“I removed my influence from your mind,” said Malshash, sounding tired.
Davian gaped at him. “You’ve been Controlling me?” He took a step forward angrily. “All this time?”
“No.” Malshash looked guilty, but his tone was firm. “Not Controlling. Influencing. Feeding. Focusing.” He gave a small smile. “Your mind is exceptional, Davian, have no doubt about that. But no one can learn what you have learned in a couple of weeks. Not without help.”
Davian opened his mouth to protest, but was suddenly struck by just how hard he’d been studying and practicing. He had been sleeping one, maybe two hours a day, and hadn’t questioned it. The oddity of it hit him. He knew that it had before, too—remembered thinking it curious before now—but somehow he’d never been motivated to follow up on the thought.
“You’ve been keeping me awake. Alert,” he said, some of his initial anger dissipating.
Malshash shrugged. “That, and keeping you focused on the task at hand. A little too focused, apparently.” He shook his head, chagrined. “You have a hundred different questions about the things I know. Some of them I wouldn’t answer, the rest I couldn’t, and none of that was going to be conducive to your studies. With the time we had, Davian, you couldn’t just get no answers. You had to forget there were questions.” He screwed up his face. “I truly am sorry, but you needed to be ready. If I hadn’t done this, you wouldn’t have had a chance of surviving the trip back through the rift.”
Davian clenched his fists. Some of those questions were already coming back to him, and he didn’t know which ones to ask first. “At least tell me one thing.”
Malshash gave him a wary look. “It depends on the question,” he warned.
“You said that you stole your shape-shifting ability from the Ath. That you gave up your ability to See.” He gestured in confusion. “I’ve read nothing like that, anywhere in the library. I’ve never heard of it even being possible. These abilities are all just applications of kan, aren’t they? If you can do one, why not another?”
Malshash rubbed his chin. “That is too complicated a question to answer properly right now,” he said. “The short version is, it’s just a very complex use of Control. I’m linked to the part of the Ath’s mind that understands shape-shifting—not the theoretical knowledge, but what you would call the talent, her unique mixture of instinct and experience. When I shape-shift, I use both her talent and my own. When she tries to shape-shift, she hits a kind of mental barrier. As long as I hold the link, it’s like at a very deep level, she just can’t grasp how to do it.”
Davian gave a thoughtful nod, accepting the explanation. “And when you gave up Foresight?”
“It was the same,” admitted Malshash. “I could try to See right now, but it simply wouldn’t work—any natural sense I have for it is completely blocked.”
“But why? Why give away your ability?” He frowned. “And to whom?”
Malshash sighed. “I gave it away because of what you saw before,” he said quietly. “Seeing can work in both directions, forwards and backwards. Not many people know that. Most people with the talent are naturally focused on what is to come. But I…” He shook his head. “When I See, I go back there. I was reliving it, again and again, every time I closed my eyes. I couldn’t make it stop any other way.” He paused. “Whom I gave it to is not your concern, though.”
Davian opened his mouth, but grunted as another attack punched into him. It felt as if his stomach were eating itself from the inside. He doubled over, gasping for breath. He knew it would pass—there had been three since he’d begun waiting for Malshash—but they seemed to be increasing in intensity.
Malshash watched him, looking troubled. “There’s no more time, Davian. We need to do this now.”
Davian nodded and followed Malshash into the building and along the long corridor. As they walked, more and more questions filled Davian’s head. He scowled to himself.
“Tell me one last thing before I leave,” he said.
Malshash hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”
“Why do you wear the faces of the people at the wedding? The ones who…”
“The ones I killed,” finished Malshash. He looked at Davian with an expression of immense sadness. “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”
“Figured out what?”
Malshash hesitated. “A shape-shifter can only take the form of someone who is dead,” he said eventually.
