The Shadow of What Was Lost

by James Islington

  “Michal. Ashalia.” Wirr nodded politely. “A pleasure to meet you both. You are the Representatives for Athian?”

  Michal bowed, and Asha remembered to curtsy just in time, trying not to smile as she did so.

  “We are, Your Highness,” said Michal. “It is a pleasure to meet you, too.”

  Wirr inclined his head, then leaned back, studying them openly. “So. A Shadow as a Representative,” he said, looking at Asha with a raised eyebrow. “An unusual choice.”

  “One that we have not regretted, Sire,” Michal assured him. “Asha is a quick study; she’ll one day make an excellent addition to the Assembly. I could not have asked for more.”

  Wirr nodded, looking thoughtful. He stared at Asha intently. “High praise,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement back in his eyes. “And I’ve heard good things from other sources, too. I’m impressed.”

  Asha kept her face smooth. “Thank you, Your Highness. That means so much to me,” she said with as much sincerity as she could muster.

  The corners of Wirr’s mouth crept upward, and he was about to say something more when an older man—one of the generals, Asha thought from his uniform—hurried past, going straight to King Andras and whispering something in his ear. The king glowered at whatever the man had said, then shooed him away, gesturing to Elocien.

  The duke paled as the news the king had been given was relayed, then stood, heading straight for Wirr. He frowned for a moment when he saw Asha sitting opposite Wirr, but relaxed again once he realized that Michal was there, too. He bent over Wirr’s shoulder.

  “You’re needed, Son,” he said, his voice calm. “Our army has been broken.” The Northwarden glanced across at Michal and Asha. “You two should come as well. I think Tol Athian may need to have some say in what happens next.”

  “Of course,” said Michal, looking sick.

  Asha’s stomach churned too as she processed the news. Despite having known what was coming, she’d still been clinging to the hope that it would turn out differently.

  They trailed after Elocien and Wirr, leaving the hubbub of the feast behind them as they moved into an adjoining room. The king had already seated himself, and he gestured for everyone else to follow suit. Princess Karaliene was there, as were Laiman Kardai and Dras Lothlar, the latter looking especially displeased to see Michal and Asha.

  The group was soon completed by Ionis, who looked even more disgruntled when he realized that both Tol Athian and Tol Shen were represented.

  “What are they doing here?” he asked irritably, gesturing at Michal and Asha.

  “I invited them,” said Elocien. “This discussion will doubtless revolve around the Gifted. They have just as much right to be a part of that conversation as us, Ionis.”

  Ionis muttered something inaudible, but subsided as the duke looked at him steadily. Once the Administrator was seated, a middle-aged man—a general named Parathe, if Asha remembered correctly—stood.

  “Jash’tar’s forces haven’t just been broken. They have been decimated,” announced Parathe. There was a heaviness to his tone, a despondency that made Asha’s heart sink.

  Everyone just stared at the general for a moment, with more than one face going pale at the news.

  “How?” asked Elocien. “They were told to dig in, to hold them up. Possibly to negotiate, if that was an option. But to retreat if necessary.”

  Parathe shook his head. “It wasn’t in open battle. The Blind stopped marching when they saw our men coming; they’d been dormant for a couple of days. Jash’tar thought they were intimidated, might even want to talk.” He sighed. “To be honest, Your Grace, we’re not sure exactly what happened. It seems that our men were overconfident and didn’t set an adequate watch. The enemy snuck in under cover of darkness somehow, while many of our people were sleeping. Killed most of the men in their tents before the alarm was even raised, then swept in and finished the rest off. There were only a few survivors.”

  There was a stunned silence. “How many is a few, General?” Wirr finally asked.

  “Four hundred or so,” replied Parathe. “Maybe five, depending on how many managed to scatter to the forests nearby.”

  Asha swallowed, and she could hear Michal’s sharp intake of breath beside her.

  The duke just grimaced. “You’re certain the others are all dead?”

