The Shadow of What Was Lost

by James Islington

  The duke gave an absent nod, though his eyes were still fixed on the top of the Second Shield. “And you, Davian. Torin has told me all about you,” he said. “We have much to discuss once this is all over.”

  Wirr smiled when he saw Davian’s expression. “He really does just mean a discussion, Dav—nothing sinister. I promise.”

  “Of course,” said Davian quickly, though Wirr could still see a hint of nervousness in his nod. Wirr turned to Parathe. “How are they doing up there, General?”

  “Well enough, for now,” said Parathe. “The Shadows say they can do what they’re doing indefinitely. It at least buys us some time.” He hesitated, casting a cautious glance at the duke. “And perhaps if the king changes his mind…”

  “No. No chance.” Elocien shook his head. “If anything, my brother is worse. I spoke to him not an hour ago, told him we were being beaten back. He still won’t take action. I suspect he’ll let the city burn before he lets the Gifted fight, in his current state.” He rubbed his forehead. “I shudder to think what he’ll do when he hears about the Shadows.”

  Parathe looked sick at the news, but nodded. “We’ll just have to manage with what we—”

  Two bodies landed with a crashing of armor against stone, not twenty feet from where they stood.

  All four men stared in shock for a moment, then as one turned their gaze upward as panicked shouts began echoing along the Second Shield.

  Wirr squinted against the bright light shining down from the walls of the pass. The sporadic flashes from the Shadows’ weapons had stopped; there was plenty of motion atop the Shield, but he couldn’t tell what was going on at this distance. No one had sounded the retreat, and there were too many men atop that wall to have been overwhelmed so suddenly.

  Yet without warning another two pairs of screaming men plummeted from the sky, crashing to their deaths against the floor of the pass.

  “Fates,” muttered Parathe. He turned to a nearby soldier, who was looking in horror at the motionless bodies. “Nihk. Find out what in fates is going on up there.”

  The soldier nodded, taking two steps toward the Shield.

  Then he spun, sword out and flashing. The man who had been standing guard next to him cried out in alarm, but he was too slow. Nihk’s blade embedded itself in his skull with a sickening, wet crunch.

  The next few moments passed as if they were minutes.

  Everyone stared in frozen, stunned horror as Nihk wrenched his blade free. Then Parathe and two of the other guards went for their swords. Nihk turned to the general, lips curled back in a rictus of rage as he leaped, sword outstretched, its connection with Parathe’s chest inevitable.

  And then the blade had vanished from Nihk’s hands, and reappeared through his neck with Davian holding the hilt.

  Nihk slumped to the ground, eyes glassy as blood spurted onto the stone.

  Parathe stood frozen, his hand on his hilt. “Thank you,” he said to Davian, dazed. “But how—”

  “No time.” Davian gestured.

  Wirr turned to where he was pointing, suddenly aware of how close the surprised shouts of the men had become. He stared around in dismay.

  Andarran defenders everywhere were turning on each other; soldiers were drawing their swords and lunging at their comrades, apparently heedless of any harm they might come to themselves. Duels were breaking out all along the pass, men defending themselves desperately against those who moments earlier had been their allies. In less than thirty seconds, the relative calm between the Second and Third Shields had descended into chaos.

  “We’ve been betrayed,” said Parathe, his voice hollow.

  Wirr found himself shaking his head as he briefly replayed Nihk’s attack, remembering the man’s dead eyes.

  “No. I’ve seen this before.” He turned to Parathe. “They’re called Echoes, General. I don’t know a lot about it, but the Blind are controlling them, somehow.”

  “They’re not doing this of their own volition?” Parathe gave Wirr a hopeful look. “Is there any way to snap them out of it?”

  Wirr grimaced. “No. It’s not them any more,” he said reluctantly. “Anyone who’s an Echo is already dead. Tell your men not to hesitate.”

  “He’s right.” It was Davian, who was staring at the nearest Echoes with a perturbed expression. “I can’t Read them. They’re just… empty,” he finished, shivering.

  Parathe gave Davian an uneasy glance, then turned back to Wirr. “Are you certain about this, Your Highness?”