“Oh.” Davian lapsed into silence. Malshash was watching him expectantly, but Davian didn’t know how he was supposed to react to that news. Idly he wondered again about the identity of the blond-haired man he had changed into. Whoever it had been was dead? It didn’t bring him any closer to determining who it was. He wondered why Malshash had thought it so important to hide that detail from him.
They were in the enormous room now, and Davian could see the Jha’vett itself, lit up between the columns. As they approached, Malshash reached beneath his cloak and drew something out—an object that fit into the palm of his hand, shining slightly even in the dull light. They stopped just short of the altar, and Malshash held out the object for Davian to see.
“We need to do one last thing before you go.”
Davian stared in disbelief. The small bronze box gleamed, the strange symbols on it as alien as ever to his eyes. He stepped forward, snatching it from Malshash’s grasp and examining it closely.
There could be no doubt. This was the same Vessel that had guided him to Caeden.
He shook it at Malshash. “Explain.”
Malshash shook his head. “There’s no time.” He put one hand over the box and the other on Davian’s forehead; there was a flash of energy, a warmth flowing through him for a moment. Without asking, Davian knew that Malshash had just linked him to the box.
Davian just stared at him, incredulous. “You lied to me, didn’t you? You said you didn’t know anything about my future… but that was before you showed me how to see lies through a shield.”
Malshash didn’t deny it, tucking the box back into his pocket. He faced Davian, looking him in the eye.
“I tell you this, I tell you everything—and that’s not safe for either of us. The only secrets a mind cannot give up are those it doesn’t know,” he said softly. “You taught me that, Davian.”
Davian looked at him, head spinning. “I taught you—”
Another attack hit him without warning and he cut off, falling to his knees. Pain ripped through his stomach, his chest. He felt as if he might burst open at any moment.
Malshash ran to him, then looped a supporting arm under him and steadied him. They made their way over to the altar. Malshash helped Davian to sit on it, then held his hand out, palm up. Davian reluctantly slipped the silver ring off his finger.
So this was it. The moment had finally come. His stomach hurt too much for him to feel the butterflies, but he knew they were there.
“Just tell me,” groaned Davian, not taking his eyes from the ring. “Should I be trying to get that box to Caeden—the man it leads me to in my time?”
“Yes,” snapped Malshash, his tone impatient. “Now clear your mind, Davian. It’s time to concentrate.”
Davian gritted his teeth—he had so many more questions he wanted to ask—but he gave a reluctant nod. He knew that aside from the training he’d been doing, there was no real way to prepare for what was coming. Even Malshash had admitted that everything he knew of the rift was theoretical. Davian was probably the only person ever to have survived it, and now he had to do it again.
Malshash placed the ring on the ground, then knelt and put his hand over it. He hesitated, though, twisting so he could look up at Davian.
“I have something I need you to remember. A message from me,” he said. “That it was worth it. It changed me. And… I am so very sorry.”
Davian frowned, repeating the message as he noticed a glow beginning to shine out from beneath Malshash’s hand. “Who is it for?”
/> Malshash didn’t reply for a few moments, then lifted his hand. All that remained of the ring was a small pool of molten metal on the ground. He stood, turning toward Davian. Even as he moved, Davian realized he was beginning to fade.
“It’s for you, Davian,” said Malshash softly. “You’ll understand one day.”
The gray torrent washed him from view. Davian was once again within the rift.
* * *
The river of gray nothingness was just as terrifying as before, but this time Davian’s mind reacted with instinctive discipline. After the first few moments of chaos, he found himself concentrating, focusing on the flow rather than struggling to break free of it. As he did so it gradually slowed, until it was a gentle stream rather than a raging river. He hovered within it, not comfortably, but no longer fearful of being torn apart by the raw power of this place.
He floated for a moment, or an hour, or a day—there was no way to tell here. The longer he looked, the more he could see differences in the gray. A lighter patch here, a darker section there. Places he could go to, if he so wished. Times he could go to.
