The Shadow of What Was Lost

by James Islington

  Eventually he sighed. “You’re right. The thought of you in charge of anything is terrifying.” He exchanged a brief grin with Wirr, then shrugged. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. From what I understand, the Vessel that created the Tenets can only be used to change them if King Andras and one of the Gifted work together. And everyone knows that King Andras won’t trust any of the Gifted enough to do that.”

  Wirr nodded. “True. Still an interesting exercise, though.”

  Davian inclined his head, suddenly realizing that the conversation had—finally—taken his thoughts away from earlier events.

  “That box of yours still glowing?” asked Wirr, changing the subject.

  Davian had almost forgotten about the Vessel after the events of the evening. He took it out of his pocket, half-blinded by the sudden light in the darkness. He’d seen the iridescent symbol several times over the past few days, but it had always been inconsistent, often fading even as he examined it. It had been only this morning that the glowing lines had become stronger, more constant, though still emanating from just a single face of the cube.

  He turned the box slowly. A different face lit up with the wolf’s image. He turned it again, this time back to how he had originally been holding it. The first side lit up once more.

  “You still can’t see it?” he asked Wirr.

  “No,” said Wirr, sounding worried. Davian couldn’t blame him. The symbol was undoubtedly being generated by Essence; for it to be visible only to Davian should have been impossible.

  Davian twisted the box vertically; again the face that had been lit faded, and a new face became illuminated. He ran his fingers over the engravings. Was it a puzzle? An indication of how to open the box, or something else? He shook it gently, but as always, nothing shifted. It was either empty, or it was completely solid, or whatever was inside was securely packed in.

  He tapped the side showing the symbol. It was warm to the touch; when his finger made contact with the metal, the tip disappeared into a nimbus of white light. Aside from the heat, though, there were no sensations. Certainly nothing to help him figure out the box’s purpose.

  Frustrated, he tossed it in the air, spinning it as he did so that the edges blurred together.

  He frowned as he caught it. Had he just seen…?

  He tossed it again, this time higher, spinning the box so viciously that it appeared more of a cylinder than a cube. He snatched it out of the air with an excited grin, then repeated the action. A thought began to form, small at first but quickly growing until he became certain.

  He tossed the cube upward one last time, laughing.

  Wirr squinted, watching him with a worried expression. “Are you… all right, Dav?”

  Davian came to a stop, then held up the cube in front of Wirr’s confused face.

  “I’m better than all right,” he said triumphantly. “I know where we’re supposed to be going.”

  Chapter 11

  “You’re sure about this?” asked Wirr, trying unsuccessfully to keep the doubt from his voice.

  “I am.” Davian did his best to sound confident, though inwardly the certainty of last night had faded a little. They had walked all morning before reaching the crossroads at which they now stood. If they continued along the road to the north, they would keep heading toward Thrindar. If they accepted Davian’s theory, though, they would turn east, heading into the Malacar forest and away from civilization.

  The bronze box was actually a Wayfinder. It had to be. Davian had read about them once, years earlier—one object attuned to another, a Vessel that acted as a sort of compass, always pointing to its counterpart.

  He rolled the cube in his hands. Currently, no matter which way it was turned, it was the side facing east that lit up with the wolf symbol. It made sense. Ilseth had said that it would guide him to the sig’nari when the time came. It had to be the right explanation.

  The only problem was, as Wirr had dubiously pointed out, that the art to making Wayfinders had been lost centuries earlier. That—combined with Wirr’s continuing inability to see the glow at all—left Davian with more uncertainty than he was entirely comfortable with.

  There was a long pause as the two boys contemplated the different roads. Then Wirr gave the slightest of shrugs.

  “I trust you,” he said. There was no mocking or query in his voice.

  Davian shot him a grateful look, and they set off eastward without another word.

  * * *

  The road leading to the Malacar forest was much quieter than the one they had been traveling for the past few days, and as a result the tension that had been sitting constantly between Davian’s shoulders began to loosen. The weather was fine but not too warm, and he and Wirr made good time as they traveled in comfortable, companionable silence.

