Anaar gave him a confused look, then shook his head as if to clear it. The smuggler turned away, and Davian released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Whatever had just happened—if something had just happened, and it hadn’t been Davian’s imagination—Anaar was unaware of it.
Soon they were in the tiny craft, Anaar and Olsar pulling with long, practiced strokes toward the opposite shore. Davian’s fear that the vessel would be taken by the currents proved unfounded. Both smugglers rowed with power and precision as they angled against the flow of the river, their progress gradual but steady. For a while Davian wondered if they would be able to keep up such a hard pace, but eventually he began to relax. Neither man appeared close to tiring.
The shore on the Desriel side of the river grew slowly larger. The only sounds were the slight splashes of oars dipping beneath the Devliss’s surface, the gentle creaking of the timbers, and the occasional warbling of waterfowl singing softly into the night.
Davian felt every muscle tense as individual trees resolved themselves out of the shadowy mass ahead. Whatever the danger had been over the past three weeks, the moment they stepped onto that shore it would be increased tenfold.
The boat finally ground into the soft, muddy bank; Olsar slipped out, barely making a splash, and dragged the craft out of the water with the others still sitting in it. Davian marveled at the man’s strength. Anaar was at least short of breath from the constant rowing, but Olsar was to all appearances unaffected.
Unlike the sand of the Andarran shore, there was only a muddy embankment where they had landed. Wincing as his feet sank into the soft mud—the shoes he wore were his only pair—Davian scrambled up the riverbank and into the long grass, exchanging relieved glances with Wirr. It seemed that their arrival had gone undetected.
Anaar soon joined them. He stood for a few seconds, listening to the sounds of the forest. Apparently satisfied, he put his fingers to his mouth and gave a low, musical whistle.
Shadows stirred from deeper in the trees and two burly men emerged from the darkness, silently taking up positions behind the boys, their swords held at the ready.
Davian’s stomach twisted as he realized they had been betrayed.
“What is this?” hissed Wirr, rounding on Anaar.
“Business,” replied Anaar, spreading his hands apologetically. “I am in a position to renegotiate our deal, and as such, I have decided that the price is a little higher than was originally discussed.”
There was a long silence. “You mean all of it,” said Wirr eventually, resignation in his tone.
“I am afraid so,” said Anaar with a nod. He held up a cautionary finger. “And I know the First Tenet means you cannot hurt us, but please also remember what I said about the soldiers around here. They are very enthusiastic about their work. Try and escape us using your powers, and you will bring down a hundred times worse on your heads. You doubtless feel like you are getting the raw end of this bargain, but I am sure a few extra coins are not worth your lives.”
Davian scowled at the smuggler. “How do we know you won’t just kill us once you have the gold?” he asked, trying to keep his voice low.
Anaar smiled. “I did give you my word. Besides, if that were my intention, would I not just kill you and take the gold from your bodies? No,” he chided. “Too much mess to clean up. My men will take your payment by force if need be—but if you cooperate, you have my word that there will be no violence.”
Davian considered Anaar for a moment. The man wasn’t lying, exactly, and yet… something didn’t ring true.
“But you don’t want us to use Essence, either,” he said slowly. “If we do, it won’t give you enough time to get out of crossbow range before the patrol gets here. That’s why you haven’t tried to kill us. It isn’t worth the risk of our retaliating.”
Anaar shook his head, still relaxed. “Nonsense. Even if the patrol runs here, we have plenty of time to get away.”
Again Anaar was telling the truth and yet Davian saw the man standing behind Wirr shift, looking uneasy. It was all the encouragement he needed.
Taking a deep breath he plowed on, ignoring Wirr’s warning glance. “But you won’t have time to cover your tracks. This has to be the only place to cross the Devliss by boat in, what… a hundred miles?” He crossed his arms. “The Gil’shar are obviously already aware it’s possible, seeing as they have a patrol passing so close by. If they found any sign the crossing was being used—especially if they thought Gifted were using it—well, I imagine that would make undertaking your business far more difficult. Impossible, one might say.”