  “Quite.” Wirr extended a hand as one of the Echoes nearby made straight for their group. There wasn’t much left in his Reserve after all the healing he’d performed, but it was enough.

  A bolt of white light sped from his fingertips, blasting the man he’d spotted backward.

  “They’re dead,” he repeated grimly in response to the surprised look of the others. “Or at least no longer human. I wouldn’t have been able to do that otherwise.”

  Parathe looked sick. “We have to fall back to the Third Shield,” he concluded in a heavy tone. Before he could give the order, though, Parathe’s second-in-command, Hael, rushed through the fighting toward them.

  “Sir,” he gasped to Parathe. “The enemy have taken the harbor and the Lower District. They’re pressing us hard, trying to get to the Third Shield. If they reach it, we’ll be trapped.”

  Parathe paled. “How is that possible?” he demanded.

  “No one knows, sir. Only that they’re inside the walls. We need to fall back if we hope to defend the Upper District.”

  Parathe didn’t hesitate. “You’re right. There’s no way we can fight the Blind if they’re coming at us from both sides.” He cursed. “Sound the retreat, Hael. We’ll regroup at the palace.”

  Parathe turned to Elocien. “We need the El-cursed Gifted, Northwarden. No two ways about it,” he said, his expression grim. “The palace is the strongest defensible position in the city, but even with the Shadows I don’t know how long we’ll be able to hold it.”

  A horn blast sounded the retreat, and the Essence lighting the pass abruptly blinked out. Suddenly Wirr froze, glancing up at the top of the Second Shield, where the chaos sounded worst.

  “What is it?” Davian asked, seeing his expression.

  “Asha is up there.”

  Davian was moving before Wirr realized what was happening.

  He sprinted after his friend; they made it almost halfway to the stairs before two armor-clad Echoes stepped into their path.

  “I don’t have any Essence left, Dav,” Wirr warned. He saw Davian hesitating. “They’re not human any more. Trust me.”

  Davian nodded silently. He stretched out his hand as the Echoes closed in on them.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then one of the attackers roared, knees buckling as a line of pulsing Essence appeared between him and Davian. The man’s face… withered, as if he were aging at an incredible rate; his skin became sallow before finally disintegrating, leaving only a fine white dust that drifted, smokelike, in the wind.

  The second Echo hadn’t paused in his wild rush toward them; Davian turned to face him, releasing the Essence he’d drawn. It wasn’t a bolt, though, as Wirr would have expected, but something… thinner. Harder.

  The energy sped toward their attacker, taking him in the neck and slicing clean through. The soldier’s head bounced grotesquely on the ground toward them, carried by his momentum.

  Neither boy moved for a moment.

  “So… I see you can use Essence now, too,” said Wirr, a little out of breath as they stepped over the decapitated body and pressed forward.

  Davian nodded, eyes fixed on the way ahead. “As long as I don’t draw too much at once,” he muttered, more to himself than to Wirr. Wirr didn’t understand the comment, but Davian didn’t elaborate and there was no time to ask about it.

  They managed to avoid further confrontation until they reached the top of the Second Shield, where they were once again brought to an abrupt halt.
This time four Echoes stood in their way, not moving yet, but their dead eyes focused on the two boys.

  “I don’t think I can take them all. I’m tired, and it’s getting harder and harder to use kan,” said Davian as he drew his sword, his tone grim. “But I’m not leaving her. I—”

  The Echoes sailed clear over the parapet, spinning away to crash to their deaths on the hard stone below.

  Davian and Wirr both flinched back; when they looked up again, Asha was hurrying through the space where the Echoes had just been.

  “You need to get out of here,” she said bluntly as soon as she saw them. “Follow me. I don’t have a lot left in my Reserve, but it should be enough to get us back to the Third Shield.”

  She slipped past them without waiting for a response.

  Davian exchanged a vaguely rueful glance with Wirr, and then the two of them turned and hurried after her.

  Asha cleared their path twice more before they reached the temporary refuge of the Third Shield. Wirr’s father was waiting for them there, a clearly anxious Parathe and Hael standing by the duke’s side.

