The Shadow of What Was Lost

by James Islington

  As the two men considered each other, Davian absently touched the Vessel in his pocket, his finger brushing the metallic surface of the box. He paused. Near the manacle on the stranger’s right wrist, a glow had appeared—gone again in an instant, but distinctive against the darkness.

  Davian put his finger against the Vessel again, frowning, ignoring the uncomfortable heat. The same light flared to life. He leaned forward for a closer look as the glow faded once again, then nodded to himself.

  The wolf symbol was tattooed in thin black lines on the prisoner’s wrist. This was definitely whom he had been sent to find.

  There were only three keys on the ring, and the second one fit the keyhole. The lock fell open with a sharp click, and Davian thought he saw what looked like gratitude sweep over the man’s face, though it was replaced instantly by a scowl of pain as he tried to move his weight.

  “Can you walk?” Davian whispered.

  The man nodded; levering himself up through what looked like sheer force of will, he crawled toward the door. Davian helped him out of the wagon, wincing at the stranger’s condition. In the moonlight the man’s injuries looked even worse. Davian marveled that he still had the strength to stand.

  Suddenly there was a shout from within the cluster of tents. Davian’s heart lurched.

  Wirr, who was waiting for them outside, blanched when he saw the stranger’s poor condition but made no comment. “They know we’re here,” he said, tone urgent as other shouts answered the first. “We need to go.”

  Davian looked at him, dismayed. “We’re not going to get far.”

  “We have to try.”

  Time seemed to slow as Wirr grabbed one of the stranger’s arms and Davian the other; they ran awkwardly toward the forest as soldiers burst from their tents, swords at the ready.

  Deep down Davian knew it was over. Had they been alone, they might have been able to disappear in the forest. Carrying the prisoner, they wouldn’t make it more than fifty feet before they were caught.

  The man between them sagged onto Davian as Wirr dropped him, spinning to face the oncoming soldiers. He stretched out his hands; blinding white cords snaked forth from them, speeding outward. Davian steadied the injured man and then turned, too, watching in mute fascination as the Finders on the soldiers’ wrists lit up a sharp blue.

  Davian wasn’t sure what Wirr was attempting to do—the Tenets restricted him from doing much that could help now—but even through his panic, he couldn’t help but be impressed. He’d always known Wirr was strong, but had never seen him use all his power at once, which he must surely be doing now. It was more energy in one burst than Davian had ever seen.

  And it was for naught. The last of Davian’s hope vanished as the threads of light struck an invisible barrier around the soldiers, evaporating before they got within a few feet. At least one of the men had a Trap, then, too—a device that dissipated all Essence within its radius. Whatever Wirr had been trying to do, it had never had a chance of succeeding.

  Just as the soldiers were almost upon them, the clearing exploded in white light, the force of the blast knocking Davian to the ground.

  The impact stole the breath from his lungs, and for a few moments he just lay there on his stomach, gasping for air and trying to make sense of what was happening. Had Wirr tried something else, something new? However much power he had been using the first time, this was ten times more. A hundred.

  His vision cleared. The soldiers were moving again, getting to their feet, dazed but apparently unharmed. It took Davian a few seconds to spot the figure behind them, shrouded in a cloak so black that it actually stood out against the darkness. It paused there for a moment, motionless. Watching.

  Then it moved.

  It glided rather than walked forward. Davian’s blood froze; it made no sound but it had a sinuous menace, imparting a sense of heavy danger that made his legs feel like lead. The soldiers sensed it, too, turning away from the boys. Davian couldn’t see their faces, but their sharply drawn breaths were audible even from this distance.

  A disconnected part of Davian’s mind registered that all other sounds had stopped—everything from the nocturnal animals and birds to the chirping crickets and buzzing mosquitoes. It was as if the world were holding its breath.

