The Shadow of What Was Lost

by James Islington

  “We can’t give him to them,” Davian observed. Wirr nodded his agreement.

  “And he doesn’t know an El-cursed thing about the Boundary,” growled Taeris, though he didn’t argue the statement. “You’re sure he wasn’t lying?”

  “As sure as I can be.” Davian tried to keep the bitterness from his tone.

  Taeris was silent, then turned to Caeden, still holding the Vessel. “I can’t say as I like our choices here, but someone went to an awful lot of trouble to get you this box. You’re important, somehow. Too important to turn over to the Gil’shar.” He shook his head. “We’re going to have to get your memories back.”

  “How?” asked Caeden.

  “There’s a device in Tol Athian. A Vessel meant to repair the mind. That’s where we need to go, so… we’re going to have to trust each other, I suppose.” He began untying Caeden’s hands. “I’m going to leave the Shackle on, though. If you—”

  Without warning the door exploded inward off its hinges, flying past Taeris’s head and embedding itself in the far wall.

  Everyone froze, stunned, as the figure in the doorway slithered into the room.

  Davian quickly took in the black cloak, the shadowy hood, the swirling blade that wasn’t quite there. The creature from last night.

  Taeris moved with a speed that Davian would not have credited him with had he not seen it. The older man leaped to one side and rolled; as he came up he crossed his wrists in front of himself, closing his eyes. A blinding flash roared through the air and the creature staggered a few steps backward, its disfigured, pallid face briefly illuminated, mouth curled in a silent rictus of pain. Davian’s heart dropped as the creature stopped, steadied, and then started forward again. With Shackles on, there was little any of them could do to help.

  The creature’s blade flashed at Taeris’s head; Taeris ducked backward, a shield of blazing white appearing in front of him. The dagger darted forward again, into the shield. Rather than producing the expected clash, the blade sliced straight through Taeris’s defense, extinguishing it in an instant.

  Dismissing the older man, the creature turned toward the three boys in Shackles, holding its dagger aloft.

  “Sha’teth keloran sa, Aelrith!” Taeris yelled.

  The words stopped the creature. It lowered its blade and turned back to Taeris, staring at him through its unblinking, dead eyes for several long seconds.

  “Sha’teth di sendra an,” it growled. Taeris’s eyes widened with astonishment as it let out a guttural laugh, then swiveled, preparing to deliver the killing blow.

  The contents of Wirr’s satchel had spilled all over the floor during the initial attack; while the creature’s back was turned Caeden had knelt, scrabbling awkwardly for something that he had seen fall under the bed. For one gut-wrenching second, Davian wondered if Taeris had dropped the Vessel in the confusion and almost made to stop him.

  Then Caeden found what he was looking for. Another Shackle. By the time the creature turned back, Caeden was ready.

  He leaped forward, beneath the swinging blade of shadows, hands plunging deep beneath the creature’s hood and pressing the ends of the torc against its neck.

  The scream that followed was chilling, a sound filled with pain and torment. The blade vanished from the creature’s hand; it stumbled backward, flailing wildly as the shackle began melding to its throat, wailing in a high-pitched screech that forced all four men to cover their ears. Its hood fell back, and Davian recoiled in horror. Even set against ashen skin and disfigured features, the creature’s eyes were recognizably human, locked on to him and pleading for mercy.

  Then it fell to the floor and, with a final convulsion, lay still.

  Taeris stared at Caeden, wide-eyed. “That was…”

  “Quick thinking,” Davian breathed. He clapped Caeden on the back, as much to stop his hands from shaking as anything else. Caeden inclined his head, still panting from the adrenaline.

  “Is it dead?” asked Wirr cautiously.

  Suddenly there was a crash downstairs, and the sound of angry voices echoed along the hallway outside. Taeris groaned, then sprung into action, gathering up his scant possessions.

  “We need to go. All of us,” he said with a meaningful glance at Caeden. The red-haired man hesitated, then gave a single relieved nod of assent.

  For a split second Davian looked at Taeris, puzzled, before realizing why there was such urgency in his tone. Taeris had used the Gift. They had minutes, if that, before the inn was swarming with Gil’shar soldiers.

