The Shadow of What Was Lost

by James Islington

  Asha gave a reluctant nod, then offered the ring back to Elocien.

  The duke hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.

  “Keep it,” he said. “Just don’t let Ionis see it.” He paused. “And it probably goes without saying, but be very careful of Ionis if you come across him in your duties as Representative. He’s a zealot—the worst kind. Give him the opportunity, and he’d wipe out every Gifted and Shadow in existence.”

  Asha inclined her head. “I will be.”

  They talked a little more after that, but before long Asha made her excuses and headed back toward her rooms. She wanted to be alone for a while, to gather her racing thoughts. To try to calmly determine what this all meant.

  She shook her head, still dazed, as she made her way along the palace hallways, rolling the silver ring idly in her hand. Her Reserve was intact, just… blocked off, somehow. Could Davian have been right? Was it possible to somehow undo having become a Shadow?

  Then she frowned, coming to a gradual halt as she realized something else. For the first time, Asha felt certain that Davian had actually spoken to her that day—had been there in the room with her. She knew that it hadn’t been some kind of odd dream.

  Asha slipped the ring onto her finger, and walked on. She had a lot to think about.

  * * *

  Erran looked up as Asha entered the Lockroom.

  “Quick thinking earlier,” he said once she’d shut the door. “I gather Ionis wasn’t too happy with Elocien?”

  Asha shook her head. “Decidedly unhappy.” She sat opposite the Augur, silent for a moment. “Before he interrupted us—”

  “It’s dangerous, Asha,” interjected Erran, his expression serious. Their conversation from the storeroom had obviously been on his mind, too. “I couldn’t guarantee your safety.”

  Asha took a deep breath. If Davian was really alive, then Ilseth had lied to her—lied to everyone—about why she’d been made a Shadow. And there had to be a reason for that.

  “I don’t care,” she said quietly. “I want you to try and restore my memories.” She set her features into a grim mask of determination and looked Erran in the eye, daring him to refuse her.

  “I want to remember what happened at Caladel.”

  Chapter 35

  Davian grinned as he walked around Malshash, watching the almost motionless man.

  The stone he had dropped only a split second ago continued its gradual fall away from his outstretched hand, inching toward the ground. Davian had now been observing its descent for at least a count of ten.

  They had spent the last few days working on this ability, one of the hardest to master according to Malshash, and one of the most relevant to Davian’s return through the rift. The mysterious Augur had been hesitant about using it here in Deilannis—he was worried about what the effects might be, this close to the Jha’vett—but his determination that Davian learn the ability had won out.

  It had been frustrating at first; aside from trying to use Essence, Davian had never had so much trouble learning anything in his life. Even now he sweated with the strain of concentration, letting time move all around him but letting it touch him as little as possible. It had been a difficult concept to explain for both Malshash and the authors of the books he’d read, and now Davian understood why. It was like trying to stand in a stream of water without getting wet.

  He leaned down, grabbing the stone in midair, allowing the time bubble—as he thought of it—to encapsulate it as well. That was important, otherwise the stone would in reality be moving at speeds its structure could not handle, and would likely disintegrate or melt. He moved a few paces away from Malshash and then relaxed, allowing time to crash back into him. It was momentarily disorienting, but he quickly recovered.

  Malshash blinked, then realized the stone had vanished from in front of him. He looked up at Davian, who opened his palm to display the smooth rock, grinning.

  Malshash smiled back. “Excellent, Davian.” The praise was genuine, but he seemed less enthusiastic today for some reason.

  Davian still had not been able to figure out the enigmatic stranger, who this morning wore the face of a handsome young man with jet-black hair, dark skin, and deep, piercing eyes. At times Malshash acted distant, like today; at others he was jovial, friendly. Mostly, though, Davian thought he seemed sad. Occasionally he would catch Malshash watching him train, and there would be such a look of pain on his face that it almost made him stop.

  He didn’t intrude as to why, though. Whenever he asked personal questions of Malshash, the Augur simply went quiet. Those matters were something Malshash clearly had no interest in talking about.

  Davian accepted the compliment with an inclined head, the feeling of accomplishment a warmth in his belly. “Necessity is a wonderful motivator,” he said in a dry tone. Then he grinned. “I have to say, though, that kan is… amazing. These abilities, this power, is more than I could ever have dreamed. I’ve never experienced anything like it.”

  Malshash studied him for a moment. “I understand,” he said quietly, “but be very wary of enjoying yourself too much. Most Augurs learn these powers as they grow up—are taught their proper applications over the course of years, not weeks.”

  Davian’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”

  Malshash shrugged. “Augurs are supposed to train in each power for a year and a day before they are allowed to use it in the real world. You’re going to have a grand total of a few weeks for all of them, if we’re lucky. On top of that, you’ve been striving for your powers for so long, and now you’re receiving them all at once. On the one hand, that will make you more appreciative of them. On the other, it could make you overeager to use them.”

