Ruins Falling Read online

  Silence came. Her wind slowly eased, its hiss disappearing. Then muffled sobbing came, and some rustling, and finally the rapping of boots as the servants fled down the hall.

  Slowly, Devirah felt her wind stop. She felt the robes on her body fall still. She paused for a moment, and then crumpled to the ground. She pressed her cheeks into her arms as she wrapped them around her knees. The auburn hair she allowed herself fell in a curtain around her cheeks, coloring the light that pierced through the strands. A few moments later, she felt Azaryah’s hand on her shoulder. “Well, they’ll think it’s ghosts for sure, now.” She buried her eyes a little further into her arms. “I lost it, too. You were just closer. I’m not sure if they even saw me.”

  She pushed her hair away and looked up at her friend. Azaryah’s natural form, silvery and vapor-like, was darkening and growing solid. His human form was average lately—forgettable, with his average height and weight and face. He pushed his average brown ponytail off his shoulder. But what was not average-looking about him was the inhuman gentleness in his eyes as he looked deeply into her own. “Do you think they’ll be harmed?” she asked him, searching his eyes. “Their minds, I mean—with battle fatigue?”

  “Well, they seemed to think clearly enough to run away,” he said, trying to smile. But the sad attempt soon fell into a true frown. “I’m sure they’ll ask to leave this castle. But…well, maybe this needed to happen. I mean, I couldn’t stand the woman, and I believed you about the man, but I never wanted them to have battle fatigue. But then again, maybe others will stay away now too.”

  “But what if…” She paused, afraid to speak her thoughts.

  “What?”

  She inhaled. “They’ll describe a woman. Not just a ghost—a woman.”

  “Yes?” he asked, his eyes darting back and forth between hers. “What about that?”

  “Do you think…the…” She bit her lip, then forced herself to finish with trembling words, “Do you think the Knight, or the Prince…will they…” She faltered again, her eyes burning.

  Azaryah stared at her a moment, his brows furrowed. But suddenly, they relaxed. And she watched as despair filled his eyes, too. “Oh…oh, no…”

  She looked away, blinking rapidly. Memories filled her mind of screams. Of one woman screaming first in grief and rage, and another weeping over the body of a third clutched in her arms, over a distended belly. Of swords and makeshift shields and tears. Of their crumpled bodies on the ground, and blood pooling beneath them, their blood splattered and smeared on the walls, of toys and furniture scattered and destroyed, the chaos stopping before the stairs. But, Devirah’s memory only served her too well, of a trail of bloody footprints leading up first one staircase, then the other, to the beds above.

  Devirah’s thoughts ran wild between memory and present, and in its chaos, she wondered, which of these women would the castle think haunted this room now?

  She looked back at Azaryah, and despite all her efforts, tears flowed hot down her cheeks. Azaryah shook his head, his chin trembling, and looked away. She saw him pause, and inhale a deep, unsteady breath. Something about his posture made her suddenly feel like there was ice in her veins. Finally, he turned back to her and choked out, “Bertie still has the book.”

  Devirah turned away and pressed her eyes into her knees again. She tried to muffle her sobs, but the more she tried, the worse they got. She felt Azaryah’s arms wrap around her, and she let go of her knees as they embraced. She remembered, far too clearly, the night they had sat and embraced like this before, in this very same room. But that was before it had become a library.

  The next night, after a long search, Azaryah returned with grim news. Both of the servants had requested permission to transfer to another castle in the kingdom. But these requests didn’t come from them directly. It came from their shaken relatives, who also requested transfers of their superiors, repeating stories of a ghostly woman filled with rage. And Azaryah had been unable to find out where Bertie, and the stolen copy of the journal of the King, had disappeared.

  But even worse, they suspected that rumor would travel faster than they desired. So that night they shifted into black cats and waited in the shadows of the second story. Sure enough, well after the curfew bell had sounded, they heard the door moan as it opened. A lantern floated in the darkness, and the light fell on the craggy face of a man.