But that was not where the flow was taking him. Time was trying to correct itself; though Malshash had not said so, it seemed only logical to Davian that the forces within the rift would therefore try to take him back to where he was supposed to be. So he passed by the distinct sections he made out—portals, as he thought of them—and waited patiently for a sign.
When that sign came, it was unmistakable. To one side the grays were banished by a shining light, so bright that it reminded him of pure Essence. He pushed himself forward, not struggling, but guiding himself toward the light. He reached out to touch it.
He groaned.
How long had he been lying there? The stone was cold and rough against his cheek. His body felt drained, and hunger and thirst stabbed at him everywhere. He rolled, trying to get his bearings.
Nihim’s sightless eyes stared at him glassily.
The pool of blood surrounding him had long since dried, black and flaky where Davian was lying in it. Davian stared sadly at the priest’s body, the memories of what had happened rushing back. Somehow he’d hoped Nihim had survived, had miraculously been saved. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the priest had bled out on the ground next to him, but it did.
From the corner of his eye, Davian spotted something a little way away from Nihim’s corpse. Forcing himself to his knees, he reached over to the satchel, slowly unbuckling it and emptying its contents on the ground. Some fruit, well and truly rotten. Some tough strips of salted meat, which he wolfed down without a second thought.
Best of all was the canteen of water. Though he was tempted to try to down it all in a single gulp, Davian forced himself to take small sips, wetting his throat and moistening his lips only. There was a fountain a few streets away, but Davian had no idea if it would still be running in this time.
He was still awfully weak. He briefly thought about trying to bury Nihim’s body, but dismissed the idea as impractical—not only was he not strong enough, but almost the entire city to the outskirts was paved. He nodded a silent, sad good-bye to the priest, then set off down the street.
Despite knowing it was ninety years later, Davian felt completely at home; nothing in the city seemed to have changed at all. Still, it was with some relief that he arrived at the Central Fountain to see it in proper working order. Without wasting another second he opened his canteen and drank, savoring the cold, refreshing liquid as it flowed down his throat.
It barely helped, though. His muscles were stiff and aching; every step sent a jolt through his entire body. He stumbled over to one of the few remaining trees, then leaned against it and drained it of its Essence. He felt better as it blackened and crumbled, but not strong. He made his way gradually to the next, and the next, until they were all gone.
He felt healthier—but far from whole. Still not well enough to make it out of the city. The rift had sucked his body dry of Essence, had weakened him too much.
He slowly made his way to the house where he and Malshash had stayed, but when he arrived it was empty, the cupboards bare. There wasn’t even any fuel for a fire.
He closed his eyes, trying to think. He needed Essence. The Jha’vett was probably too far, even if he was willing to risk going near it again. Deilannis sucked Essence dry almost everywhere else… everywhere but a few places, like the Great Library. He was in no state to get out of the city, but he could make it there.
It took him almost thirty minutes, by his estimate, to shuffle to the library. Like everything else, the enormous domed building was exactly as he remembered it, every detail identical to how he’d left it nearly a century earlier. Too weak to do anything except marvel at the fact, he stumbled inside, relieved to see the cool blue light of the Adviser glowing in the main chamber.
He collapsed against the short column, placing his hands over the blue light. He could feel it this time, now he knew what to look for. He wasn’t controlling it, but his body was reaching out toward the Essence, sucking it in.
He drew a deep breath as his muscles relaxed, the ache of his head and stomach fading. He straightened, flexing his arms and legs experimentally.
“Not bad,” he muttered to himself.
He turned to go, then hesitated. He was in the Great Library, knew how to use the Adviser. Before, when he’d been there, his mind had been influenced by Malshash. He could see that clearly now. All the knowledge of the world at his fingertips, and he hadn’t even been curious?
He knew he should leave, but he also knew that the opportunity he had right now might never come again.
He placed his hands over the blue light of the Adviser and closed his eyes. What topics did he need to know about? He’d already read plenty of books on Augur abilities; he probably wouldn’t benefit much from more of those. What he did need was information on the threat that was coming to Andarra. He needed to know more about Aarkein Devaed. He needed to know more about the invaders he’d seen.