  Davian raised an eyebrow. “So… you don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not that,” Malshash rushed to assure him. “It’s only that I’ve seen firsthand what power like this can do to the best of people. I’m not suggesting it will happen to you. But believe me, you will be tested. You’ll have opportunities—many opportunities—to use kan in ways that will benefit you, but are not strictly… moral. It’s a constant temptation, Davian. There is a reason why the training is supposed to take so long. You need to be prepared for the new choices these powers give you.”

  Davian nodded, though he still felt vaguely irritated at the suggestion that he would abuse his abilities. “Of course.”

  Malshash watched him for a moment longer, then nodded in a satisfied manner. “Good.” He stroked his chin. Davian often wondered whether his real form had a beard, for it was a habit of his, regardless of the face he wore. “Which power should we try next?”

  Davian didn’t have to think; he knew which one he wanted to try the most. “Foresight.”

  Malshash hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I suppressed that ability for a reason, Davian. It’s just too dangerous here.”

  “But surely it’s the closest ability to traveling through the rift itself,” pointed out Davian. “Isn’t it worth the risk?”

  Malshash looked uncomfortable. “It doesn’t matter. I gave up the power to See some time ago,” he confessed. “I don’t have the knowledge of how to do it.”

  “What?” Davian frowned in confusion. “You… gave it up? Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Malshash rubbed the back of his neck tiredly, his tone indicating he wished to discuss the topic no further. “I can’t See, and so I am of little help to you in that regard.”

  Davian scowled. “Why not just tell me?”

  Malshash met his gaze, a chill in his stare. “Because it’s none of your business, Davian.” He held up his hand. “I know that’s not a satisfactory answer, but it’s all you’re going to get. So please. Let it go.”

  Davian grimaced, but nodded his acquiescence. If Malshash wanted to be mysterious, that was his prerogative, so long as he taught Davian what was needed to get home. “Fine. If you don’t know how to See, do you at least know something about it? The books all said t
hat the visions inevitably come to pass… but as I told you, in my time the Augurs were overthrown after their visions stopped coming true. What does that mean?”

  Malshash hesitated. “If what I’ve come to believe here, these past couple of weeks, is true… it means they were tricked, Davian. It’s as simple as that.”

  “So you don’t believe the future can be changed?”

  “I did, once. I… hoped it could be,” admitted Malshash. “But from what I’ve seen… the future can no more be changed than the past.”

  Davian frowned. “So our fate is set, no matter what we do? We can’t change anything?”

  Malshash inclined his head. “I think so—though perhaps that’s not the best way to think about it,” he said quietly. “The future may be immutable, but it’s not because our choices do not change anything. It’s that they already have changed things. The decisions you make tomorrow are the same as those you made yesterday—still your choices and still with consequences, but unalterable. The only difference is your knowledge of the decisions you made yesterday.”

  Davian screwed up his face. “I don’t understand.”

  Malshash sighed. “When you came to this time, you momentarily stepped outside of time. A place where time doesn’t exist. Nothing to separate events from one another, or to give them length. They happen simultaneously and for eternity.” He shrugged. “In short, all that will happen, has already happened. It’s just that we are experiencing it through the lens of time.”

  Davian shook his head. “I don’t accept that. There has to be another explanation.”

  Malshash grunted. “You’re not a believer in El, then?”

  Davian frowned at the question. “Not especially. That religion has been all but destroyed in my time—in Andarra at least.”

  Malshash raised an eyebrow. “Has it now,” he murmured. He nodded to himself. “I see. Because of what you told me about the Augurs.”

  Davian nodded. “As soon as they began to get things wrong, people started losing faith. After the Unseen War, the Loyalists decided it meant either El had never existed, his plan had gone awry somehow, or that he was dead—and that in any case, no one should be worshipping him.”

  Malshash sighed. “Such is the way of weak men,” he murmured. “Daring to believe only in what can be seen, touched, and measured.”

  Davian frowned. “I thought the logic made a kind of sense.”

  Malshash shook his head ruefully. “It does—that’s the problem. It was always a danger, priests pointing to the abilities of men as proof of the existence of God. Already, even in this time, they are becoming reliant on the acts of the Augurs to proclaim El’s existence. It sounds like it will destroy them.”

  “So you believe?” asked Davian.

  Malshash hesitated. “In His existence? Yes,” he said slowly. “Do you know why the Augurs were thought to prove it?”

  Davian nodded, thinking back to what Mistress Alita had taught him. “El was supposed to have the perfect plan, to be in complete control of the world. The Grand Design. You can’t have a perfect plan if men can determine their own futures—and the Augurs were proof that the future was set.” He raised an eyebrow. “Until they started getting things wrong.”

  “Exactly.” Malshash sighed. “Everyone thinks of us as great men. Wise. Untouchable. But you’re an Augur, Davian. You don’t think you could be tricked?”

  Davian made to protest, then hesitated. He thought back to how Tenvar had fooled him at the school. “I suppose I could.”

  “And if a great power—an ancient, malevolent power—bent its entire will to fooling you?”

  Davian paled. “Is that what happened to the Augurs?”

  “Maybe.” Malshash shrugged. “I can only speculate.”