  Devirah winced at his appearance. He was a little taller than average, but he seemed to crumble under the light of the lantern. A circlet, three silver branches of ivy with glittering jewels mimicking drop of dew, rested in his dark, silver-lined hair. The rest of it tumbled and crashed down around his firm, lined face into his goatee. It burdened her to know his age was only forty years when he easily looked ten, maybe even fifteen, years older. But his eyes were wide tonight, the only part of him that looked young. Childlike.

  The man walked soundlessly, treading almost reverently on the wood floors, while gazing up and around. It seemed to take years for him to finally lay his lantern on the mantel, sit in a chair beside the cold fireplace, and fold his hands as he leaned his elbows on his knees, facing the doors.

  She and Azaryah waited with him, silent.

  As the night stretched on, the wind occasionally blew and whispered to the roof, and to the trees on the cliffs outside the windows. She and Azaryah made no sound. The first few times this happened, the man shot up from his chair and looked around, his eyes wide again. “Oh, Bairen,” she heard Azaryah whisper once, and she looked over to see tears in his eyes. But still, the Prince would turn and sit back down, searching the rafters in the dark.

  The sky outside the windows began to pale when Bairen finally stood once more. The hopeful fear in his red eyes had faded away. He looked around, his lips pressed tightly together. He swallowed, then broke the silence. “Illia.”

  Again, Devirah winced. Azaryah stepped close and rubbed his cheek to hers.

  Bairen looked around again. He was silent for several long moments, but then his eyebrows slanted a little higher as he spoke again. “Kaelynn?” Another pause. “Ryah?” Again, Bairen paused. And then, quieter, “Illia.” The wind moaned and whistled. Bairen exhaled, his dark cloak tumbling over his drooping shoulders. “I haven’t been here since you and Thaine were…” His confession was choked, and ended with a shaky, inhaled breath. He held it a moment, and then exhaled the words sharply. “…Since the attack.” Again, Bairen waited a few moments, closing his eyes, his jaw just barely trembling. Finally, he forced more words out, his voice tremulous too. “Two servants claimed to have seen one of you here.” He swallowed and opened his eyes as he searched the shadows all around him. “Will one of you speak to me?”

  Devirah put her little paws over her eyes. She yearned to be able to shift into the form of those he longed for. But she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t.

  “Illia, please?” she heard him plead.

  She could see the woman in her mind: long blond hair falling around her round belly, the body of a precious friend in her arms, sobbing. Devirah had known her well. She’d known all three women well. But she didn’t dare shift. It would not bring the Prince any peace to think that they were here. It would be even worse for him if those so-called ghosts suddenly disappeared one day. And he’d suffered too much as it was. Because she and Azaryah had not been able to protect them. Not from human aggressors—though they had longed to. How they had longed to…

  Prince Bairen waited several more minutes in the silence. As the long minutes crawled by, the age began creeping back into his eyes. He seemed to grow a little taller again, back to his normal self—but she dreaded the final form he would possess. As the light grew, she could see the scowling frown carve itself back deeply on his lips and clenched cheeks. His brows and eyes became hollow and cold, like dark caves with depthless, frigid pools. Those eyes now looked older than the world. Finally, Bairen turned and retrieved his lantern. And without another word, he strode through the library, the firm soles of his
boots rapping hard on the stone. His cloak billowed behind him across his rigid shoulders. He shoved the doors open, and threw them back. They crashed shut behind him, shuddering in their frames.

  “Please, Bairen,” she heard Azaryah whisper beside her. “Please, don’t lock the door. Don’t forbid the children from coming here. Please.”

  By the third day, rumors of the haunted library were running through the castle like crazy. A few wide-eyed servants told their story—repeatedly—about finding the heavy cart that had been abandoned out in the corridor, with the rags, bucket, dusters and brooms thrown out after it. The sons of the nobles had laughed, bragging that they would sneak in during the night to see the ghosts, and the girls giggled. She did not want them to come. But she feared chasing them away.

