The Shadow of What Was Lost

by James Islington

  Davian found himself caught between a scowl and a smile; eventually he gave up and chose the latter. “You will have to show me how to shield myself, then,” he said in a begrudging tone.

  Malshash nodded. “It’s easy enough. Visualize a box in your mind; anything you want to protect—memories, thoughts, emotions—you lock away inside that box. Anything you don’t need to protect, you leave outside.” He shrugged. “It’s a mental trick, not anything to do with kan. The mind has its own natural defenses; as I said, it already goes to some lengths to protect our thoughts. For some reason, though, this tricks it into raising even stronger defenses. Most of the time, that makes it impenetrable.”

  Davian looked at Malshash warily. “It sounds a little easy. How do I know you’re not just telling me this so you can continue to Read me whenever you want?”

  Malshash sighed. “You told me that your one ability up until now has been to see when people are trying to deceive you,” he said. “Use it on me. I won’t take offense.”

  “It doesn’t work on anyone who can shield themselves,” Davian pointed out.

  “Of course it does. Shielding can mask it, but when you see that someone is lying, your mind is in some small way connected to the other person’s. And believe me, people know when they’re lying—it’s not something you can fully hide away, no matter how skilled you are. The signs might be different—may be too subtle for most other Augurs to pick up—but someone with your specific talent should still be able to tell.”

  Davian shook his head. “Not that I’ve noticed.” Then he paused. “Tell me something false, then true, then false again.”

  Malshash crossed his arms. “I have never met you before. It is seventy years before you were born. Traversing the time rift back is not a risk.”

  “And again?”

  Malshash repeated what he had said, and Davian sighed.

  There it was. A slight pain, a pressure on the temples that he automatically tried to massage away, on the first and third sentences. It had been there all along, and he just hadn’t known what to look for. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy—his confidence in his ability had been badly hurt after Tenvar’s betrayal—or furious that he hadn’t figured it out sooner.

  He decided to choose the former. “It works,” he said with a tight smile. Then he raised an eyebrow. “Though for all I know, you could be messing around in my head about this, too.”

  Malshash chuckled. “Sorry, Davian, but I’m not that interested in what you’re thinking at any given moment.” He grinned to soften any perceived insult.

  Davian smiled. “Of course. Sorry.”

  Malshash shrugged. “I can’t blame you, I suppose. Once you know what people with these abilities can actually do, it becomes a lot harder to trust them.” He gave a small yawn, glancing around. “That’s probably enough for today, anyway. Nightfall is coming.” He began walking back toward their house.

  Davian squinted at the mists surrounding them, but could detect no change in the light. That was the way it always was in Deilannis: a constant dull gray, enough light to see by, but never bright, never cheerful. Still, Malshash had seemingly been living here long enough to know when day became night.

  “So we continue working on Reading tomorrow?” Davian asked, trotting to come up alongside Malshash. This version of the shape-shifter was tall, and his long legs meant his stride was hard to match.

  Malshash shook his head. “No. You’ve grasped the concept quickly enough; we don’t have time to waste mastering each ability. Tomorrow we move on.”

  “So that’s it? That’s all you’re going to teach me on Reading?”

  “I didn’t say that,” said Malshash, a little irritably. “If there is a chance, we will revisit it.”

  Davian frowned. “You talk as if there may not be time to do that.”

  “There may not be,” Malshash admitted after a pause. He glanced down at Davian’s right hand, on which he wore the ring. “I never meant you to be here for more than a few hours, a day at the very most. I used that ring to draw you here, but the natural laws of time will eventually try to reassert themselves. You need to be as rounded as possible when that happens.”

  Davian shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “That ring is what binds you to this time,” explained Malshash. “But it’s a tenuous link. Remember what I said, about a shadow of a shadow of yourself being left in your own time? Your body has a specific place in the time stream, and every moment you’re here, you’re fighting against it. Every moment you’re here, the time stream works harder to correct what it perceives as a mistake. Eventually it will find you, try to draw you back.”

