The Shadow of What Was Lost

by James Islington

  Asha studied Elocien, trying to determine what was going on. He looked displeased but seemed to be acknowledging the truth of the statement; he paused for a long few seconds, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  “What if I were to reconsider my stance on your having a Representative at court?”

  Nashrel’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, and there was a ripple of excited murmurs from the other Elders in the gallery. “What do you propose, Your Grace?”

  “One Gifted Representative from Tol Athian. Ashalia becomes their apprentice,” Elocien said. “Athian pays her wages. Your Representative mentors her, and continues to monitor her for any clues as to who attacked the schools, or how she survived.”

  It took a few moments for Asha to register what the duke was proposing; when she did she stared across at him in shock, certain she must have misheard. Representatives were the Tol’s ambassadors to the palace; even as an apprentice to one, she would still be considered an envoy of Tol Athian.

  For one of the Gifted, it would be an extraordinarily prestigious position. But for her…

  Nashrel looked at Ashalia and then back at Elocien, aghast, evidently thinking the same thing. “But… she’s a Shadow!” he exclaimed. “Do you know how many Gifted would kill for that position? How can she possibly represent the Tol? Surely you understand that we need someone who—”

  “It’s this or nothing, Nashrel,” interrupted Elocien. “Such a role requires no ability to use the Gift. Her situation may even be of use—once the Houses know she isn’t with the Shadraehin, there are plenty who will feel more comfortable talking to her than one of the Gifted.” He paused. “At least, you’ll need to explain it to everyone else that way, because you’re going to continue to pretend that there were no survivors of Caladel. Her real reason for being at the palace cannot leave this room. Ever. If it does, I’ll know it was one of you who released the information, and I’ll expel your Representative. Again.”

  “You seem certain we will accept these terms, Your Grace,” said Nashrel roughly.

  Elocien sighed. “If you refuse, I will take Ashalia with me and you will continue to have no presence in the palace. So this is a good deal, Nashrel. The best you’ll hear from me.”

  Nashrel glared at Elocien, and Asha imagined she could hear his teeth grinding even from that distance. Eventually he turned to the other Council members. “Any opposed?” There was silence from the gallery, and Nashrel’s expression twisted as he turned back to look down on Elocien. “Accepted,” he said, bitterness thick in his voice. “We will select a senior Representative before the end of the day.”

  Elocien nodded. “Send them directly to the palace; Ashalia will be staying with me.”

  “But—”

  Elocien cut off Nashrel with a sharp gesture. “I’m informing, not asking.”

  Nashrel gritted his teeth, but nodded. “As you say, Your Grace.”

  Elocien spun and headed for the exit; after a moment a still-stunned Asha realized she was expected to follow him, and she half jogged to catch up.

  They left. As quickly as that, it was done.

  * * *

  Asha and Duke Andras walked through the sun-drenched streets of Ilin Illan.

  Wherever they went people stopped and stared; women bent down and pointed them out to their children, and a small crowd even drifted after them as they moved along at an unhurried pace. At first Asha thought they were gaping at her black-veined face, but before long she overheard some of the whispers as they passed, and she knew that most people weren’t even noticing her. They were all focused on Elocien. The Northwarden, the king’s brother. The man who had created the Tenets.

  She tried to talk only once.

  “Do you really mean to make me a Representative?” she asked the duke.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Elocien shook his head slightly, not taking his eyes from the road. “All in good time,” he murmured.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  Chapter 17

  Davian struggled forward through the throng, jostled constantly by the mass of people around him, trying to follow Taeris as closely as possible as he snaked through the crowd.

  The late afternoon sun beat down on Thrindar’s main street, which was choked with travelers trying to gain entrance to the Great Stadium in the town center. Dust kicked up by hundreds of feet drifted everywhere, combining with the sweat on people’s faces to make them look more like coal miners than city folk. Merchants on the side of the road yelled hoarsely at anyone foolish enough to glance their way, well aware that this was the largest crowd they would likely see for many years. The entire scene was dirty, hot, and chaotic. Davian didn’t like it at all.