Anaar’s face darkened. “Use Essence, and I will kill you,” he promised.
“Try to kill us, and we’ll use Essence,” responded Davian. “Look, we’re going to need to eat. Just let us keep a few of the coins. It’s not worth risking the profits of your entire operation here, is it?”
Anaar stared at Davian stonily for a few moments, then barked a low laugh.
“Clever boy,” he murmured, a touch of reluctant admiration in his voice. “You have nerve, I will give you that. Very well. Take three coins for yourself, then toss me the rest.”
Davian nodded; he wasn’t willing to push the issue further. He drew the small leather pouch from his pocket, drew three coins out, and tossed it to Anaar. The smuggler caught it neatly and opened it to look inside. There were a tense few moments as he examined the contents, and Davian felt sure he was about to ask for the bronze box as well.
Then Anaar drew the strings on the pouch, giving a satisfied nod. “It seems our business here is complete.”
The smuggler gave an absent wave to the two men behind Wirr and Davian, who moved toward the boat without a word. One of them was carrying a crate of something heavy, which he placed gently in the stern—no doubt whatever goods Anaar was illegally transporting back to Andarra—and soon they were dragging the boat back into the water.
Anaar hesitated as the boat bobbed away, then dug into the pouch he’d taken and flicked another coin toward them. Davian caught it before it disappeared into the long grass. It was gold.
He stared at the coin in surprise, then looked up at the smuggler again. Anaar gave him a brief, impish grin, then turned back to face the Andarran shore before Davian could respond.
“That was quick thinking, Dav,” Wirr said after a few seconds, watching the boat pull away from the shore. “Risky, but quick.”
“Thanks.” Davian exhaled heavily, finally feeling able to breathe again.
“We should get moving. The further we get from here in the next hour or two, the better.”
“Agreed.”
Wirr turned and headed into the forest, Davian trailing after him. In seconds the thick foliage had hidden the boat, river, and distant shore of Andarra from view.
They walked as fast as they dared, careful not to leave too obvious a trail behind them. It was unlikely a Desrielite patrol would notice their passing, but there was no reason to take the chance.
They moved with silent determination for the first hour or so, neither willing to make more sound than the snapping of twigs and rustling of leaves underfoot, which alone were still thunderous in the hush of the night. After a while Wirr slowed to a stop in a copse of tall trees, looked around cautiously, and then indicated a fallen log.
“We should rest,” he said, a little out of breath.
Davian nodded his acquiescence; he was not as fit as Wirr, and was feeling the fast pace. Wirr was doubtless tapping his Reserve for extra energy, too. His friend had assured him that it was safe to do so—that so long as the Essence remained within his own body, it could not be detected by Finders. More than ever, Davian hoped Wirr knew what he was talking about.
Wirr sat on the log, then began unlacing his boot.
“What are you doing?” asked Davian, sitting beside him.
Wirr upended the boot, holding out his hand. There was a jingling sound, and then five silver coins slid into his palm, glinting in t
he moonlight.
Davian stared at them for a few moments. “You thought something like this might happen,” he said eventually, not knowing whether to be impressed or irritated.
Wirr shrugged. “He was a smuggler, Dav. Not exactly an honest line of work.” He sighed. “Part of me wishes I’d taken gold instead of silver, but there would have been trouble if the purse had been too light. At least between the two of us, we’ve saved enough to keep us going for now.”
They sat in contemplative silence for a time. “It looks like he didn’t know about the Vessel after all,” Wirr remarked suddenly.
“Maybe.” Davian wasn’t convinced. He’d had a chance to think during their walk through the forest—to ponder that moment on the Andarran shore of the Devliss, when he had shaken hands with Anaar. He hadn’t imagined that fleeting look the smuggler had cast toward his pocket.
Wirr picked up on his doubt. “He wouldn’t have left it with us if he’d known,” he said. “It’s probably worth ten times what he took. I think he would have risked killing us for it, to be honest.”