  “Yes.” Parathe stared at his clasped hands, unwilling to look anyone in the eye. “And that report is days old now. Depending on how hard the Blind have been pushing, they could be here in a couple of days. Maybe less.”

  Elocien leaned forward; he wore a calm expression but his knuckles were white as he gripped the table. “Do we at least have any new intelligence?”

  Parathe nodded. “We know that they move in squads of ten men: nine with those strange helmets, and one who sits back from the fighting like a commander. They all seem to be well trained—hard to fight individually, but especially cohesive as units.” The general sighed. “Other than that, Your Grace? No. Only what we already knew.”

  “Which is that there’s something unnatural about them,” growled Ionis, shooting Dras and Michal an accusatory look as if it were somehow their fault.

  The Northwarden took a deep breath, then laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “This is an enormous loss, Your Majesty,” he said. “I know you’re against it, but there is no other way. We need to change the Tenets, allow the Gifted to fight.” Parathe inclined his head in agreement.

  “I concur, Your Majesty.” It was Dras. “I can have a contingent from Tol Shen ready to defend the city walls by dusk tomorrow.” Michal, reluctant though he looked to be agreeing with Dras, nodded, too.

  “You know my thoughts, Your Majesty,” interjected Ionis. “Administration has an obligation to protect the people, and the Tenets are what allow us to perform that function. Changing them is taking a short-term view.” He shot a hard look at the duke, as if daring the other man to reprimand him. Elocien scowled, but said nothing.

  The king stared vacantly at the table for a few moments, then shook his head. “No.”

  There was silence as everyone exchanged questioning looks, then Elocien cleared his throat. “Brother, surely you don’t mean—”

  The king slammed his fist down onto the table, suddenly and violently, making everyone jump. “I mean NO!” he roared. His face had turned bright red, and spittle came out of his mouth when he spoke. Sweat clung to his brow in great beads now, and there was no doubt in Asha’s mind that he was a very sick man. “Don’t you see, Elocien? Ionis is right. This is what they want. It’s what they’ve always wanted.” He sneered at Dras, then twisted to glare at Michal and Asha. “You bleeders are probably behind all of this. I should have you all hanged for traitors. Every last one.” He stood as if to carry out his threat immediately.

  Dras had gone deathly pale. “Your Majesty, I…” He trailed off helplessly, clearly not sure what to say.

  “Kevran, please sit down.” Elocien looked more troubled than Asha had ever seen him. “We can lay blame later, but right now we need a plan to defend Ilin Illan. The Gifted are our only—”

  “We have our six thousand. We have the city guard,” interrupted the king. He had calmed again, though he was still a little wild-eyed. “We have the four hundred returning to us. We have citizens who will fight. The Blind have no ships; they cannot come by river, so the only way into the city is through Fedris Idri. This is the most defensible city ever built. We will prevail without the Gifted.” He gestured. “I tell you this as a courtesy, not to seek your advice. It is my decision, and mine alone, to make.”

  Parathe opened his mouth to protest, but a quick glance from the duke silenced him. The general gave the slightest of nods to the Northwarden, unseen by the king. Elocien could obviously see that arguing the point now would only cause more trouble.

  “And what of the Gifted, Your Majesty?” asked Wirr quietly.

  “The Gifted can fight like real men if they wish, with sword and shie
ld. Or heal the wounded if they are too afraid. But they will not use their powers for violence whilst I rule.” The king looked around, his glare defying anyone to gainsay him. “You are dismissed.”

  They rose silently, stunned, and began filing out of the room. Asha glanced toward Wirr, hoping to catch his eye, but he appeared to have been waylaid by the king and was not looking in her direction.

  Once outside she found herself walking alongside Michal as the others went their separate ways.

  “What did you make of all that?” asked Michal, keeping his voice low.

  “I think those rumors about the king being ill were fairly accurate,” Asha said worriedly. “He’s not in control.”

  Michal sighed and gave a grim nod. “I agree. And suddenly it seems I share your concern about Tol Athian’s recent decision, too. I’m just not sure what anyone can do about it.” He glanced across at her. “Are you going to leave?”