  “How long now?” he muttered to Taeris, wiping beads of moisture from his brow and scowling as another stranger shouldered past.

  “I said fifteen minutes, and that was ten minutes ago. How long do you think?” replied Taeris, irritation creeping into his tone. Like Davian, he was visibly not enjoying battling through the sweaty crush.

  Davian gave a short nod in response, glancing across at his other companions. Wirr wasn’t paying attention, looking more excited than anything else, staring at every new sight with genuine fascination. Caeden, on the other hand, plowed forward with the grim determination and characteristic silence he’d shown for most of their journey.

  “How are you holding up?” Davian asked Caeden in a low voice as they were pushed together by the press of bodies.

  Caeden gave him a nervous smile. “I’ll be glad to get indoors.”

  Davian nodded in understanding. Word of Caeden’s escape had arrived in Thrindar well before them, and already there were plenty of posters with his likeness nailed up around the city.

  “Shouldn’t be long now,” he said, trying to sound reassuring despite the churning of his own stomach. Taeris had already made sure to alter Caeden’s appearance as much as possible—cut his hair short, made him wear several layers of clothes to give him a more portly appearance—but all it would take was one person who could see through the changes.

  Still, they’d made it this far without incident. It had taken them a full six days to reach Desriel’s capital. Traveling had been a tense affair, if uneventful; the constant threat of being discovered by Gil’shar soldiers had been surpassed only by the fear of being found by another sha’teth. Still, there had been no sign of pursuit and they had made good time, arriving several days before Taeris expected the royal entourage to leave.

  Davian pushed on behind the others. After a couple of minutes he shifted his gaze upward from the crowd, catching his first glimpse of Thrindar’s Great Stadium as it began to loom ahead. It was at least fifty feet high and made of solid stone; the tops of the walls were draped with colorful banners, each one emblazoned with a different symbol.

  “The insignias of some of those competing,” said Wirr, following Davian’s gaze.

  “There must be a hundred banners up there,” murmured Davian, wiping sweat from his brow. “Are all the fighters lords and such?”

  Wirr shook his head, face glowing as he took in the atmosphere; despite his oft-mentioned reservations about Taeris’s plan, he looked more excited than worried. “Not all, but most. Noblemen learn swordplay younger than most, and then have more time to practice as they grow up. It tends to be an advantage.”

  “No doubt being able to afford entry is an advantage, too.” Davian turned sideways to avoid being run down by a fat woman and the two bawling young children she was dragging behind her.

  Wirr laughed. “No one can afford entry by themselves,” he assured Davian. “The costs are…” He gestured, shaking his head to indicate that he had no words to describe their enormity. “Some very few get invitations. Everyone else has backers—sponsors who share the entry cost, and reap a percentage of any winnings.”

  Davian raised an eyebrow. “And the winnings are enough to share around, with everyone profiting?”

  Wi
rr gave an emphatic nod. “With gold to spare.”

  Davian looked up at the banners again as they became slowly larger. “I wonder who they are,” he said absently. He vaguely recognized a couple of the designs, but couldn’t identify any of them.

  “There’s only a few Andarran. Plenty of Desrielites and Narutians. A couple from Nesk. Even a few from the Eastern Empire, I suspect.”

  Davian shot his friend a sidelong glance, partly amused and partly curious. Wirr was enjoying himself more than he had since they had decided to come here. “You really recognize all these banners?”

  Wirr shrugged. “Most of them. Jarras’s politically minded lessons were fairly thorough.”

  Davian grinned as he thought of the Elder. “Jarras would have a heart attack if he knew where we were.”

  Wirr smirked. “Most of the Elders would, I imagine.”