  She caught snatches of the Princes’ discussions of it, too. They argued about whether they should lock the doors, but seemed too proud to give in. And Prince Bairen, unlike his normal self, was never alone. He was always busy in meetings, or eating, or sleeping, ever running from the library and all the memory it held.

  That evening, Devirah laid on one of the library couches, her hound’s head on her paws, her long ears flopped on either side of her, and stared at the shelves. How could she have lost her self-control like that? What would happen to the library because of her? She didn’t even have Graedin’s book to return to him. She fought tears as her eyes skimmed over other deeply dyed leather covers, finding each green spine, wishing the book was his. She found red and brown, mostly, though there was the occasional gray, and even a few blue and purple spines.

  Devirah lifted her head, her heart beginning to hammer. Then she leapt from the couch, shifted mid-air into her human form, ran to the closest shelf, and pulled out a blue leather book. She searched its pages frantically, then shoved it back and reached for the next blue spine.

  When Azaryah returned at daybreak, he was in his human form too. His eyes were red, and his shoulders drooped as he walked toward her down the aisle of the library. Devirah sat waiting for him on a couch near the cold fireplace. He didn’t meet her eyes. “Bertie is in another city, with relatives. But I couldn’t find the journal. He didn’t even mention it to his family.” He looked up at her. “Have you heard anything? Are the Princes going to lock the doors?”

  Devirah smiled sadly at him. “They haven’t yet. I don’t know if they will.” He stared at her, frowning, his brows heavily slanted but raising up. She didn’t speak, like she knew he wanted. Instead, she lifted up a deep blue leather book from her lap and held it out for him.

  Azaryah glanced at it, then to her eyes. She smiled encouragingly, even as tears filled her eyes. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he stepped forward and took it from her hands, opening it swiftly and studying the calligraphy in it. She watched his mouth fall open. “Is this Thaine’s copy?”

  “Yes. It was here all this time. Second story, in the middle shelves. And we never knew.”

  Azaryah looked up, tears filling his eyes too. His eyes looked down to the book, and he walked over to sit with her. He wiped his nose, smiling, as he tenderly turned pages, cradling it in his hands. “If only Thaine had lived. Can you imagine how different Ye’shurun would be now? If he were alive, and ruling with Bairen and Graedin still?”

  Suddenly, there was a metal clinking. They both looked swiftly to the door, where the handle was turning. Devirah immediately closed her eyes and focused. When she opened her eyes, Azaryah was setting the book down gently on the floor of the second story. Then he shifted into an owl and landed on the rail. She mimicked him, and joined him on the rail.

  Just as she landed, a little shadow darted inside the doors. Then it lifted its face toward the ceiling, lowering the black hood of its cloak. Underneath was a girl, about eleven years old. She had brittle, thin, mousy brown hair, and the skin around her eyes was heavily shadowed. A vivid red sore was carving a notch in the top of one earlobe. But her eyes were bright in the darkness. “I think I saw a bat,” she said. “Near the roof.” Then she turned and opened the door wider.

  “No, Airaine, you know better. It’s definitely ghosts,” a mischievous voice replied. “Ghosts that chase away all but the worthy!” The girl chuckled as another shadow entered. His slight smile fell slowly into a frown. As swift as Airaine was, the boy was equally as slow. He was only about six months older than she, only twelve, but his dark eyes looked as if they’d seen a thousand lifetimes. He was so thin, even with the baggy clothes hiding his true weight, that he looked deathly. His white knuckles gripped a walking cane. The only thing that made him look less solemn was the mess of dark hair on his head, sticking up here and there with the help of a bad haircut.

  “Do tell, good sir,” Airaine asked, mimicking the boy’s lofty voice, “who is worthy to set foot in this most beautiful and ancient library?”

  “All those who have sworn to protect its knowledge from those who would destroy it, and defend it for those who cherish its treasures!” he declared, his frown twitching. Devirah glanced at Azaryah, mimicking a smile. He returned to her a smile that was sadness itself, yet still sheepish, and filled with tenderness as he looked back to the boy. “Or from book thieves. That too.”