  Idly he wondered again how Asha had reacted to their leaving. It was something that had been on his mind a lot over the past few weeks; every time he tried to put himself in her shoes he felt a stab of guilt, knowing that if their positions were reversed he would feel concern, confusion, maybe even a sense of betrayal. He wondered what she was doing that very moment—she was probably in a lesson, if everything had returned to normal after the Athian Elders had left.

  He sighed to himself. As much as he missed her, it was better that she was at Caladel, safe from the dangers he and Wirr were facing.

  He looked around. They had reached the edge of the Malacar; open fields were quickly being replaced by tall, thick-trunked trees. Soon the road was canopied by foliage overhead, with only a few stray rays of sunlight slipping through the cover and reaching the road itself. Still, the forest had a cheerful, airy feel to it, unlike much of the menacing jungle they had been forced to navigate so far on their journey. The trees were spaced far enough apart that visibility was high, and undergrowth was minimal.

  Davian and Wirr were chatting amiably, the sun finally threatening to slip below the horizon, when Davian frowned and came to an abrupt stop.

  Wirr took a few extra steps before realizing his friend had halted. “Tired already?”

  Davian shook his head, reaching into his pocket and almost jerking his hand back out again when he felt the heat of the Vessel inside. Cautiously he pulled the box out. It was like touching a stone that had sat too long in the sun; it was possible to hold, but only delicately, and even then he had to change his grip every couple of seconds to keep the heat from becoming too much.

  He held it away from his body, trying to examine it. The glow was so bright now that the wolf symbol was impossible to make out.

  “I think we’re close,” he said.

  Wirr stared at the box, his expression troubled. “If you say so,” he said with a sigh. “Is it still pointing east?”

  Davian squinted for a moment, then nodded.

  “Then I suppose we keep going that way until it says otherwise.”

  They walked on for a few minutes, the heat from the bronze Vessel becoming uncomfortable even through the rough cloth of Davian’s trousers. He was considering asking Wirr to hold it for him when they rounded a curve in the road and came to an abrupt, jarring halt.

  Ahead, in a clearing just off the road itself, a group of soldiers in the livery of Desriel were setting up camp. At first glance there looked to be about ten of them, each one with the telltale glint of a Finder on his wrist. A couple of the soldiers looked up, noticing them.

  “Keep walking,” Wirr said softly. “Worst thing we can do right now is look scared.”

  Davian forced his legs to move, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. They had seen Desrielite soldiers before, but not so close and certainly not such a large group of them. Davian’s mouth was dry, and he felt a strange combination of chills and sweat. He knew the blood had drained from his face; he tried to keep his breathing even, getting himself slowly back under control. The soldiers were looking at them, but none had moved to stop them. It was fine. Just keep walking.

  Wirr gave the soldiers a friendl
y wave as they passed and a few nodded in polite response, apparently satisfied they were simply travelers and posed no threat. Even in his terrified state, Davian couldn’t help but be impressed by Wirr’s poise. His friend looked as though nothing were amiss; he strolled, meandered, as if simply enjoying the warmth of the afternoon.

  Thankfully, the next bend in the road was only a hundred feet away. Within a minute the soldiers were obscured from view once again.

  As soon as the boys were certain they were out of sight, they stopped. Davian bent over with his hands on his knees, releasing a long, slow breath, then almost laughing aloud as relief washed over him. Wirr let out a similarly deep breath, holding out his hands out for Davian to see. They were trembling.

  “You did well back there, Dav,” said Wirr seriously, facade dropping. He now looked as shaken as Davian felt. “You looked almost happy to see them.”

  Davian laughed. “Me? I would have turned tail and run if you hadn’t kept your head,” he said, a little giddily. “It took everything I had not to turn around, but you just strolled on past like you owned the El-cursed forest.” He rubbed his face, repressing what probably would have come out as a maniacal giggle.

  Wirr clapped him on the back. “Well, we’re past, at any rate.”