  The throng thinned a little as they stepped into the shadow of the arena; soldiers and attendants lined the entrance, studiously funneling people into the appropriate sections of the stadium. Taeris hung back, studying the crowd as the other three gathered around him.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Wirr.

  “We have no chance of getting into the stadium itself. Not so that we could speak to the Andarran delegation, anyway,” said Taeris, softly enough that no passersby could overhear. “But there must be Gifted coming and going. If I can make contact with one of them, we might be able to gain an audience.”

  Caeden frowned. “And if you are refused?”

  Taeris shrugged. “We will deal with that problem should it arise.”

  Davian fanned his face, the heat of the day by now quite intense. “How will you recognize them? Even with their cloaks, they’ll be hard to spot in this crowd.”

  Taeris gave him a slight smile. “You’ll see.”

  They loitered for a while, occasionally moving around and browsing through shops and stalls to avoid looking suspicious. It wasn’t difficult to remain anonymous; the crowds were so thick that they probably could have stood still the entire day without anyone noticing.

  Eventually Taeris tensed, nudging Davian. “There,” he said with a slight nod of his head.

  A man in a red cloak was emerging from one of the stadium entrances, shadowed closely by a guard holding a Trap prominently in front of him. The crowd parted wherever the cloaked man went; several people spat on the ground as he passed. The noise of the crowd, which had been a roar only moments earlier, quieted to a low rumble as people stopped their conversations to watch.

  “You want to pass a note to him?” Wirr said softly, his tone incredulous. He glanced at Taeris, then back at the red-cloaked man, who was still very obviously isolated and had every eye trained on him. “You may as well ask the man with the Trap to pass it on for you.”

  Taeris gave a thoughtful nod, scratching his beard. “I didn’t think it would be this bad,” he admitted.

  They watched as the Gifted man, looking more amused than intimidated by the attention, purchased something from a very displeased-looking vendor. Davian shifted to get a better view, and was so intent on the red-cloaked man that he walked straight into someone before he realized she was there, causing her to stumble to the ground.

  He looked down in horror, reddening, and quickly bent to help his victim to her feet. She was about his age, pretty, with long black hair and green eyes that sparkled as they looked up at him with amusement. Her hands were soft and smooth as he pulled her up, stammering his apologies.

  A shift in the crowd distracted him for a moment. The Gifted was meandering back into the stadium, still followed by the vigilant-looking guard; as soon as he had disappeared the crowd’s conversations resumed, and the scene returned to normal as if nothing had happened.

  Davian glanced around to see if the girl was uninjured, but she was already gone.

  Wirr was watching him with an amused smile.

  “Say nothing,” Davian warned. “It was an accident.”

  “Of course it was,” said Wirr. “Girls who look like that are easy to miss. Practically invisible, really.”

  Davian glared at his friend. He’d usually have played along, but this time Wirr’s jibe only reminded him of Asha, back at Caladel and probably wondering why they had abandoned her. As always, the accompanying stab of guilt—and fear that she would not forgive him, if he ever saw her again—put him in a bad mood.

  Wirr sighed, still smiling, but wisely deciding to let the matter go. He turned to Taeris, who had been ignoring the exchange and was still staring thoughtfully toward the stadium. “So it looks like we should find another way across the border.”

  Taeris shook his head. “No. There’s another chance. A little more direct than I’d like, but it should work.”

  Without adding anything further, he gestured for them to follow and then set off down the road.

  They wound their way through a series of narrow streets until they came to a stop outside a large building. Its facade was ornate, with finely carved designs inscribed onto every available surface, and its architecture gave it gentle curves that were distinct from the houses and stores around it. It wasn’t circular, but the entire structure gave the impression of having no corners, and as a result was somewhat dizzying to the eye. After a few moments of consideration, Davian decided he didn’t like it.

  “Where are we?” he asked Taeris.

  “The Temple of Marut Jha Talkanar, God of Balance.” It was Caeden, his expression fascinated as he stared up at the structure.

  Taeris gave the young man a sidelong glance, then nodded confirmation to Davian.