  Davian frowned. “You said an ancient power. A malevolent power.” His eyes narrowed. “Were you talking about Aarkein Devaed?”

  Malshash grimaced. “No.”

  “He really exists, though?” Davian shuffled his feet nervously. “He’s still alive, after all this time?”

  Malshash chuckled, though the sound was humorless. “Oh yes. He is very much alive.” He rose, indicating the end of the conversation. “Enough about that. We should take a break for a meal, and then continue your training.”

  Davian gave an absent nod in response. For a moment he wanted to pursue what Malshash had said… but even as he opened his mouth the desire left him, replaced by excitement at the prospect of learning new skills. “Can we try shape-shifting next?” he asked, unable to keep the eagerness from his tone.

  Malshash shook his head. “Another skill that is too dangerous,” he admitted. “There’s a good reason you didn’t know about it before you came here. No Augur who has discovered the ability has ever passed on its knowledge. That alone should tell you how unsafe it is.”

  Davian sighed. Along with Seeing, shape-shifting had been the ability he’d been most looking forward to learning. “I’ll take the risk,” he said stubbornly. He grinned. “If you’ve seen me in the future, it means it can’t kill me, right?”

  “True, but it isn’t relevant to what you need to know to get home.” Malshash gave him an apologetic shrug. “We don’t have time for anything extra, Davian. Your bond here will begin weakening soon. It’s already been two weeks; I’m surprised there have been no problems as it is. And I still don’t believe you’re ready to face the rift again.”

  Davian thought about protesting, but decided against it. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I think I’ll stay here and do some reading, if you want to eat.”

  Malshash hesitated, but nodded. “I’ll bring back some food. See you in an hour or so.” He turned and walked through the door, leaving Davian alone in the Great Library once again.

  Davian sat for a while, lost in thought.

  Then he came to a decision. He moved over to place his hand on the Adviser and closed his eyes, concentrating.

  The blue line shot straight for one of the books on a nearby shelf. Davian grabbed it, then flipped through until he found what he was looking for: the section entitled Shape-shifting, best practices.

  He scanned the text, frowning. The entry was only a page long—but he knew that in the other books he’d read, shape-shifting was mentioned only briefly, too, if at all. It appeared Malshash had been right about its knowledge not being passed on.

  The description in this book of how to undertake the process was vague, but it sounded simple enough. Davian read the section a few times to make sure he understood everything, then closed his eyes.

  He held a picture of Wirr in his mind. The book specified that the shape-shifter needed only a passing familiarity with the appearance of whomever they were trying to change into, an “imprint” of the person, but Davian thought it would be safest to pick someone he knew well. He drew on kan, let the dark substance settle into his flesh, cooling and warming at the same time. He pictured Wirr in his mind as clearly as he could, then willed his own flesh, his own face, to look the same.

  Immense pain tore through him.

  A scream ripped from his throat as he fell to the ground. Every nerve ending in his body felt as if it were being burned by ice, and his eyes felt as if someone were scraping hot knives across them. He could feel his ribs expanding, his bones growing, his muscles contorting themselves into position around his changing ligaments. His skin stretched until it felt as though it would break apart. He tasted blood.

  Then it was over. He lay on the cold stone floor for several minutes, drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind trying to recover from what had just happened. Eventually he forced himself to kneel, then stand. He shuffled unsteadily on shaky legs that were longer than he was used to. He was taller; everything looked just a little farther down than normal.

  Despite the aches, despite the memory of the fierce, unimaginable pain, he smiled to himself. It had worked.

  He hurried down a corridor into a room which he knew contained a mirror. As he came within sight of hi
s reflection, he froze, staring in horror.

  His features, his body, were normal enough. But they were not Wirr’s.

  The reflection in the mirror was of an older man, at least in his thirties. He had dirty blond hair and was of a size with Wirr, but there the similarities ended. He had a hooked nose and small, beady black eyes. When Davian tried to smile, his lips curled upward into a sneer instead. His skin was weather-beaten rather than tanned—the skin of a sailor, perhaps? Whoever the man was, Davian was quite certain he had never seen him before.

  Davian scowled as he continued to examine his new visage. This man had facial scars, too; if anything, they stood out more than Davian’s. That had been one of the fantasies he’d had about shape-shifting—that he could finally wear a face that wasn’t marred.

  “Davian? Where are you?” It was Malshash calling out, apparently having returned sooner than expected. Either that or Davian had been unconscious longer than he’d realized.

  For a second he considered trying to turn back, to hide what he’d done. But he knew immediately that it would not work, and was too dangerous besides. He was probably fortunate to have survived the first transition alone. He needed Malshash’s help to return to his normal body.

  He slowly walked back down the corridor to the main chamber. Malshash was laying out some food on a nearby table, his back turned.

  “I’m here,” said Davian, flinching as the voice emanating from his throat was deeper, huskier than his own.

  Malshash whirled in alarm. Before Davian knew what was happening he was frozen to the spot, unable to move, though he could feel no bindings holding him in place. He stared at Malshash pleadingly.