He pictured their armor in his mind. That strange symbol, the three wavy lines.
He opened his eyes. A single tendril of blue light was snaking out, beyond the room. Davian hurried after it, eventually discovering where it had come to rest. A thick tome, bound in black leather, sitting beneath a pile of other books on a table in the corner.
Davian picked it up and dusted it off. It had no title on the cover, so he flipped it open.
“A Collection of Darecian Fables,” he said, reading the title aloud. An odd book to have information on Devaed, but this had been the first the Adviser had chosen. It had never steered him wrong in the past.
He hurried back, ready to collect the next tome. When he came to the main chamber, though, he stopped dead.
No more tendrils of light emanated from the Adviser. The blue glow of the column itself was dimmer—much dimmer, in fact.
Davian rushed forward, crouching so that he was at eye level with the light.
“No,” he muttered in frustration. “Not yet. Not now.” He stood, placing his hands on the Adviser and concentrating on Augur abilities. He knew there were books on that topic here—plenty of them.
When he opened his eyes, the light in the Adviser had gone dead.
“Two thousand years,” muttered Davian in disgust, “and you couldn’t hang on for another ten minutes.” He gave the column a light kick, doing more damage to his toes than to the Adviser.
He knew what had happened. Like any Vessel, the Adviser stored a certain amount of Essence—and when it ran low, it drew on the Essence of the Gifted using it. Except Davian had drawn from it instead, draining the remaining Essence from the device, sucking it dry to restore his body to full health. It was a trade he’d had to make, but that knowledge made him no less irritated at the situation. The Adviser could be recharged, of course… but only with another source of Essence. Something not readily available to him at the moment.
Reluctantly slipping the sole book he had managed
to find under his arm, he left, making his way out of the Great Library and down past the silent buildings of Deilannis. Orkoth would be around somewhere, but Davian knew he had nothing to fear from the creature, so he walked without concern for being seen.
Despite his lack of success at the Great Library, his heart was lighter than it had been in a while. He was back in his own time. More than that, he was able to wield the power of the Augurs—and Essence as an added bonus.
He paused, the thought reminding him of what had happened after his first trip through the rift. He pulled up his shirtsleeve. The skin was still smooth beneath; despite his being back in his own time, his Mark had not returned. Interesting. Perhaps if he avoided using too much Essence, he could keep free of the Tenets altogether.
Davian imagined Wirr’s face when he revealed his bare forearm, told him what he’d just been through. He smiled to himself. Wirr no doubt assumed he was dead. Though the thought should hardly have been amusing, his friend’s expression simply at seeing him walk into the palace would no doubt be something to remember.
Then, for the first time in weeks, his thoughts drifted to the school.
During his time under Malshash’s influence, his grief—so sharp just before Deilannis—had been… muted. Almost forgotten, so focused had he been on study. Now he was fully himself again, the pain of what had happened at Caladel returned—but it was fainter, an ache rather than an open wound. Sadness rather than anguish.
For the first time, he felt as if he’d moved on. That things were going to get better.
He made his way to the Northern Bridge, walking quickly but not hurrying. In some ways he had grown fond of the city over the past couple of weeks, and there was beauty in its design when one could observe it without fear. He drank in the familiar sight of the gracefully sloped buildings and perfectly smooth roads, silent and shrouded in the pervasive eerie white though they were. This was the last time he’d see them. He had no intention of ever coming back, of risking any sort of proximity to the rift again.
Then he was crossing the bridge; after a few minutes he broke through the edge of the fog and into warm, bright sunlight. He squinted as pain shot through his eyes, unaccustomed as they were to the direct light of day. Once they had adjusted he stood there for a few moments, face toward the sun, drinking in its warmth. Its life. He could feel it now, he realized, even without concentrating. His body was drawing energy from the light and heat, sustaining itself.
The Shadow of What Was Lost Page 49