  They hurried downstairs and slipped out through a back door, apparently without raising any suspicion. It was past dusk but there were still plenty of people about; Davian risked a glance back as they mingled with the crowd, moving slowly but steadily away. As he watched, a group of about twenty soldiers rushed inside the inn, silent but grim-faced. Even at this distance, he could see their Finders out and a Trap at the ready.

  The town was large, but those in the dirty, poorly lit streets paid them little heed as they hurried past, and they made good time. Davian flinched at every glance that came their way, but they were soon through the eastern gate without incident.

  “Where do we go now?” asked Wirr, the first any of them had spoken since the inn.

  “North,” replied Taeris. “I’ll explain more when we’re well clear of this place.”

  Wirr grimaced, obviously disliking the answer as much as Davian did, but there was little else either of them could do but nod.

  They started down the dark road in silence.

  Chapter 15

  They had traveled for only a few minutes before Taeris stopped, signaling the others should do the same.

  “Now. Tell me which one of you has given Tol Athian a Trace,” he said, expression grim as he stared at the three boys. “And then you might like to tell me why they have decided to use it, too.”

  Davian frowned. What was a Trace? He glanced across at Wirr, but his friend was just glaring back at Taeris.

  “If it was me, I don’t remember,” pointed out Caeden. “I don’t even know what a Trace is.”

  Taeris examined their faces for a moment, then nodded in Wirr’s direction. “He can explain it to you.”

  Wirr’s scowl deepened, eyes still locked with Taeris’s. “A Trace is a small sample of your Essence, sealed in a container that keeps it… fresh. Pure. Everyone’s Essence is unique, so if Tol Athian needs to find someone, they can use their Trace to help locate them.”

  Taeris nodded. “It’s like a person’s scent,” he elaborated to Caeden and Davian. “And the sha’teth are the hounds. Except that the Trace can only guide them if the person they are tracking uses the Gift.” He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Which young Wirr here did in the process of rescuing Caeden, I assume.”

  “But not at the inn,” protested Wirr.

  “They can use it to track you for up to a day after. Longer, if you’ve got a deep Reserve.” Taeris frowned at Wirr. “When you expend that much power, you’re using your body as a focal point, drenching it with energy—and that takes time to fully dissipate. Finders can’t pick it up, but a sha’teth’s senses can.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Wirr softly.

  “You should have asked,” growled Taeris. “The question is—why does Tol Athian want to kill you, Wirr? What crimes have you committed that they would go so far as to take a Trace?”

  Davian and Caeden had both watched the exchange in openmouthed silence. Davian stared at his friend in disbelief. Wirr had brought that creature down on them?

  “It’s called a… sha’teth?” Davian had never heard the word before. “What is it?” He looked at Wirr in confusion. “What’s going on?”

  Wirr frowned, looking almost as puzzled as Davian. “I’m not sure.” He turned to Taeris. “If Tol Athian sent the sha’teth after me, it was not to kill me, I promise you that. I don’t know why it attacked. They do have my Trace, but not because I’ve committed any crime.” He shook his head.
“It’s complicated, but I cannot say more.”

  Taeris’s face darkened. “The sha’teth are assassins—that is their only purpose. You’ll tell me everything, boy, or that Shackle won’t be coming off your wrist anytime soon.”

  “Then that’s the way it must be. I’m not lying, though.” Wirr met Taeris’s gaze flatly, without fear. He’d never been afraid of standing up to the Elders in Caladel when he felt he was in the right, and it seemed he was no more intimidated by Taeris.

  “He’s not lying,” agreed Davian.

  Taeris turned to Davian. “And you’re not in the slightest bit curious as to why the sha’teth are hunting your friend?”

  Davian studied Wirr for a long moment, then took a deep breath. “I am, but… I trust him. If we need to know what’s going on, he’ll tell us.”

  Taeris glowered as Wirr gave Davian a grateful nod. “We’ll talk more of this later, when we’re safely away,” the scarred man promised. “The immediate danger has passed, at least—you won’t be able to attract the rest of them while you’re wearing a Shackle. We should be safe.” He grimaced. “As far as these things go.”

