The Shield of Weeping Ghosts

by James P. Davis

  Glancing once to the north, to the unseen places from which Anilya had come to Shandaular, he whispered a prayer for Thaena and then one for Rashemen.

  Turning away from the lake, he made his way back to the Shield.

  The library slowly succumbed to the vremyonni’s sense of organization. Minor spells had dealt with the dust and ice, sealing cracks in the windows and stone. The energy that flowed through him was in direct opposition to the amount rest he had of yet to take advantage of. He had dealt with the body of the old vremyonni in the loft first, making sure he was laid to a proper rest.

  Bastun repaired the bed and the desk nearby and took an old chair from one of the guard posts. He found candles there, too, and an old lantern and some torches to light his way as night fell over the city. He found he could not sit still until all was in order, everything in place as he imagined it should be.

  He kept the Breath at his side throughout it all, in the back of his mind working out how he might once again hide the weapon from the world—or if he should. He had not seen the spirits of the children since his return and wondered if he would need to defend himself.

  Despite these concerns, he found himself blissfully alone and free. Though he looked out upon a city full of the suffering dead, stood within a fortress unwittingly cursed by good intentions, and held at his side the key to a frozen hell that had left its cold mark upon his spirit—he saw a hope in the future he could not have imagined several days ago.

  He double-checked the library from top to bottom, making sure it would serve him well in the coming months of winter. Satisfied and making mental notes for improvements in the days to come, he delved further into the work that needed to be done. He ascended into the loft and sat down at the old, weathered desk. A large tome—the first he had collected for study—lay before him unopened, the text on its cover unreadable. He pulled back his hood with shaking hands and made to remove the first of his gloves.

  The Flame glowed with a soft orange light on his ring finger. The skin of his hand was pale, more so than normal. He flexed his fingers and still refused to remove the ring, still unsure of what other purpose the ring served, though in truth he was loathe to dwell on the subject just yet.

  A shadow moved on his left, and he pretended to ignore it, careful not to frighten it away.

  Taking a deep breath, he reached up and removed his mask, letting cool air wash over his face before opening his eyes and stretching his jaw. A piece of polished dark glass lay nearby, and he picked it up hesitantly and looked at his reflection in its surface.

  His skin was pale—much as he remembered himself since last seeing a real mirror. What he expected to find, however, stared at him through eyes as brilliant and white-blue as ice. He held his breath, unable to look away, unable to fathom the true depths of the sacrifice he had made. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, throbbed in the fingers holding the glass. He exhaled and breathed in, grateful to feel cold air on his throat, his lungs expanding with air. Life still flowed through him—more so than ever it seemed.

  A tiny giggle drew his attention, and he lowered the glass. The smallest of the ghosts, the Magewarden’s daughter, stood staring at him, smiling shyly. He smiled back, enjoying this change. She leaned forward conspiratorially, placing her small hands on the edge of the desk.

  “You look like him,” she whispered, still smiling and marveling at his icy eyes.

  “Yes,” he replied and could only imagine she meant the lost prince, Serevan, though her seeming lack of fear made him wonder at even that conclusion. “Will you help me find out why?”

  She thought a moment, screwing up her translucent face in the process, squinting as only a child could, before nodding and spiriting off to find more books.

  About the Author

  James P. Davis is a freelance author who is often found with a pen and notepad close at hand. He started writing in high school upon the advice of an excellent English teacher and worked toward becoming a professional author ever since. With a new novel in progress and several more waiting impatiently for their turn inside his head, he has no intention of stopping anytime soon. James lives in Louisiana with his lovely wife Megan and a half-crazed cat mistakenly named after a demonic prince. His writing credits include the short story “Possessions” in Realms of the Dragons II and the novel Bloodwalk. The Shield of Weeping Ghosts is his second novel. Please visit James online at: myspace.com/quinsareth.

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