŁ 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