Davian hesitated. “On the beach, just before we cast off. I think, maybe…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I think I did something to him. Maybe made him forget, somehow.”
Wirr raised an eyebrow. “I see.” From his tone he clearly didn’t.
Davian scrunched up his face, trying to think of how best to explain. “It felt a little like when I see someone lying.”
Wirr frowned, looking only a little less skeptical. “I imagine it’s possible,” he said after a while. “The Augurs were supposed to be able to do all sorts of things. But if you’re not sure that’s what happened… well, I wouldn’t get too excited about it.” He clapped Davian on the back.
Davian nodded, letting the matter drop. Wirr was probably right. Still… something had happened. He was sure of it.
After a few minutes they stood, brushing away the scraps of bark that still clung to their clothing.
Without further conversation they continued northward into Desriel.
Chapter 8
Asha rode in silence.
She stared around listlessly as they made their way along Fedris Idri. The sole pass into Andarra’s capital cut through the mountain in a narrow, surgically straight line; sheer cliffs towered hundreds of feet on either side, their dark-brown rock flat and smooth, polished to an almost glass-like sheen by the ancient power of the Builders.
The famous sight should have filled her with wonder, but instead she felt nothing except the stares of people passing by. Most looked away if she turned to face them, though some met her gaze, openly disgusted or fascinated. And how could she blame them? She had seen her own reflection many times in the past few weeks since leaving Caladel, and the black lines across her face, radiating like burst veins from her eyes, would give anyone pause.
She was a Shadow now, a broken Gifted. A rare, harmless, ugly curiosity.
Ignoring the stares as best she could, Asha unconsciously touched her left forearm again as she moved forward, the feeling of smooth skin there still alien even after three weeks. Her Mark had begun fading that first day on the road, and now had all but disappeared.
She hadn’t known that would happen, but in retrospect she supposed it made sense. If she was no longer able to use the Gift, then she was no longer bound by the Tenets, either.
“We’re almost there, Ashalia.”
The voice cut through her thoughts, and she turned to face Elder Tenvar.
“And then you’ll explain? Tell me why I’m here? Why I’m… like this?” She gestured to her face. Even after three weeks of asking the same questions, she couldn’t keep the ice from her tone.
“Everything.” Ilseth gave her a sympathetic look. “I know… I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you. How frustrating. But you’ll understand when we reach Tol Athian. You have my word.”
Asha nodded curtly; she’d heard the same promise a hundred times since waking up on a horse outside Caladel, but even now she wasn’t sure she believed it. Elder Tenvar, Elder Kien, Elder Kasperan—none had been willing to part with even a hint as to what had happened. She’d pleaded with them… railed at them… none of it had made a difference. She still didn’t know whether to be eager or terrified to find out the truth.
She blinked in the sudden sunlight as they passed through the final of the three Fedris Idri gates; the narrow road came to an abrupt end, and then Asha was staring down into Ilin Illan itself.
In stark contrast to Fedris Idri’s cool, enclosed dimness, the city was bright, cheerful, alive. It spread away from their position outward and downward; the incline was steep enough to show everything at a glance, but not so steep as to give Asha even a hint of vertigo. The elegant white-stone buildings stretched far into the distance, beyond which she could make out the sails of ships as they came and left the massive harbor. Past even those, the crystalline blue waters of the Naminar River glittered in the afternoon sun.
To Asha’s right and left, the massive brown-black cliffs of Ilin Tora extended away like two outstretched arms, enveloping the entire city in their embrace. From what she could see, she suspected that nowhere did the tops of the sheer rock walls come closer than a hundred feet to the tops of the buildings.
Even through her turbulent emotions, Asha couldn’t help but be impressed.
Elder Kien murmured something to Ilseth and then was off down a side street, evidently about some other business. The two remaining Elders left Asha little time for taking in the view, moving quickly along a wide road to the right, parallel to the looming cliffs.