  Elocien nodded his relief to Wirr, and without a word the group headed toward the city. As they emerged from Fedris Idri, though, Parathe held up a hand, bringing them to an abrupt halt.

  He frowned, cocking his head to one side.

  “I don’t hear any fighting,” he realized. “We should have been able to—”

  He cut off in midsentence with a choking sound, eyes wide with pain.

  Behind him Hael stepped away, the dagger in his hand dripping blood. He bared his teeth, eyes glazed, as Parathe dropped to the ground, dead before he hit the cobblestones.

  Before anyone could react he leaped forward toward a paralyzed Wirr, dagger lashing out in slow motion.

  It all happened in a moment. Elocien roared as he leaped in front of his son, taking the blade squarely in the stomach. Davian, who had been several strides ahead with Asha, was suddenly there and ramming his sword through Hael’s chest. Both Elocien and Hael crumpled to the ground, the former moaning in pain, the latter twitching once and lying still.

  Wirr finally found the ability to move; he dropped to his knees beside his gasping father, pressing his hands in vain against the fountain of blood pumping from Elocien’s rent flesh. He closed his eyes. Healing a wound this severe would take a lot of Essence; he would need to use everything he had left. He just hoped it would be enough.

  “No, Torin.” Flecks of foamy blood appeared at the corner of the duke’s mouth, but his tone was firm, even at a whisper. “No healing.”

  Wirr stared at his father in shock. “But you’ll die!” he protested. He furiously wiped away tears that he hadn’t even realized he’d begun to shed. “I can save you!”

  Elocien gave him a sad, affectionate smile, clasping Wirr’s hand in his own. “But you must not,” he murmured. “We’ve been tricked, Torin. They’ll be coming through Fedris Idri. We need the Gifted to fight, else we all die, not just me.”

  “But—”

  “Promise me, Torin.” Elocien’s grip began to weaken, but his tone was edged with urgency. “I’m starting to lose focus; if I get confused, I need you to know that this is what I want. Changing the Tenets is all that matters now. I need you to swear to me that you will let me go.”

  Wirr stared at him for a long moment, then sat back, letting his shoulders slump. The tears ran freely down his face now. “I promise.”

  The duke sighed in satisfaction. His eyes glazed for just a second and he coughed, then moaned in pain. When he looked up at Wirr again, his gaze was… different. Panicked.

  “Torin?” he whispered. “What is happening?”

  Wirr paused uncertainly, then swallowed a lump in his throat. The loss of blood was starting to disorient his father. “You were stabbed,” said Wirr, keeping his tone as gentle as he could. “You saved me.”

  Elocien groaned. “You’re older. I don’t understand.”

  Wirr held his father’s hand tight. Elocien was fading fast. “Everything’s all right. I’ll be here until the end.”

  Elocien shook his head in desperation. “No. I don’t want to die. Help me.” He grabbed Wirr by the shirt, pulling him close so that all Wirr could see was the fear in his eyes. “Help me, Son! I beg of you. I know you can heal me. Do not let me die.”

  Wirr looked away. “I’m so sorry,” he said, barely choking out the words. “You told me not to.” He swallowed. “I love you, Father.”

  “No,” whispered Elocien. “No.”

  His hand went limp, and his eyes stared sightlessly into the night sky.

  Wirr just knelt there, racked by sobs as he bent over his father’s body. He stayed like that for several seconds; then he took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing down his emotions and wiping his face, doing his best to regain a semblance of composure. There would be a time for grieving, but for now he needed to make sure his father’s sacrifice had not been in vain.

  “Oh, no.”

  Wirr’s head snapped up at the horror in Asha’s voice. She was staring at Elocien’s motionless form as if she had just understood something terrible.

  “I’m so sorry, Wirr,” she said softly, dazedly. She shook her head, looking at both him and Davian. “There’s something I have to do. I… I have to go.”

  She hurried off before either of them could respond.

  Wirr watched her go, too numb to wonder at her reaction. “Raise the alarm,” he said dully to the soldiers nearby, who were looking on in mute dismay. “The Blind have tricked us. We need everyone back to the Shields.”