  “Leave?” Asha looked at him in surprise. “No. Of course not.”

  Michal watched her for a long moment, then let out a breath, evidently satisfied. “Good. A lot of the nobility will, once they find out—first thing tomorrow morning, I suspect. Maybe even tonight.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I would understand if you decided to go, but… just let me know if you do. Seems I’m becoming fond of you, Ashalia. I’d be worried if you suddenly disappeared again.”

  Asha smiled back. “You’re staying?” She hadn’t thought for a moment about leaving, but she suddenly realized how tempting it must be for a lot of people.

  “Yes. I’m going to go back to the feast now, try to convince as many people as possible to stay and fight. Try and get as many people as we can behind the idea that now is the time for the Tenets to be changed, too. I know how King Andras looked, but maybe, if there’s enough pressure…” He sighed. “It would help if you were to join me. Would look less like I was arguing for my own interests.”

  Asha nodded and was about to agree when she caught sight of Elocien down the hallway. She hesitated.

  “I’ll come if I can,” she promised, “but there’s something I must discuss with the duke first.”

  Michal looked about to protest, then nodded reluctantly. “If you can, then,” he agreed.

  Asha gave him an apologetic glance, then hurried after Elocien, falling into stride alongside him just before he turned the corner.

  “Representative Chaedris,” the duke said politely, nodding to her. He glanced around, seeing that there was no one within hearing distance. “I know we shouldn’t be surprised, but I hadn’t imagined it would be this bad. Or happen so quickly.”

  Asha watched the duke as he walked. “I know,” she said. “And I think it’s time we reached out for some aid.”

  The duke scowled and shook his head, though not with his usual air of certainty. “No. These are dangerous people, Ashalia, and they still think you owe them something. I’m not going to send you to beg for their help, not after everything you’ve been through.”

  “But it’s my choice to go, and it’s something we need to do,” observed Asha. “The Shadraehin can organize the Shadows, and we can provide them with weapons that may make the difference when the Blind get here. I know you can’t do this officially, that Administration will never go for it. But let me try. If we don’t try everything in our power to save the city, it’s no different from your brother refusing to change the Tenets.”

  Elocien said nothing for a few seconds, but eventually he slowed, then stopped altogether. He looked Asha in the eye, silent for a long moment.

  Then he gave a reluctant nod.

  “Let’s discuss the details in my study,” he said quietly.

  * * *

  Wirr rose to leave, head still spinning from what Parathe had just told them.

  Almost nine thousand men, dead in some sort of ambush. It didn’t take a military mind to understand that those losses were extraordinary. Unthinkable.

  “Torin.” It was the king. “Stay. I would like to speak with you.”

  Wirr gave a slight bow and sat again, waiting patiently for the others to file past.

  Once everyone was gone, Wirr cast a cautious glance across at his uncle. Karaliene hadn’t been wrong about his condition. He was drawn, sweating, and gray, a shadow of the man Wirr remembered.

  “What can I do for you, Uncle?” he asked eventually as the silence began to stretch.

  Kevran didn’t reply for a moment, then leaned forward so that his face was close to Wirr’s.

  “I have only one question for you, Torin. Whose side are you on?”

  Wirr resisted the urge to flinch back. “What do you mean?”

  The king glowered. “Don’t play the fool. I know where you’ve been, these past few years,” he said, irritation thick in his tone. “I helped send you there, remember. You’re one of them. Or you were. So my question is, are you Gifted or are you a prince? Whose side are you on?”

  Wirr shook his head. “I would like to think it is not a case of sides.”

  “The Treaty would suggest otherwise,” observed Kevran. “Or perhaps you have forgotten the meaning of that word. Treaties cannot be made without there first having been a war.”

  Wirr bit his lip. His uncle spoke in a slightly breathless, manic way; anyone else, and Wirr would have said he was insane. “I will always do what is best for Andarra, Uncle,” he said after a moment. “But I don’t see myself as being on one side or another.”