  Wirr gave Taeris a disbelieving look. “You’re hoping to get help from here?” He looked around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “Isn’t it a little dangerous? What with the sacredness of Essence, and those who use it being abominations, and all that?”

  Taeris started up the stairs. “Just say nothing, do as I tell you, and we will be fine.” He vanished inside without waiting to see if his companions were following.

  The other three exchanged glances. “We’ve trusted him this far,” noted Caeden.

  Davian nodded, and Wirr gave a reluctant shrug of agreement.

  They entered the temple cautiously. Once the doors had closed behind them, the bustling sounds from outside vanished and they were left with only a peaceful hush. Somewhere a fountain burbled, and somehow a fresh breeze from one of the high windows was cunningly directed downward by the odd shape of the walls, sighing in the enclosed space. Skylights meant the large room was well lit, but scented candles burned in the corners, too. Aside from the three of them, the room was unoccupied.

  Just as Davian had finished taking stock of their surroundings, a side door swung open and Taeris strode through, followed by what appeared to be a very drunk priest. The man staggered over one of the steps, then tripped completely, sliding along the polished marble floor with an odd grace. Taeris snorted, then hurried over to help him up and make sure he was uninjured.

  “I present to you the high priest of Talkanar, God of Balance,” whispered Wirr to the others.

  Davian stifled a giggle that would have echoed quite embarrassingly around the open room, and even Caeden, usually more reserved, hid a smile.

  Eventually the priest managed to make his way over to where they stood without falling, though that was mainly due to the assistance of Taeris. Taeris propped him up as they came to a halt, making sure he wasn’t going to collapse again before letting him go.

  “Boys, this is Nihim Sethi, someone we can trust. Nihim—this is Wirr, Davian, and Caeden.”

  The man called Nihim looked at them through bleary eyes. “Pleased to meet you,” he slurred.

  Taeris winced. “Don’t blame him. It’s the month of debauchery,” he explained with a roll of the eyes. “Of all the choices, getting drunk is about the most moral thing you can do and still look pious.”

  “Seems like it should be more popular,” said Wirr, gesturing to the empty space
around them.

  Nihim snorted. “Popular? No. In fact, these days we only survive through the decree of the Gil’shar.” He shook his head groggily. “This month may be all well and good, but there’s a month of abstinence, too. A month of gluttony and one of starvation. A month of pleasure and a month of pain.”

  “So you’d be devout half the year,” said Wirr with a grin.

  Nihim winced. “I take it you’re not from around here. Don’t let anyone else hear you talking like that,” he slurred. “Here, you choose one of the nine gods, and that’s your path. Set in stone, no changing, no slacking off. If you don’t follow the precepts, and then get caught…” He made a slicing motion with his finger across his throat.

  “They kill you?” said Davian in astonishment.

  “We like to think of it as aggressive evangelism,” replied Nihim glibly.

  “There’s a reason the Gifted are so hated here, Davian,” Taeris interrupted. “Being devout isn’t just a choice in Desriel. It’s a way of life, indoctrinated and law.” He hesitated. “So you can see what a risk Nihim is taking for us.”

  Nihim stared at a spot on the ground. “Taeris. I’m in no state to help you and your friends right now, but give me an hour. We have tonics in the back for… clearheadedness.” It was obvious he was struggling to concentrate. “The others shouldn’t be back for days; I’m basically in charge for the moment. No one wants to be stuck in the temple during Jil’imor. You shouldn’t be disturbed if you stay in there.” He gestured to the smaller room from which he had just emerged.

  Taeris gripped him by the arm. “Thank you, Nihim,” he said sincerely.

  The four of them filed into the side room, Davian glancing behind him to see Nihim stumbling off to another section of the temple. There were comfortable-looking chairs and couches lining the wall of this room, but none of the finery that was on display in the main chamber. It appeared to be a common room for the priests, rather than for public use.