  After taking sufficient time to recover their wits, they kept moving. Before a minute had gone by, though, Davian stopped again. Something was wrong; the warmth of the Vessel had begun to fade.

  Alarmed, he dug into his pocket and pulled it out, examining the bronzed surface with narrowed eyes. Then he groaned, twisting the box in his hand a few times, vainly hoping he was mistaken.

  “What is it?” Wirr asked.

  Davian bit his lip. “It’s pointing back the other way.”

  “Towards the soldiers?”

  Davian hesitated, then nodded. “Towards the soldiers.”

  Wirr let out a low string of violent curses that Davian had never heard him use before. Then he took a few deep breaths to compose himself.

  “Of course it is,” he said calmly.

  * * *

  By the time the two boys had made their way back to within view of the soldiers’ camp—using the surrounding brush as cover—the sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving only a dull pink glow in its wake.

  They were no more than a hundred feet away, but the deepening shadows made for easy concealment so long as they made no sudden movements. From Davian’s prone position he could see the entire camp, which appeared neat and orderly. Most of the soldiers sat chatting and laughing around a small fire; a pair of sentries sat halfway between the fire and the road, their backs to the flames.

  Closer to the others but still set apart, another man reclined against a small covered wagon. As Davian watched, the man peered through a narrow window at the front of the wagon, saying something in a low voice and then spitting inside. A soldier by the fire who was watching him just laughed.

  From the men’s demeanor, no one thought an attack was likely. The pair of sentries were dicing, only intermittently glancing toward the road to look for signs of movement. The man by the wagon appeared half-asleep as he listened to his companions’ conversation, stirring only to call out an occasional comment to them.

  Still, it looked as if someone would be awake the entire night. Whatever the Wayfinder was leading Davian to, it would be difficult to retrieve.

  Wirr shifted beside him. “So what exactly are we looking for?” he whispered. “I can’t imagine the sig’nari would be keeping company with this lot.”

  “I’m not sure,” admitted Davian. He frowned, scanning the camp. There was little doubt that the Wayfinder was pointing to something here—the heat emanating from his pocket had become uncomfortable again as they had drawn closer. Could one of the sig’nari really be hiding among a group of Desrielite soldiers? Or had the Wayfinder’s counterpart object somehow been found, or stolen, by these men? He tried not to think about the implications of the latter.

  Wirr shifted position again, peering through the brush. “Perhaps in the wagon?” he suggested.

  Davian squinted, trying to better see the wagon. It was solidly built, more so than normal; instead of the traditional canvas roof it had one of sturdy wood, making it look like a large box on wheels. The only window visible was a small slit at the front, crisscrossed with thick steel bars that glinted in the firelight.

  After a moment Davian realized that a heavy wooden beam lay across the door, clearly to prevent anyone on the inside from getting out.

  “You’re right,” he said, biting his lip. “Whoever we’re looking for must be locked in there.”

  “Wonderful.” Wirr sighed but didn’t dispute Davian’s statement, evidently having come to the same conclusion himself. “We’ve come this far. I suppose we’re going to try and get them out?”

  Davian stared at the armed soldiers for a few seconds.

  “I suppose we are,” he said reluctantly.

  * * *

  They spent the next few hours waiting, whispering to each other only when necessary.

  Eventually the soldiers around the campfire began drifting one by one to their tents, soon followed by the pair of men who had been keeping watch on the road. The fire died down to little more than glowing embers, then was doused entirely by the last soldier to retire. A heavy silence fell over the camp, broken only by the occasional sound of the lone sentry by the wagon muttering to himself.

  “They don’t seem too worried about being attacked,” said Davian, keeping his voice low.

  Wirr nodded. “They’re Desrielite soldiers. I’d doubt even the bandits around here would be desperate enough to get on the wrong side of the Gil’shar,” he whispered back.

  Davian rubbed his hands together nervously. “So how do we go about this?”