  He watched the men leave, then turned to Davian. “And we need to go to Tol Athian.”

  Davian was still staring at the three bodies on the road, bloodied sword hanging limp in his hand. “Why?”

  “Because it’s time to end this,” said Wirr heavily. He got to his feet. “It’s time to change the Tenets.”

  Chapter 51

  Asha darted through the eerily deserted palace hallways.

  Most able-bodied people willing to fight had left for Fedris Idri hours earlier; only the city’s governing structure remained here now, along with a scant few who had chosen not to flee despite being unfit to assist in the defense. Asha’s footsteps echoed as she hurried along, doing her best not to panic whenever she thought of what was happening at the Shields, trying instead to focus on locating the next Lockroom.

  And trying to decide whether she was hoping to find Erran there, or was worried that she would.

  Erran had been in a Lockroom in his vision—Asha had even stopped back at her room to read his description again, to make sure there weren’t any further clues in it as to his location. There hadn’t been, unfortunately—nor had there been any indication of exactly what was going on.

  No hint as to why he had Seen Elocien’s death as if it had been his own.

  She was fairly certain that was what had happened; the description fit, and Hael’s death meant that the man wouldn’t be stabbing Erran anytime soon. As to what that implied… a theory had begun to form as she’d made her way back to the palace, and it was one that made an increasing amount of sense the more she thought about it.

  She just desperately hoped it was wrong.

  “Asha!”

  Asha looked over her shoulder to see Kol and Fessi hurrying toward her, and stopped just long enough for them to catch up.

  “Have you seen Erran?” she asked them.

  Fessi shook her head. “Elocien told us all to stay here until he sent for us,” she said in a worried tone. “But Erran disappeared a couple of hours ago. We were just looking for him.”

  “I think he’s in a Lockroom,” said Asha.

  Kol frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “He foresaw it.” Asha hesitated. “He needs our help.”

  Fessi and Kol glanced at each other. “There’s a Lockroom a few corridors over. It’s Erran’s favorite. He goes there to be alone, sometimes,” said Fessi.

  Asha nodded. �
��Lead the way.”

  When they arrived the door was locked, but it took only one solid blow from Kol to open it. Asha’s heart sank as she took in Erran’s prone form in the middle of the room, a pool of blood around his head.

  The three of them rushed in and knelt beside the young Augur’s prostrate body. Blood seeped from his eyes, his ears, his mouth—but, Asha realized with a relieved sigh, he was still breathing. She checked his pulse. It was faster than it should have been, but regular.

  Fessi gently cleaned away the worst of the blood with a handkerchief, then grabbed a pillow from one of the couches and laid it under Erran’s head. As she did so, his eyes fluttered and he gave a racking cough, sending flecks of blood onto his shirt.

  “Just breathe, Erran,” said Asha. “You’re alive. You’re going to be all right.”

  Erran groaned. “I’m going to have to take your word on that.”

  “What happened?” asked Kol.

  Erran hesitated, then glanced up at Asha. As soon as she saw the guilt in his expression, she knew her suspicions had been right. Her heart sank.

  “Tell us,” she said softly. “Everything.”

  Erran gave a slow nod, then winced at the motion. He levered himself up onto one elbow, his gaze encompassing all three of them.

  “I’ve been… keeping something from you. From all of you,” he said, his voice small. “Do you remember what I told you about how Elocien and I met?”

  “Of course,” said Fessi.

  “It’s only partly true.” Erran swallowed. “The Administrators did find me, and they did bring me to Elocien. He came into the cell where I’d been tied up, and…” He grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory.

  “It’s all right, Erran,” said Asha, her tone gentle.

  Erran took a deep breath, giving her an appreciative nod. “He started beating me. He didn’t ask me any questions, but whenever he was taking a rest, he’d tell me a story. Each time it was about one of the previous Augurs he’d captured. The ones… the ones he’d already killed.”

  Fessi took a step back, paling. “That’s not true. Elocien wouldn’t have done that.”