  Davian scratched his head. “And we don’t want that.”

  Malshash snorted. “Not if you want to stay alive.” He sighed, softening. “I know I’ve said it before, but this journey through the rift will be just as dangerous as your last, Davian. Perhaps more so, because you won’t have anyone in your own time lighting a beacon to find your way home, as I did for you here.” He stopped, his expression deadly serious. “These skills, in and of themselves, will not help. But being able to see kan, to manipulate it at will, use it competently—that will be invaluable. It’s the only thing that can protect you on the trip back.” He gestured at nothing in particular. “Which is why we train, why I had you read as much theory as you could, and why we are not waiting to master everything. Because any day, at any moment, you could find yourself back in the rift.”

  Davian paled as Malshash spoke. He was silent for several seconds. “Why didn’t you say something before?” he asked.

  Malshash sighed. “Do you think you would have been able to concentrate on studying those books if you’d known?”

  Davian thought about it. “No,” he admitted reluctantly. “I suppose not.”

  Malshash nodded in a satisfied manner. “But now we’re training?”

  “It will make me work harder, push myself further.”

  Malshash grinned. “So there is your answer. It was for your own benefit.”

  “It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” muttered Davian.

  “No, it doesn’t,” agreed Malshash cheerfully.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  Chapter 33

  Caeden stood in the courtyard. Sweating. Nervous.

  The nine towers of Ilshan Tereth Kal rose high above him, surrounded him on all sides—improbably tall and impossibly beautiful, evoking calmness and strength in their design, just as the Builders had intended. The crystal walls glimmered and shone in the dawn, streaks of blue energy flowing through them, swirling and dancing, traversing the castle at random. They were the guardians of Tereth Kal, not quite sentient but not without intelligence. They, too, were beautiful to behold, though he had seen what they were capable of when the Velderan had attacked. A sight no man before him had seen. A sight no man was meant to witness and live to tell of it.

  Ordan glided into the courtyard. Caeden had been around the Shalis enough now to recognize their moods, subtle though the signs usually were. Today Ordan was determined.

  The Shalis mage stopped in front of him, his sinuous red skin glistening in the light. He was at least nine feet tall at full extension, though out of politeness he tended to contort his body slightly, which allowed him to speak to Caeden face-to-face. Despite the red serpentine body, and the complete lack of legs, there was a human aspect to Ordan that some of his brethren lacked. But then, Ordan was the one who had spoken for him. Who had convinced the Cluster to let him train here, who had vouched for him despite his many struggles to learn what was needed. He was the most human of his kind.

  “Is today the day, Tal’kamar?” Ordan asked, the hissing lisp of his voice barely noticeable now.

  “May Dreth send it be so,” replied Caeden. The words were formal, but the sentiment was heartfelt.

  “Then let us begin,” said the Shalis.

  The energy crackled toward him, abruptly and so f
ast he barely had time to react. He connected to his Reserve and envisaged a shield, a pulsing barrier through which Ordan’s bolt could not pass. He threw up his hands to cast it just in time; it appeared and the bolt dissolved in a sputter of blue electrical fire.

  “Good,” said Ordan. “But remember—no gestures, no words. These are the signs of a mind poor in discipline. A mind that needs trickery as a crutch to perform its tasks.”

  Caeden grimaced, but bobbed his head in acknowledgement. He’d been here two years now, honing his focus, training himself mentally to do things other Gifted would consider impossible. And he could do them now—do wondrous feats that would make most men gasp in awe. Not the Shalis, though. They still looked at him as a child, or more accurately as an animal they were teaching to talk.

  Ordan struck again, and this time Caeden forced his hands to his sides. His barrier still appeared, but it was too weak; a small portion of the bolt sizzled through, striking him on the shoulder. He grunted in pain, gritting his teeth as he glanced down at the seared skin, which was already blistering. He knew the Shalis would not heal it for him, nor would they approve if he did it himself. It was only through trials, through pain, that mastery of Essence could be achieved.