  Caeden shifted. “There are other sha’teth?” he asked, echoing Davian’s thoughts.

  Taeris nodded. “Four of them. The one you killed was their best tracker, though. We called him the Watcher. When the other sha’teth would leave the Tol to search for someone, he was never with them. It was as if he’d just wait until he sensed his target and… jump there somehow. None of us knew how he did it, but I’m fairly sure he was the only one of them who had that ability.” He glanced back in the direction of Anabir. “Still. Whether Tol Athian still holds their leash or not, the others could be coming, and I doubt they’ll be pleased that their brother has been killed. We should keep moving.”

  Wirr held up his hand. “Before we follow you blindly wherever you’re taking us, you need to answer a few of our questions.”

  Taeris inclined his head wearily. “Of course.”

  “The other sha’teth. Will they come after us?”

  “Almost certainly.” Taeris sighed. “Once, perhaps not. But if what you say is true and they were not instructed to kill you… well, from what I just saw, they may be operating outside of Tol Athian’s purview. The one that attacked us certainly ignored my command easily enough, and that should not have been possible.”

  “What did it say to you?” asked Davian.

  Caeden spoke up. “It said, ‘The sha’teth no longer serve.’”

  They turned as one to look at Caeden, who shrugged. “I didn’t understand it at the time, but just now, remembering… I knew what it meant.” He glanced at Taeris. “Am I right?”

  “Yes,” said Taeris slowly, his expression curious as he stared at Caeden. Then he shrugged. “It could be that the commands have changed since my time, and that the creature was simply mocking me. Still…” He looked troubled.

  Wirr gestured to the road ahead. “So along with avoiding the other sha’teth, you said we need to get back to Tol Athian to figure out what’s happening with the Boundary. Why are we heading north?”

  Taeris sighed. “With Caeden’s escape, the Gil’shar will be focused on the borders; it will be all but impossible for us to get across unaided. And we don’t have the option of finding a smuggler, as you did to get here—even those types would be unwilling to cross the Gil’shar on this, no matter how much coin we offer.”

  “True,” conceded Wirr, “but heading towards Thrindar is hardly the solution.”

  “The Song of Swords is being held in Thrindar,” corrected Taeris. “As of now, there is still a week of the festival remaining. The royal entourage from Andarra will be there, and Desriel allows visiting royalty to bring a small contingent of Gifted. If we can get into the city, I have contacts who can get us an audience. You may be able to slip over the border with them when they leave.”

  There was silence for a couple of seconds. “It won’t work,” said Wirr.

  “It’s our best chance,” countered Taeris. “The Gil’shar will assume Caeden is running straight for the border, and they don’t know for certain that anyone else is involved. They certainly won’t imagine he has any way of contacting the Andarran delegation.”

  Wirr shook his head doggedly. “But they’ll never let us join them. If they did and we were discovered, it wouldn’t just be grounds for war—it would start it, then and there. The official Andarran delegation, smuggling Gifted out of Desriel? Including one accused of murder?” He shot an apologetic glance at Caeden. “I’m sorry, Taeris, but you must see how irresponsible that is. Our lives are not worth that sort of a risk.”

  Davian looked at his friend in surprise. Wirr had not raised his voice, but something about his demeanor had changed. For just a moment, the easygoing boy he knew had vanished. There was heavy concern, genuine intensity behind his words.

  Taeris considered Wirr for a second, then sighed. “You’re right, Wirr, but think for a moment about what I have told you today. Our lives are not my first concern. If there is some force at work trying to bring down the Boundary, do you imagine there’s no threat to Andarra?”

  “If there is, we don’t know what it means,” said Wirr stubbornly. “Whereas war with Desriel is most certainly a threat.”

  Taeris bit his lip, then came to a decision. He reached into his satchel, drew out a small metal box, and opened it, shivering as he gingerly picked out the paper-thin object within. It was about the size of his palm and completely black; though at first appearing polished to a mirror finish, it reflected none of the fading light as Taeris held it up. He leaned over, offering it to Wirr. “Be careful. The edges will slice through your fingers if you slip.”

