Asha swallowed the myriad questions she wanted to ask, instead giving a bemused nod and repeating the message.
“Good. Thank you, Ash.” Davian took a deep breath. “Now, this is equally important. When you find out that I’m at Ilshan Gathdel Teth, don’t come after me. I’m fine. The Venerate can’t kill me, but they will kill you—you are the one they want. I’m just the bait. Remember that.”
He opened his eyes, and the chains began slowly moving again, starting to bleed back to their original oily black. A shiver ran through Davian’s body, and he looked as though he’d been drained of blood, of life. “Don’t tell anyone else that you saw me. Especially not me. They’ve Read… they’ve Read so many of us now. There’s no telling whose mind is safe, these days.” He shook his head as he saw her baffled expression. “I’m so sorry. You’ll understand when the time comes.”
The chains tightened, jerked backward. Davian silently locked eyes with her as he was pulled into the shadows.
Then he was gone.
Chapter 28
Davian frowned.
He was atop a low hill, which afforded a good view over the entire moonlit valley below. All around him were tents, some with lights still burning inside, but most dark. The moon was at its zenith and almost full; the night was clear, allowing the silvery light to illuminate his surroundings almost as if it were daytime. The air was cold and crisp, and he shivered, rubbing his hands together for warmth—even though he suspected he was not truly there. Just as before.
At the edges of the camp, quite some distance away, he could see sentries patrolling. In other areas campfires burned, and a few men still gathered around them, laughing bawdily at jokes or stories being told by their comrades. There was a banner flying at the camp’s center, three clashing golden swords set against a field of red. This was King Andras’s army, then—perhaps sent out to meet the invading force he had foreseen last time? Why was he here, Seeing this? All seemed well.
Then he saw it. A shadow, silent, flitting from one tent to another. He stared, squinting, wondering for a second if he was imagining the whole thing. Then it came again, the slightest of movements, black against black. It moved into the next tent, noiseless, unnoticed by any of the men still awake.
Davian walked over to the tent, hesitant despite knowing that nothing here could see or harm him. He slipped inside, restraining a gasp as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.
The tent housed ten men, all lying motionless on their camp beds. Even in the dim light he could see the dark gashes running along their throats, and the slow, muted sound of dripping echoed dully around the tent. Blood onto the dirt, Davian realized sickly. He stumbled outside again, straining for another glimpse of the shadow. He had a suspicion, but he needed to find out exactly what it was before the vision ended.
Another flicker of movement caught his eye, and he dashed over to where he’d seen it. This time, as he entered the tent, he knew it was still there. The sounds of men breathing as they slept indicated it had not yet finished its grisly work.
He took an involuntary step back as he finally saw what was responsible for the killings. A figure stood above one of the beds, swathed in black, a dagger in its hand. Yet the dagger was not made of metal but rather shifted and swirled, forged from shadow itself. The blade caressed another man’s neck, and blood fountained forth. The creature silently moved on to the next camp bed, its unsettling, flowing gait all too familiar.
A sha’teth.
Then it froze. It turned slowly until it was facing Davian.
Davian stood stock-still. It could not see him; it must have been startled by something else. These were events yet to come. He was not actually here.
A wet, snuffling sound came from beneath the creature’s hood; it bowed its head and began moving toward him, not directly, but testing the air like a dog closing in on a scent. Much as the Orkoth had.
“I can smell you, Shalician,” it whispered. The voice was harsh and low, rasping.
Davian clenched his fists, terrified. It couldn’t know he was there. The creature crept closer and closer, Davian still too afraid to move, until it stopped in front of him.
It looked up, into his eyes, and Davian saw the hideous face beneath its hood. Pale skin was crisscrossed with unmentionable scars; its eyes were disturbingly human, its gaze unseeing and yet focused. Its ruined lips curled in contempt.
“You should not be here,” it hissed into his face.
Davian awoke with a shout.
He thrashed on his bed for a few seconds, pain arcing through his head. Malshash was above him, wide-eyed, holding him down by the shoulders. Davian forced a hand up to his face; when he took it away again it was covered with blood.
He tried to speak, but no words came out. The pain roaring in his ears suddenly began to subside, and his vision blurred.
He slipped into unconsciousness.
* * *
Davian awoke.
He sat up sharply as he remembered where he was, what had happened. To his surprise he was lying in a large, comfortable bed. He leaped up and crossed to the window to discover he was on the second floor of a house—presumably the same one that Malshash had taken him to earlier. The dull gray mists made the passing of time difficult to calculate in Deilannis, but his instincts said he had been asleep for several hours at least.
He was still dressed, but his clothes showed no trace of blood. He examined where he’d been sleeping, but there were no bloodstains there, either. Had he been dreaming? The army, the sha’teth, and then waking… it had all felt so real.
He wandered downstairs, listening for any sign of movement and finding his way to the kitchen once he was satisfied he was alone. It was, indeed, Malshash’s house; the fire still burned in the hearth, and a meal of porridge and bacon had been laid out on the table. The smell made his stomach growl, despite his having eaten just before he slept.