  He growled, mainly to himself. He was better than this. He circled Ordan warily, watching for the telltale glow—so small it was almost invisible—that indicated he was about to strike. When Caeden saw it, instead of raising a shield he dove to his left, going on the attack. He imagined Ordan’s chest bursting into flame, then let the power flow from his Reserve, as much as he could without risking Ordan’s life.

  Ordan blocked the attack easily, then sighed. “You still hold back,” he said. To most people the words would have sounded angry—most of the Shalis’s speech sounded that way—but Caeden understood that this was a gentle reprimand, an almost-fond rebuke. “When you fight for your life, will you do so then?”

  Caeden shook his head. “Of course not. But I have no wish to injure you.”

  Ordan just watched him, the sinuous lines of his body swaying gracefully. “You know my people will bring me back. You know you can defeat me. You could leave this place today, Tal’kamar. You could return to Silvithrin and fight the Shadowbreakers. Why do you hesitate?”

  Caeden paused, searching his heart for the truth. “I fear that in returning to fight them, like this, I may become like them,” he said quietly. It was a hard thing to admit, but the Shalis did not believe in subtlety, false modesty, or lies. They were wise. Perhaps, with this admission, Ordan could help him.

  But the serpentine man only sighed. “We each have our temptations, Tal’kamar. We each have our own battles that must be fought.” He paused. “But you must fight them, my friend. You cannot hide from them. Otherwise you will never be more than you are.”

  Caeden nodded, though he had hoped for more reassurance. Still, what his friend had said made a lot of sense. He couldn’t hide from what was coming, just as his people could not.

  “Again, then,” he said, tone grim, taking the stance.

  They circled, and this time he felt oddly at peace, no longer nervous. When Ordan’s attack came he didn’t even break stride; the barrier dissolved the bolt long before it reached him. He dug inside himself, then pictured Ordan bursting into flame. Not just his skin, but his insides, his entire body from head to tail. The Shalis were vulnerable to fire, but he drew more from his Reserve, letting the power build up. More. More.

  He released.

  Ordan was expecting the blast, but his shield was nothing compared to the power of Caeden’s blow. The shield shattered and Ordan screamed in pain as tongues of fire engulfed him; his scaly skin began to shimmer and then melt as the intense heat devoured all. Caeden made himself watch, though it tore him up inside to do so. His friend would be reborn, as the Shalis always were. He knew it would be painful for Ordan, hated himself for doing this. Yet it was necessary. Ordan was right. He needed to return home.

  Another Shalis—Indral, he thought, though they all looked very similar—came and busied himself next to Ordan’s smoking body. Gently he picked it up, powerful arms having no trouble lifting the corpse. He turned to Caeden.

  “He will be proud of you, Tal’kamar,” he said in his unusual high-pitched voice. The words were blunt, but Caeden thought he detected a hint of respect in them. That was something, coming from Indral, who had always been against his being allowed to train here.

  Caeden stared at the corpse sadly. “Will I be able to speak to him before I leave?”

  “No.” Indral was emphatic. “You have completed your training, and Ordan will not return for months yet. Rebirth in the Forges is a slow process. You will need to be gone before then.” Indral was not being rude, Caeden decided, only practical. The Shalis were like that: blunt, often difficult to read.

  He felt a wave of regret as he glanced around. He would never see this place again, of that he was certain.

  “Tell him it was an honor,” he said to Indral quietly.

  “I will, Tal’kamar. Farewell.” Indral slithered off with Ordan’s body.

  Caeden flexed his burned shoulder, grimacing in pain, then moved off toward his quarters. He needed to pack.

  He was going home.

  Caeden woke, a light sheen of sweat on his brow.

  He rolled onto his side, gazing up at the predawn sky. Another dream. As the others had, this one was already fading; even now he could grasp only the odd detail here and there. The snakelike creature he’d been friends with—so similar to the dar’gaithin. The strange fortress where he’d lived, if only for a time.