  The figure flowed forward, difficult to follow in the darkness. It made a grasping motion with its hand as if pulling something from the air, and suddenly there was something coalescing, long and thin, as shadowy and indistinct as the figure itself. A dagger, Davian realized. Fear clenched him so tightly that he couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. Couldn’t shout, either in horror or in warning.

  The creature—Davian could not believe it was human—continued toward them, reaching the first soldier. Without pausing, it flicked out its arm as it passed. The action was casual, dismissive. Almost disdainful.

  The soldier fell silently, dark blood spraying from where his jugular had been opened. His body hit the grass with a soft thud.

  The sound finally snapped the other soldiers into motion; two scrambled for their swords while another held out a long, thin Trap with a trembling hand as if it were a ward against evil, the whites of his eyes visible. Still no one shouted, as if everyone feared that doing so would draw the creature’s attention.

  The scene had a surreal quality to it. Davian still couldn’t move. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as another soldier fell to the dagger, his bubbling final breath horrible in the hush. The third soldier took a wild swing at the creature, but his sword stopped in midair as if hitting a brick wall. He died like the other two.

  The creature’s trajectory was clear now. It was deviating slightly to remove the soldiers, but it was coming for the boys.

  The last soldier fell. It had all happened within the space of about ten seconds; the shadow was moving so fast that it was almost impossible to comprehend. It turned toward Davian, only a few feet away now. It was human at least in shape, its face hidden by a deep black hood. But its knife was not solid; it pulsed and faded with darkness, ethereal steel one second and translucent black glass the next.

  “Sha nashen tel. Erien des tu nashen tel,” it hissed. Its voice was deep and whispery, cold and angry. It spoke of something ancient and terrible, and Davian felt himself getting light-headed at the words.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he felt a massive charge of energy from behind him.

  Light roared past Davian and crashed into the creature. Not a beam, but a torrent. A river. It did not touch Davian, but he still felt as though he needed to grab on to something to keep from being swept away.

  It hit the creature squarely in the chest, and for the briefest of moments its face was illuminated. Its features were humanlike, but twisted almost beyond recognition. Its skin was bruised and sagging, its lips white and horribly scarred.

  Its eyes were recognizable, though. They were wide with what was very clearly surprise.

  Then the light stopped. When Davian’s sight returned, the creature was gone.

  Davian stood rooted to the spot for a few more seconds, his body refusing to believe it was over.

  Then with a shuddering chill he dropped to his knees, gasping for air. He’d thought he’d been afraid when the Hunters had caught them in Talmiel, and again when it had seemed that there was no escape from the Desrielite soldiers tonight. But this had been something else. It had been abject, crushing terror flowing through his veins. Now that it was gone, every part of his body felt tired, weak.

  He finally came to his senses enough to turn around. Wirr was sitting on the ground, too, hugging himself with his arms around his knees. Even in the dim light, Davian could tell his friend was white as a sheet.

  “That was amazing, Wirr,” said Davian, awe making his tone hushed. “I never imagined you had anywhere near that much power! It was like… a god! It was—”

  “I don’t.” Wirr cut him off, not bothering to look up. “I didn’t do anything. It was him.” He nodded toward the p
rone body lying a few feet away, the Shackle that had been around the stranger’s arm now embedded in the dirt next to him.

  The man they had rescued.

  For a moment Davian thought he was dead, but the slight rise and fall of the man’s chest reassured him.

  Davian watched a moment longer, then shook his head disbelievingly. “Look at him, Wirr. He’s barely breathing. He couldn’t have had enough Essence to light—”

  “It was him. The Shackle fell off when that last soldier died, and… it was him,” said Wirr. There was a finality to his tone that made Davian snap his mouth shut. He still wasn’t sure he believed his friend—not entirely—but now was not the time or place to argue. His wits returning, he staggered to his feet and then offered his hand to Wirr, helping him do the same.

  “They would have seen that in Thrindar,” he said.

  “They would have seen that in the Eastern Empire,” replied Wirr grimly. “Nothing for it. Let’s grab him and get moving.”