He stared at the food suspiciously for a few seconds, but eventually hunger overcame his caution and he sat, wolfing down the meal.
“I see I should have prepared for two,” an unfamiliar voice observed drily from behind him.
Davian leaped to his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste. He spun to see an elderly man, perhaps in his late sixties, though apparently still hale and spry enough to move around without making a sound. His hair was shoulder length, gray but with streaks of the black it must once have been. His hazel eyes twinkled in amusement as he watched Davian.
“Who are you?” asked Davian, caught between fear and irritation.
The man blinked, then laughed. “Ah, of course. How foolish of me.” He stepped forward. “I am Malshash.”
Davian shook his head. “I met Malshash yesterday. You are not him.”
“And yet I am.” The man claiming to be Malshash took another step forward. “As I told you yesterday, we are the only two people in Deilannis. I would know immediately if it were otherwise.”
Davian allowed his tensed muscles to relax a little, though he remained cautious. “I don’t understand,” he admitted.
“I am what you would call a shape-shifter,” said Malshash, busying himself serving another plate of porridge. He paused. “Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I have… borrowed… a shape-shifter’s ability. Temporarily.” He shrugged. “As a result, I must use it at least once each day. If I do not, the ability reverts to its previous owner. Which—and you will need to trust me on this—would not end well for either of us.” He smiled to himself, as if he had just said something amusing. “Needless to say, if you see someone in this city, it will be me.”
Davian shook his head. “I’ve never heard of someone who can change their appearance.”
Malshash snorted. “Of course you have. You must have heard of Nethgalla? The Ath?”
Davian screwed up his face. “Well, of course I’ve heard of her, but that’s just…” He blinked, stopping short. “You stole the Ath’s ability?”
Malshash grinned. “Don’t worry. She’s not coming for it any
time soon.” He gestured to the half-eaten meal in front of Davian. “Eat. It will help restore your strength.”
Davian scowled. “And why am I weak to begin with?” he asked irritably, though he didn’t need a second invitation to continue the meal.
“Two reasons,” said Malshash. “The first being that you lost plenty of blood last night. I assume it wasn’t a deliberate act on your part, using your Foresight in the middle of Deilannis? For a while there, I wasn’t entirely sure you were going to live, even with all logic to the contrary.”
Davian paused. “So I didn’t imagine that?”
Malshash gave him a wry smile. “I’m afraid not. I took the liberty of suppressing your ability before you had another episode, though. You’re no longer in danger.”
Davian shook his head in confusion, then decided to let the matter slide until he had his bearings a little better. “You mentioned there were two reasons?”
Malshash nodded. “You stepped through time to get here,” he explained in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Or, more to the point, you stepped outside of time. For a moment—a millionth of a millionth of a moment, and an eternity—you existed elsewhere.”
Davian gave a humorless laugh. “I don’t understand a word of what you just said.”
Malshash sighed. “You will. Or at least you’ll need to, if you ever hope to return to your own time.”
Davian paused midbite. “What do you mean?”
Malshash looked at him, expression serious. “This moment here, now? It is about seventy or so years before you were born.”
* * *
Davian stared at the plain wall of what was now, apparently, his room.
He had not reacted well to Malshash’s revelation. He had laughed at first, thinking it a joke; when Malshash had insisted it was true he had flatly refused to believe it, calling the man a liar and a fool.
And yet deep down, he’d known. Perhaps had known before Malshash had even told him. The sick feeling in his stomach was fear, and he was afraid because there was so much he didn’t understand.
In the end he’d stormed off back to this room; Malshash had let him go, evidently deciding it was best to leave him to his own devices for the time being. Davian knew he would have to go and apologize soon. He needed Malshash; the mysterious man seemed to know everything important about what was happening, including how to get him home.
Davian had been working up the courage, and the energy, to go back downstairs for the last hour now. There had just been so much happening—not only today, but over the past few weeks. He’d always thought of himself as mentally strong, able to adapt no matter what was thrown at him. But this, on top of everything else… whenever he tried to think about it, it felt as though his head were burning up.
He eventually rose and, steeling himself, headed back downstairs. Malshash was still sitting at the table, sipping a warm drink. The shape-shifter glanced up at Davian as he entered, but said nothing.
Davian sat himself opposite Malshash. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I said things—”
“Not your fault,” interrupted Malshash. “I wish there had been a better way to tell you, but it’s not something that’s easy to digest, no matter how you’re informed.”
Davian snorted. “There’s truth to that.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Let us say, for the time being, that I believe you. That I have somehow traveled eighty, ninety years into the past.”
Malshash inclined his head. “I’ll explain as best I can.” He paused, thinking. “You remember the room where we met?”
Davian nodded. “The one with the columns, and the altar in the middle.”
Malshash chuckled. “‘Altar.’ Yes, I suppose that’s about right,” he mused. “That’s actually called a Jha’vett. It is set in the very center of the city. The exact midpoint.” He looked up expectantly, but Davian just gave him a blank stare back, not understanding the significance of what Malshash was saying.