They rode for only a few minutes before the crowds began to thin, soon reaching a massive iron gate set into the cliff face. At least twenty feet high and wide enough to fit ten men walking side by side, it was closed, guarded by two men whose red cloaks stood in stark relief against the gray metal.
One of them nodded in recognition to Ilseth before pressing his palm against the shining metal surface. Slowly and soundlessly the gate swung open.
Ilseth turned to Asha, gesturing for her to dismount.
“Welcome to Tol Athian, Ashalia,” he said quietly.
* * *
The Tol was darker than Asha had envisaged.
Carved into the bedrock of Ilin Tora, the enormous central tunnel was lit by several lines of pure Essence pulsing along the roof, which sat at least fifty feet above the floor. Other, smaller tunnels branched off at regular intervals; these were illuminated by only a single line of Essence each, but their smaller sizes meant that they were better lit.
Gifted hurried to and from those tunnels in a flurry of red. Under normal circumstances Asha would have been astonished at the scene—there were more Gifted in front of her than she had ever seen before in one place—but today she barely noticed. Her sense of anticipation was growing stronger with every step. After three long weeks, she was finally going to find out what was going on.
She trailed after Ilseth and Kasperan, a mixture of excitement and nervousness building in her stomach. Soon they were heading down one of the smaller passageways, eventually coming to a door manned by two bored-looking guards.
“The Council have been waiting for you, Elder Tenvar,” said one of them when he spotted the group, opening the door and gesturing for them to enter. Asha caught the other one staring at her; she held his gaze steadily until he dropped his eyes, looking slightly abashed. She walked past him without saying anything.
Through the door another short passageway led out onto a large circular floor. Two long rows of seats overlooked it; in those seats about a dozen red-cloaked Gifted—members of the Athian Council, presumably—paused in their conversations and peered down at her and her escorts.
“We should begin,” announced a wiry older man with commanding hazel eyes. He hadn’t shouted but the acoustics amplified his voice, carrying it clearly to everyone present. Once he was sure he had the attention of the room, he leaned forward in his chair, staring down at them intently
.
“Finally. You have some explaining to do, Ilseth.”
Ilseth inclined his head in deference. “Nashrel. You received my message?”
“The pigeon arrived two weeks ago,” replied Nashrel. “Though I cannot say it explained much.” His tone was reproachful.
“I apologize for that,” said Ilseth respectfully. “I thought it best to be… discreet.”
Nashrel nodded. “Of course,” he said, though from his tone he was still clearly displeased. “So. You were unable to find him?”
“That’s correct,” confirmed Ilseth, casting an uncertain glance in Asha’s direction. She immediately got the impression that this was not a conversation meant for her ears.
The Elder nodded, as if he had expected the answer. “Fortunately that does not matter a great deal. We have a Trace.”
Ilseth’s attention snapped back to the Council members. “A Trace? Surely it would be wiser to—”
“It is already done, Ilseth.” Nashrel waved away Ilseth’s obvious alarm. “No need for concern. They have been instructed not to harm anyone.”
The other Council members had thus far remained silent, but now a woman to Nashrel’s left spoke up. “Perhaps there are some other matters that should be discussed first?” she suggested to Nashrel politely. “So that our young guest can… get some rest?”
Nashrel nodded, for the first time seeming to register that Asha was in the room. “Ah. Yes, you’re right,” he said, shaking his head as if surprised at his own absentmindedness. He studied Asha’s features. “What is your name, girl?”
Asha started, for some reason surprised at being addressed directly. “Ashalia,” she replied, trying to sound duly respectful. Despite her efforts, her tone held a sharp edge.
Nashrel appeared to take no offense. “What do you remember of the attack, Ashalia?”
Asha frowned in confusion, silent for a few moments. “Attack? All I know is that I went to sleep one night, and the next thing I remember, I was sitting in front of Elder Kasperan on a horse, halfway to Jereth and like this.” She gestured coldly to her face.
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