  He hadn’t told the others about the dreams. Alaris’s warning still echoed in his head, and, as he had tonight, sometimes he saw things… if he told them the truth they’d think he was crazy, or worse, a threat. Taeris’s removing his Shackle had meant a lot. Caeden didn’t want to force him to put it back on.

  Soon enough the others were awake, and they were traveling once again. The roads had been heavy with traffic over the past few days—and many of the travelers had borne ominous news. There was trouble in the north, an invasion of some kind. Details were scarce, but Caeden could see how Taeris was beginning to look more worried with each mention of it.

  He rubbed the tattoo on his arm absently. The fact that this invasion was from the north—where the Boundary lay—had not been lost on him. That glowing wolf’s head, always in the corner of his vision, was a constant, unsettling reminder that he was likely connected somehow.

  They proceeded for a while in companionable silence; at about midday the road forked, and the steady stream of people coming the other way suddenly stopped. For several hours after that, they walked without seeing anyone, and the silence of the group gradually became an anxious one.

  Late in the afternoon, Taeris held up his hand, signaling that they should halt.

  “Do you smell that?” he asked. He turned to the others, seeing the answer to his question in their wrinkled noses, and Dezia holding a kerchief to her face.

  There was a stench on the breeze that had just sprung up, the sickening smell of rotting meat. Not just a whiff, though, as would happen if an animal had died nearby. This was strong and constant.

  “What is it?” asked Wirr, almost gagging.

  Taeris shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he said in a worried tone, “but I think we’re going to find out soon enough.”

  They kept moving along the road, which was still deserted. As Caeden crested the next rise, he let out an involuntary gasp, freezing in his tracks as he took in the scene before him. Behind him he could hear equally horrified sounds from his companions as they saw what he was seeing.

  The bodies were everywhere.

  They lined the road for hundreds of feet ahead, draped over piles of gray stone rubble. Many of the corpses were sliced open and already rotting under the hot sun; black carrion birds flocked wherever he looked, pecking at eyes and entrails with ecstatic fervor, barely bothered by the arrival of living
humans.

  To Caeden’s horror, he realized some of the bodies had been carefully arranged in lewd embraces. In some places men’s heads had been removed and sewn onto the bodies of women. He forced himself to look even closer. Some of the men’s heads were on children’s bodies, too.

  He turned and retched, vaguely relieved to hear he was not the only one doing so.

  His stomach emptied, he forced himself to turn back to the scene. With a chill Caeden realized that the piles of stones he could see were all that remained of a large township.

  “Gahille,” said Taeris, dismay in his voice. “I’ve been here before. This was a big town. It had its own wall, and a garrison to protect it.”

  The wall was gone now, only a few stones jutting up from the grass a reminder of it. There were no buildings left standing. Just a flat expanse that stretched out ahead, broken by the small hills of stone that indicated something had once stood there.

  “Who could have done this?” whispered Caeden. He felt another wave of nausea.

  “The sha’teth?” asked Aelric. He was doing better than the others. Still, he looked a little unsteady as he surveyed the carnage.

  Taeris took a deep breath, trying not to breathe through his nose. “No,” he said after a moment. “The sha’teth would not bother to do this. They haven’t changed that much. Whoever, or whatever, was here reveled in what they were doing.”

  “We should see if there are any survivors,” said Wirr.

  Taeris shook his head. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea. It could still be dangerous.”

  “I’ll not feel right if we leave without at least looking,” pressed Wirr.

  Aelric stepped forward, nodding. “I agree. We need to look.”

  Taeris sighed. “As you wish,” he said, though his tone was heavy with reluctance.

  They walked forward slowly, checking for any sign of life, each of them now breathing through a kerchief to lessen the chance of sickness. Some of the corpses were entirely rotten, while others looked almost fresh; the stench of death was overpowering at times, making Caeden’s eyes water.