Malshash sighed. “Three thousand years ago, a race called the Darecians came to Andarra as refugees, fleeing the destruction of their homeland. They conquered this continent and immediately began building Deilannis—a city that no native Andarran was allowed to enter, in which only High Darecians could live. They did all this because the city was, in fact, a weapon.”
“The entire city?”
Malshash nodded. “Possibly the greatest weapon ever made, though in some ways even the Darecians didn’t understand that at the time. Every building here, every street, every stone, is made to capture Essence—and it all leads to the Jha’vett. That ‘altar,’ as you called it, is the focus of immense energies. The High Darecians, at the height of their knowledge and power, spent a hundred and fifty years making it.”
Davian felt his eyebrows rise. Every story of the Darecians spoke at length of their powers, their abilities with Essence. “What does it do?”
“It tears a rift,” replied Malshash seriously. “It allows someone to leave time itself, to step outside the stream of time and shift themselves elsewhere along it. Forwards. Backwards. Whenever they wish.” He shook his head. “They built it so that they could go back, to before the Shining Lands were destroyed. They wanted to warn their people of what was coming. To perhaps kill the man who destroyed them, before he could do it.”
Davian gaped. “Is that possible?”
“No one really knows, but… I am beginning to think not.” Malshash sighed, deeply and with regret.
“So they failed?”
“Not exactly,” said Malshash. “The Jha’vett works, as you can tell. But if any of the Darecians went back, they weren’t able to change anything.” He jumped up, grabbed a handful of flour from a bag on the shelf, then came back and dumped it on the table. He drew a line through it. “Imagine this is time. The Darecians believed that going back to a point in time will create this.” He drew a branching line from the original. “An alternate timeline, where things are different depending on what has been changed. Where you could go back in time, kill your parents before they ever meet, and still live out the rest of your days in a reality where you are never born.” He drew more lines. “They believed that there are infinite realities, where each choice of each person creates a new world. So possibly they went back in time, succeeded, and are now living out a different reality from this one.”
He erased the extra lines. “However, there may be only one timeline. One set of possible events. The Augurs have been reinforcing that theory for years, but it’s not something anyone wants to believe. We like the idea of infinite possibility. That nothing is inevitable.” He sounded frustrated. “Yet the more I see, the more inevitability seems to be the way of it. One timeline. No second chances.”
Davian frowned. “I was nowhere near the Jha’vett when all this happened. So how did I get here?”
Malshash shifted, looking uncomfortable. “There was a man. Aarkein Devaed. He was amongst those responsible for the destruction of the Shining Lands; when he invaded Andarra, he went ahead of his army and tried to use the Jha’vett for himself.” He paused. “Instead of getting it to work, though, he just… damaged it. Now sometimes the energies in the city become misdirected. Escape, flow outward. Ripples like that are rare, but if you weren’t at the Jha’vett, it’s the only explanation.”
“There were apparitions, just before the Orkoth attacked,” said Davian, remembering. “People appearing and disappearing right in front of us. Would that have been caused by one of these… ripples?”
Malshash gave a thoughtful nod. “I would think so. Different times bleeding into each other, most likely. I’ve seen it happen once before.” He hesitated as if reminded of something, then fished around in his pocket, producing a ring with a slightly guilty expression. It was silver, made of three plain bands that twisted together to form a distinctive pattern, irregular but flowing.
Malshash held it up. “Before we go any further, you should know: I used the Jha’vett to draw you here with this,” he admitted awkwardl
y. “I needed something of yours, something personal. Something that meant a great deal to you.”
Davian looked at him in puzzlement. “What is it?”
Malshash raised an eyebrow. “It’s your ring.”
Davian shook his head. “I’ve never seen it before. It’s not mine.” The ring was distinctive; he’d certainly know if he’d ever owned something so fine.
“Ah. Then it will be,” said Malshash with a slight shrug.
Davian scowled. “How is that possible? How can something be important to me if I’ve never even seen it before?”
Malshash shrugged again. “Remember, you were outside of time when it drew you. There was no future, no past. When it is important to you is not relevant. At some point it will be.”
Davian stared at him for a few seconds. “I think I’m going to have to take your word on that.”
Malshash gave him an amused half smile in response and then tossed the ring to Davian, who caught it, examining it closely. It was unadorned with jewels, but the pattern created by the bands’ twisting together was intricately done.
“What am I to do with this?” asked Davian.
“Keep it on you,” said Malshash. “Wear it. Don’t stray too far from it, ever. It’s the anchor that is holding you here in this time. If you get too far away, the pull of your own time may become too strong, draw you back into the rift.”
Davian stared at the ring. “Surely that would be what I want? I could go back?”
“No.” Malshash shook his head, expression serious. “It’s remarkable you survived the journey here, Davian. A miracle. Most people caught in a rift are ripped apart by the sheer force of the transition; if they aren’t, they go mad, their minds unable to process the absence of time.”
Davian frowned. “Most people?”
Malshash shifted. “Everyone who has ever entered a rift, to the best of my knowledge,” he admitted. He sighed. “You will go back, I promise. But you need to hone your Augur abilities, train using kan before you can continue your journey.”
Davian looked at Malshash in open surprise. “You can teach me?”
The Shadow of What Was Lost Page 35