  “What about the soldiers? Shouldn’t we… bury them or something?” wondered Davian.

  Wirr shook his head. “There’s no time.” He rubbed his forehead. “Though it means that when they find the bodies, they’ll think we did this.”

  Davian shrugged. “It’s not like they can execute us more.”

  Wirr gave a slightly hysterical giggle at that, and suddenly they were both snorting with fits of nervous laughter, relief and shock finally finding an outlet.

  They were still chuckling when, from the darkness behind them, there was yet another flash of light.

  Then both Wirr and Davian were on their knees, their hands forced behind their backs. Thin, pulsating cords snaked around their wrists and ankles, binding them where they lay on the ground; another cord coiled around the unconscious man, tying him just as securely. Davian struggled against the bonds, laughter replaced in an instant by fear, but it was of no use.

  “I hope you two have a very good explanation for this,” a deep voice said behind them. The words were spoken calmly, but there was restrained anger in them.

  Davian tried to turn, but all of a sudden he felt exhausted, as though the strain of the last month were crashing down on him all at once. To his left he could hear Wirr yawning, too.

  The last thing he remembered was lying on the soft grass, and then a sharp white flash all around him before everything dimmed.

  He slept.

  Chapter 12

  Asha jerked at the handle once again, despite knowing the door was locked.

  She frowned around at the black stone walls of her cell, trying in vain to deduce what was going on. She’d still been reeling from the shock of Jin’s murder when she’d fallen asleep—or passed out, as the case may have been—but that had been on a couch in Shana’s house, surrounded by concerned Shadows and with no indication that she was in any trouble. Shana herself had already verified the presence of the Watcher; after that, everyone had seemed to accept that she wasn’t responsible for what had happened. If anything, they had all appeared concerned for her well-being.

  Something had changed in the meantime, though, because when she’d woken she had found herself here. Alone. The solid door locked, with apparently no one in earshot to hear her shouting.

  Frustrated, she bashed on the door with the palm of her hand, the sound echoing in the passageway beyond.

  “Hello? Is there anyone there?” she called.

  As before, there was no response, no indication that there was anyone nearby to hear her. She returned to her bed with a sigh. The room contained only the bed, a couple of chairs, and a table—nothing she could use to get free. There was little else to do but wait.

  She tried to distract herself while she lay there. Despite everything that had happened, she’d been impressed with the Sanctuary; the people living down here seemed like good, honest folk, and the efforts of the Shadraehin in creating the underground community were something she admired.

  And yet, as hard as she tried to focus on something positive, she kept drifting back to the moment the Watcher had appeared. Wondering how he’d known her name, puzzling over what he’d said to her. And then, each time, reliving Jin staring at her in terror as his life seeped away between his fingers.

  Maybe an hour had passed when there were echoing footsteps in the hallway outside, and a key rattled in the lock.

  Asha leaped to her feet as the door opened to admit a wiry-looking Shadow, a man with a thin face and a scruffy-looking beard. She stared at him in surprise. The oldest Shadows she’d ever seen were in their early thirties—those who had been among the first to fail their Trials after the war. The Treaty had a clause that amnestied any Gifted who had taken the tests prior to that… and yet the Shadow who stood opposite her was at least forty.

  The man smiled slightly when he saw her expression. “Older than you expected?”

  Asha flushed, caught off guard, and the man waved away her embarrassment apologetically. “It’s fine. Everybody has that reaction the first time. Please, sit,” he added, gesturing to one of the chairs. “We have much to discuss.”

  Asha remained standing. “Who are you?” She crossed her arms, noting the two men who were taking up positions to stand guard in the hallway. “Why am I a prisoner here?”