  Wirr bit a fingernail. “I suppose we sneak up on the guard, knock him out, and try and get into that wagon before anyone else wakes up,” he said, sounding more uncertain than Davian would have liked. “Then we disappear back into the forest.”

  Davian grimaced. “There’s nothing you can do with the Gift to make it a little less… risky?”

  Wirr shook his head. “I thought about that, but there isn’t. The First and Second Tenets will stop me from hurting them, or binding them, or putting them all to sleep, or anything useful at all really. Best I can probably do is open that wagon door in a hurry, if we need to.”

  Davian grunted. “We’re in trouble if it comes to that. We’re going to need as much of a head start as we can get.”

  “Malacar’s a big forest, and I know how to cover a trail,” Wirr reassured him. “Unless they’re right on our heels, we should be fine.”

  Davian acknowledged the statement with a terse nod, though he felt anything but fine as he gazed at the darkened camp. Still, they had come this far. If they could just make contact with the sig’nari, there would surely be a way out.

  Without any further discussion, Davian and Wirr made their way around the edge of the clearing, Davian wincing each time his foot found a dry twig. Soon they were positioned as near as they dared come to the wagon, fifty or so feet away. The camp was cloaked in darkness; there was only a sliver of moon tonight, and clouds moved sporadically across even that. In the dim light the wagon, tents, and sentry were little more than vague shapes against the darker backdrop of the forest beyond.

  Wirr glanced across at Davian, who nodded grimly, trying to ignore his pounding heart. The men in their tents should be asleep by now. It was as good a time as any to begin.

  They stole forward at a slow, crouched jog, approaching the wagon from an oblique angle, out of the guard’s eye line. Wirr had located a sturdy tree branch a few minutes earlier; holding it like a club, he slipped around the side of the wagon in front of Davian. There was a dull crunching sound, followed by a heavy thud.

  Davian cautiously rejoined his friend and they stood stock-still for a few seconds, holding their breaths as they listened for cries of alarm from the tents. Non
e came.

  Nodding to Wirr, Davian crept forward, moving as lightly as he could. He ignored the motionless sentry, examining the door to the wagon.

  The latch mechanism was sturdy, but simple enough. He cast another nervous glance back toward the tents. Wirr raised an eyebrow at him, but Davian made a quick motion with his hands, indicating that everything was under control. No need for Wirr to use Essence just yet.

  Barely daring to breathe, he undid the latch and slowly raised the thick wooden bar holding the door in place. It was well oiled and slid upward easily, with none of the squeaking Davian had feared. He pulled the small door open and climbed the stairs, peering inside into the gloom.

  If it was dim outside, the interior of the wagon was pitch-black. Davian stood at the doorway for a moment, squinting, gagging a little at the smell as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the murk. He had to bend almost double to avoid hitting his head against the roof once inside; he eventually knelt, nearly jerking up again when he discovered there was a pool of moisture on the floor. He wrinkled his nose, praying that it was just water.

  He could just make out a figure slumped against the far wall of the wagon. It shifted and he realized that the prisoner was awake, watching him.

  Davian crawled toward them.

  “I’m here to help,” he whispered. “Ilseth Tenvar sent me.”

  There was a long silence, and then the figure shifted again. The clanking of chains made Davian’s heart sink; he spun as fast as he could on his hands and knees, peering out the door. The camp was still silent.

  He exited, crept around to where the guard lay, then hastily patted him down until he heard the faint jingle of keys. Davian grabbed them from the soldier’s pocket and hurried back into the wagon.

  His eyes were able to adjust quickly this time, and he drew up short as he took in the condition of the man he was trying to free. Massive bruises covered his entire face with ugly discolored splotches; one eye was swollen shut, and his lip was split in more than one place. Dried blood was smeared down the left side of his head and neck from an older wound, staining a tunic that had been torn so much that it was now little more than a rag. More bruises were evident through the tears in his clothing, as well as a Shackle gleaming darkly on his left arm; the man’s breath was labored, but he was watching Davian closely and at least seemed to be aware of what was going on.