  “Then you have grown up to be a fool.” Kevran leaned back, looking disappointed. “The Gifted are traitors. Their power is a disease, a stain on the world. They are untrustworthy. Each and every one of them.”

  Wirr bit back an angry retort. The way the king was acting, he knew that to protest would only be putting himself on dangerous ground.

  “Is that all, Your Majesty?” he asked stiffly.

  The king inclined his head, making a dismissive gesture.

  Wirr stood slowly and left, shaken. What had happened to his uncle? The man he remembered had had no love for the Gifted, but nor had he hated them. If anything, it had always been Kevran who’d had the calm head, and Elocien who had spouted the rhetoric.

  He was so caught up in his worries that he almost walked straight into Dras Lothlar, who had been waiting in the hallway outside. Wirr excused himself, but when he tried to move around the other man, Dras stepped into his path again.

  Wirr scowled as his already frayed temper threatened to snap, but held his tongue and looked at the Shen Representative steadily.

  “Can I help you?”

  Dras smiled at him, a look so predatory that it made Wirr shiver. “I just thought I should introduce myself, Your Highness,” he said in an obsequious tone. “I am Dras Lothlar, Representative for Tol Shen.”

  “I know who you are, Representative Lothlar,” said Wirr, trying to sound irritated rather than anxious. Had Dras recognized him from Thrindar? Wirr looked different now: hair trimmed, a light beard, fine clothes rather than rags. And in Desriel they had spent only a few minutes in each other’s presence. “As you can imagine, I have some very important things to discuss with my father. So if you wouldn’t mind…”

  Dras didn’t move. “How was Calandra, these past few years, Your Highness?” he asked, his gaze intent. “Whereabouts were you stationed?”

  “Ildora,” said Wirr automatically. He’d had these details drilled into him over the past few days.

  “Ah, I remember Ildora. Lovely place.” Dras sounded relaxed, but Wirr could still see the focus behind his eyes.

  “I don’t know about that. I saw plenty of good men die defending it against the barbarians. It doesn’t bring back fond memories.”

  Dras’s expression didn’t change. “I suppose you’ve been to the inn there? The Juggler?”

  Wirr hesitated. He’d been told plenty about Ildora, but he had no information on the names of the inns there.

  And… the Juggler was the inn that Karaliene had sent them to in Thrindar. His heart sank.<
br />
  “No,” he replied.

  “No?” Dras looked surprised. “Not once? I remember it being very popular when I was there.” He frowned. “Perhaps I’m misremembering. Perhaps that inn was somewhere else.”

  Wirr forced himself to keep his breathing steady. The man knew. “If you don’t want anything, Representative, get out of my way,” he growled.

  Dras smiled. “Of course, Your Highness. My apologies.” He stepped to the side.

  Wirr stalked away, not looking back but unable to stop picturing the smarmy expression on the Representative’s face. The Shen Gifted should be thinking of ways to defend the city, not playing these games as if nothing were amiss.

  Doing his best to banish Lothlar from his mind, he headed for his father’s study, arriving just as the door opened and Asha emerged into the hallway. They stared at each other in mild surprise for a second, and then Wirr gave her a rueful smile.

  “Interesting night,” he observed.

  Asha nodded her agreement. “Remind me to stay away from your parties in the future,” she said drily. She slipped something into her pocket—a key, Wirr thought—then gave him an apologetic squeeze on the shoulder. “I’d stay to talk, but Michal needs my help, and then after that—”

  “It’s all right. Go.” Wirr hesitated. “And Ash, if I don’t see you again before the Blind get here…”

  Asha smiled at him. “Then I’ll see you after,” she said firmly.

  Wirr watched her go, even now still barely believing it was really her. Asha’s having survived the attack at Caladel was astonishing, miraculous. And her new place here at the palace—what his father had been building with the Augurs, these past few years—was even more so.

  He sighed, then walked inside to find Elocien flicking through some papers. The duke glanced up as Wirr entered.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Torin. We need to go back to the feast,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.

  Wirr gave him a blank look. “The feast? Surely everyone will have gone.”