  The man raised an eyebrow, looking more amused than annoyed. “My name is Scyner, but everyone here calls me the Shadraehin. I suppose you could say I’m in charge of the Sanctuary. I’m the one whose responsibility it is to keep the people here safe.” He paused, leaning forward, and suddenly his eyes were hard. “And when someone comes into the Sanctuary and lies about their name, it raises questions about their trustworthiness. Ashalia.”

  Asha stared at the cool certainty in his eyes for a moment, then slowly moved across to the chair and sat.

  “Good. I’m glad we’re not wasting time with denials,” said Scyner, his cheerful demeanor returning in an instant.

  “How did you find out who I am?” she asked.

  The Shadraehin scratched at his beard. “We thought you may have been a spy for Administration, at first,” he admitted. “They’ve tried that before—offering Gifted who are about to become Shadows an opportunity, a ‘better’ life. But Administration had no record of any Lissa from Nalean at all, which didn’t make sense. Why bother to change your name? Why lie about where you’re from?”

  He reached into his pocket. “And then we put the pieces together. The timing. And we went through Administration’s records of the students from Caladel, and found the image of a young Gifted girl. Ashalia Chaedris.” He produced a piece of paper and unfolded it, holding it up for her to see. The sketch was a couple of years old now, from the last time one of Administration’s artists had come to Caladel, but it was still a good likeness.

  Asha gave a brief nod as she took in the image, for a moment feeling a stab of pain as she thought of the school, remembered when she’d sat for that picture. She switched her gaze back to the Shadraehin.

  “I was the only survivor,” she said quietly, seeing no advantage to concealing the truth. “I don’t know anything about what happened, but the Council thought I might be important somehow. They hid me in the Tol and asked me to lie about my name, to make sure Administration couldn’t find me.” She looked Scyner in the eye. “I didn’t mean you or your people any harm.”

  “And yet one of my good friends is dead.” Emotion flashed across the Shadraehin’s face, gone in an instant. He took a deep breath. “We will get to your situation shortly. First, though, I would very much like to hear what happened with Aelrith.”

  “That’s… the Watcher? The man who…?” Asha trailed off.

  “Yes,” said the Shadraehin. “Though whatever else he may be, he’s not a man.”

  Asha shivered a little but nodded, unsurprised by the comment. She related what had happened, stopping a couple of times as the emotion of the memory got the better of her. Once she had finished, the Shadraehin watched her for a few moments, considering.

&nb
sp; “I believe you,” he said eventually.

  Asha inclined her head, relieved; the last thing she needed was someone challenging her version of events. “Did you catch Aelrith?”

  “No. We didn’t even see him leave,” admitted Scyner. “If it hadn’t been for Shana’s word, I’m not sure we would have believed he was even in her house.”

  Asha paled. “Then he’s gone? He’s free?”

  The Shadraehin nodded. “He uses the catacombs to come and go—they run for miles, have exits everywhere from in the city to out past the mountains. But we don’t know our way around most of them, even if we wanted to go hunting someone as dangerous as Aelrith. We’ve sent people too deep in there before, and they haven’t come back.” His tone softened as he saw her expression. “I wouldn’t worry. From what you said, I don’t think he’s a threat to you. If anything, it sounds like we may never see him again.”

  Asha acknowledged the statement with a nod, though it didn’t stop her stomach from churning as she thought of the black-hooded figure still out there.

  “What do you think it all meant—what he said to me?”

  Scyner shrugged. “It makes as little sense to me as it does to you, Ashalia,” he admitted. “In all honesty, I’m not sure it meant anything. Whatever Aelrith may be, I don’t think he’s entirely sane.” He grimaced. “In fact, after what he did to Jin, I’m quite certain of it.”

  Asha shuddered at the memory. “What do you think Aelrith is?”

  The Shadraehin sighed. “I don’t know for sure. There were rumors after the war ended that Tol Athian had been experimenting on some of their people, trying to create soldiers that were immune to Traps and Shackles… if I had to guess, I’d say maybe he’s one of them. Whether the Council knows he’s still down here, though, I have no idea.”