  Wirr took it cautiously, visibly shivering as his hand touched its surface. He squinted as he examined the irregularly shaped disc. “What is it?” he asked with a look of horrified fascination.

  “A scale from a dar’gaithin,” replied Taeris.

  Wirr dropped the disc as if burned; it fell to the grass beside the road without a sound. He stopped and began rubbing his fingers together as if trying to remove any trace of the object from his skin, though Davian could not see any physical residue. “Of course it is,” he said with a shaky laugh, recovering himself somewhat. “Part of a mythical creature that you carry around in your pocket. Naturally.” Despite his words he stared at the fallen black disc as if it might leap up and attack him.

  Caeden frowned. “A dar’gaithin?”

  “A mixture of snake and man. One of the five Banes used against Andarra in the Eternity War,” explained Taeris.

  “It’s part of the Talan Gol myth,” continued Wirr to Caeden, sounding dubious. “When Aarkein Devaed invaded, he supposedly led warriors that were almost impossible to kill—mixtures of animals and men. The dar’gaithin were snakes.” He shook his head, turning back to Taeris. “I want to believe you, but… I took what Tenvar said about those creatures on faith, because we didn’t know he could lie to Davian at the time. To be honest, when we found out he could, it made sense to me. It’s hard to believe that they really exist.”

  Taeris grunted. “Well, the creature I found on the northern border of Narut a few months ago was certainly real enough,” he said quietly. “I removed that scale from its carcass myself.”

  “You actually saw one?” asked Wirr, clearly caught somewhere between astonishment and skepticism.

  Taeris nodded, choosing to ignore the doubt in Wirr’s tone. “Just this side of the Boundary. The effort of crossing must have killed it.” He sighed. “I took the scale and went to the garrison at Shandra, thinking to get help bringing the body back. By the time we returned, it had disappeared.”

  “So if the Boundary is still killing whatever tries to escape the north… that means someone from this side had hidden it?” asked Wirr, doubtful.

  “It would appear so.”

  Davian glanced at Wirr and Caeden, not knowing what to make of Taeris’s claim. Wirr still looked reluctant to believe
the older man, but Caeden was staring at the scale on the ground in fascination. He walked over next to Wirr and squatted, looking at the thin black plate without touching it. Then he grabbed a stick and shifted the disc.

  “I believe you,” he said.

  Davian stared at the patch of grass where the scale had been lying. The blades, green only a few moments earlier, had turned black and shriveled. Lifeless.

  Taeris turned his attention to Caeden. “You remember something?”

  Caeden shrugged. “It’s difficult,” he said slowly. “I get these… flashes. It’s not memory, exactly, but it’s not like knowing how to talk, either. It’s… an instinct, I suppose. You told me what a dar’gaithin was, and suddenly I knew the grass underneath its scale would be dead. But I can’t even tell you why I thought that.” He rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Sometimes I feel like I’m so close to knowing something, to remembering. And then it just slips away again.”

  Taeris gave him a sympathetic nod. “It will come.” He turned to Davian. “Try picking it up. Careful, though. Avoid touching the edges.”

  Davian reached down and cautiously plucked the scale from the ground. As he touched it, he shivered. A wave of nausea rolled through him—gone in an instant, but leaving him feeling drained, far more tired than a moment earlier.

  Aside from that sensation, the scale had a cool, metallic feel to it. He handed it back to Taeris, who promptly dropped it back in its metal container.

  “What was that?” asked Davian, suddenly understanding Wirr’s reaction to touching the thing. He could still feel its cold surface against his skin.

  “Dar’gaithin were supposed to be impervious to attack from the Gifted, and I think that’s the reason why,” Taeris said, gesturing to the dead patch of grass. “Their scales absorb Essence, draw it in. Maybe even feed off it.”

  There was silence as everyone stared at the blackened grass. “For the sake of argument, let’s say we believe you,” said Wirr, looking shaken. “What are you trying to tell us, in truth? That Alchesh was right all along? That Devaed’s been sitting patiently in his prison for two thousand years, just waiting for his chance to wreak havoc upon the world again?”