  “Well, of course, we shall swear to do so. And then, shall we see if the ghosts think we’re worthy, Sir Daireth?” the girl teased. Daireth’s solemn expression shattered instantly as he grinned, and his eyes shone as brightly as if they were reflecting a star when he turned to look at Airaine.

  Devirah closed her eyes and shifted into a human form. She turned and smiled at Azaryah, tears brimming in her eyes. He fluttered back and shifted too, with a flicker of silver vapor and twinkling light. One of his owl feathers floated toward the ground, disappearing into vapor as it fell. He smiled too. She bent down to pick up the book, and then hid with him behind shelves and pillars, watching and following as the children made their way to the back of the library. Daireth had brought paper and pencils with him in a small stringed sack, and set them out as Airaine selected a couple of books. She soon returned, handing one to Daireth as she curled up in the arm of the couch beside him, glancing at him every once in a while, briefly, but repeatedly.

  “So…I was thinking,” she heard Azaryah’s voice softly murmur. “We’ll probably have to admit what happened. And ask one of our brother or sister Avad’im to find and watch Bertie, and make sure he doesn’t get himself into trouble with the book. Maybe even Sapha. I hope one of them can get it back.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” She rubbed the book gently with her thumb, then turned and held the King’s journal out to him again. “In the meantime, you’d better start thinking of a very non-tacky way to get this to Graedin.” He slowly smiled, accepting it. “He’ll treasure this book even more than his own. And once the children know who this belonged to, I know they’ll treasure it, too.”

  Azaryah’s smile grew even warmer. Then he turned to watch the children below them, nodding in thought to himself. Devirah looked through the windows to the sky. After a few moments, she touched her friend’s shoulder. When he looked at her, she pointed out the window. He looked, and his smile deepened. Then she turned back with him, her heart full again as she admired the black mountains, the strip of pale gold above them to the east, and far above, the bright morning star shining down over them all.

  In The Fowler’s Snare

  Graedin shot out of bed, whipped his sword out of its sheath in one fluid motion, and sat heaving in air. His sheath hit the wall and clattered onto the floor. But even after that, as he slowly realized it was silent now, he kept listening—listening, as if he could hear the whispers of the dead.

  He waited, his heart unwilling to calm its tempo. The screams—they sounded so real. So desperate. But no one was here. He was alone, in the same room he’d stayed in for three weeks, safe. His pack was on top of the wooden dresser, his chain mail draped on the chair, and he recognized the sparse military furnishings. The memories of the past were gone. The fears he had of the future hadn’t mat
erialized. It had to have been a dream.

  Tears began swimming in his eyes, and he could feel his body begin trembling. Daireth was alive. Airaine was alive. Their screams had been a dream. The others he’d dreamed of, however…no, he’d never heard their screams. The massacre—was it only a decade ago?—it was so strong still. The dreams never faded in intensity nor frequency, but he never heard the screams of those he had…Graedin choked, hastily rubbing his cheeks with one sleeve. They were gone. But not Daireth. Not Airaine. They were safe.

  But as he sat breathing, he realized something. His ears were ringing. Could a dream cause his ears to ring? He stuck a finger in one ear and wiggled it around. But still, they rang. They even felt a bit tender, as if he were still a young man who still possessed sensitive ears. It seemed rather strange that a dream could have that kind of effect even on his physical body. No, surely not. That surely couldn’t happen. Surely it was ridiculous to—and he jumped violently in the bed, gasping in air, as a burst of sound shattered the silence.

  No. That was no dream. The screams were real.

  Graedin tore back the blankets, jumped up, dropped his sword on his bed, ripped off his sleeping clothes, and dressed as swiftly as he could. He stumbled as he tried to hurry, wondering when the keening would end. His joints ached and his ever-thinning skin trembled in the cold air, all protesting sudden use. He stumbled a few times, trying desperately to move faster as the keening carried on, dying off briefly only to return with fresh misery. He was pulling on his chain mail shirt just as his door banged open, and he jumped again. “Captain,” a voice gasped, and Lieutenant Earren Hart stumbling into the room. “It’s coming from the south east.”