The Shadow of What Was Lost

by James Islington

  Caeden swallowed, not sure whether to be excited or nervous.

  Then what Garadis had said struck home.

  “Five hundred years?” Caeden laughed. “So you’re saying I’m a little older than I look.”

  Garadis gazed at him impassively, silent, and Caeden’s laughter died under the stare.

  Suddenly the burning man’s eyes widened in understanding. He moved forward at a blinding speed, grasping Caeden’s head in his hands before it was possible to react.

  Caeden gasped; Garadis’s hands were warm, but not searing hot as he’d expected them to be. He could feel something inside his mind for the briefest of moments, a fraction of a second. Then Garadis was stepping back again, his expression this time thoughtful.

  “You should not have come back here,” he murmured.

  Caeden gave him an uneasy look. “But I don’t remember being here. I have no memories past a few months ago,” he protested.

  “That is because you had them removed,” said Garadis quietly. “You had them removed so that you could come here, now, to try once again. You don’t even remember Andrael, let alone why he bound us to this agreement.” The words were musing, more to himself than to Caeden. He shook his head. “Even so—his Law is clear. He who comes to take Licanius shall be refused her. And you are not here to take Licanius. You are here to find out who you are, and how you might help your friends.” He stared at Caeden with what appeared to be fascination.

  Caeden’s brow furrowed as he tried to sort through the information. Garadis was right; he didn’t recognize the name Andrael.

  The sword atop the pillar, on the other hand…

  “That’s Licanius, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Will my having it make a difference? Will I be able to help my friends?”

  “Of course,” said Garadis softly. The glowing man stared into Caeden’s eyes, then stepped to one side, allowing him a straight path to the sword. “For the first time in five hundred years, you have passed the Tests. As Guardian, I have read your mind and find no thoughts or memories that should cause me to deny you Licanius. She is yours.”

  Caeden looked hesitantly at the sword, then back at Garadis. “Can you restore my memories?”

  “No,” replied Garadis. “Though I am sure one who can will find you soon enough.”

  “Then can you at least tell me who I am?”

  Garadis stared at him, expressionless. “Where to begin? You are Tal’kamar, though precious few know you as such. You destroyed Saran’geth for an ideal. You butchered the Arathi for revenge. You created the Plains of Decay for the love of a woman long dead.” He paused. “You saved Jala Terr knowing it would cost you a century alone. You hid Wereth from the Shadows because you believed a good man was worth more than a good name. You destroyed us—and then, when we hated you most, you saved us at the expense of everything you ever wanted.” There was sadness in those blue eyes as he said the last. Sadness, and bright pain. “You have lived for over four thousand years, and done so much evil and so much good. You are a legend here amongst the Lyth, despised and beloved, famous and infamous both. You are Tal’kamar,” he finished softly.

  Caeden felt a chill run down his spine.

  It was inconceivable—all of it—and yet something in Garadis’s voice told him it was the truth.

  Numbly he nodded.

  “Now,” said Garadis. “Take the sword.”

  Caeden took a deep breath, then picked his way across the lava-lined floor until he stood in front of the pillar. He frowned at the inscription on it.

  “What do these symbols say?”

  “Nothing of importance,” replied Garadis.

  Caeden paused, glancing back at the towering, pulsating being. Garadis’s stance and expression were still blank, but now his eyes were… eager.

  A flash of suspicion ran through Caeden.

  “What does Licanius do?” he asked slowly. “Can I safely assume that this is no ordinary sword?”

  “You can,” replied Garadis. “But Andrael’s Law binds me. Your friend ensured we could never speak of her specific properties. To anyone.”

  “My friend?”

  “A story longer than we have time for, I am afraid.”

  Caeden frowned, unconvinced. “Is taking it—her—going to hurt me, somehow?”

  Garadis stared at him impassively. “If you are asking whether Licanius has wards to prevent her from being taken—then no, she does not.”

  Caeden gazed at the blade. From up close, even the glow he’d noticed earlier was muted. It looked like a well-made sword… but that was all.

  He leaned down, peering closer. Etched into the steel in tiny lettering were more symbols—these ones familiar.

  “‘For those who need me most.’ What does that mean?”

  “Another question I cannot answer.” Garadis sounded irritated, but Caeden was still hesitant to touch the sword. Something was holding him back.

  “What does Licanius mean? It sounds Darecian. You could at least tell me that much.”

  There was silence from Garadis. “‘Fate,’” he said eventually. “The translation is more specific, but in your language, it means ‘fate.’”

  Caeden nodded. Taking a deep breath, he reached down and grasped the hilt, then lifted the sword from its stone cradle.

  He screamed.

  Pain racked his entire body; he wanted to let the sword drop but his muscles had convulsed, making his grip on it viselike. Tears trickled down his cheeks as wave after wave of agony washed through him.

  Then, just as he thought he could stand no more, it was over.

  He was lying on the stone floor—blessedly not touching any of the lava rivulets—and still holding the sword. With a gasp he dropped it, letting it clatter against the warm stone. On his left forearm glowed a symbol, something he didn’t recognize, which faded away even as he saw it. Not a wolf, but a different animal—a bear, perhaps?

  Garadis was still standing in the corner, a satisfied look in his eyes.

  Caeden scrambled to his feet and glared at him. “What have you done?” he growled. “You said there would be no traps.”

  “I said there were no wards that would harm you,” corrected Garadis.

  “Then what in fates was that?” Caeden demanded.

  “A binding,” replied Garadis. “The final consummation of the trade between my people and Andrael. The Lyth guard Licanius until one who passes the Tests wields her. In exchange, the one who takes her up must then free us. It is the pact that you have been trying so very hard to avoid these past centuries.” He sighed, a contented sound. “You must have been desperate.”

  Caeden stared at his now-bare forearm worriedly. “Free you from what?”

  Garadis leaned forward. “From here, Tal’kamar. From this. We cannot survive without the raw Essence Res Kartha produces. You need to find a way for us to leave, and not perish.”

  Caeden gave him a blank look. “But… I know nothing about any of that. It’s impossible.”

  “And yet you have agreed to it.” Garadis’s blue eyes looked at Caeden greedily. “You have a year and a day. Should the pact be broken, the binding will compel you to return to us. Licanius will become the property of the Lyth, to do with as we see fit. And once she is truly at our command, we will see fit to use her for that which she was designed.”

  Caeden paled; the last sounded distinctly like a threat. “A year?”

  “And a day,” said Garadis. “She is yours until then, to do with as you wish. But if we cannot leave Res Kartha after that, she will be yours no longer. So choose your priorities wisely.”

  Caeden nodded, still stunned. He took a deep breath, then thought for a few moments.

  “If you want my help, you’ll also want me to survive the next few days,” he observed. “I am going to return to Ilin Illan, to fight alongside my friends. If there is any way you can help me…”

  Garadis laughed. “You always were a canny negotiator.�
�

  He stepped forward and laid his hand against Caeden’s forehead again.

  A flood of warmth passed through Caeden’s mind, sudden but not unpleasant, causing his knees to buckle. The sensation passed quickly, though.

  “You are already equipped to fight,” said Garadis. “This knowledge will let you use Licanius for your purpose—but know this, too, Tal’kamar. What you are about to face is only the first strike, the first few drops of a torrent. A storm.” He bent down slightly, so that his face was level with Caeden’s. “The ilshara—what you call the Boundary—is waning, and when it fails entirely, your friends will lose. You cannot protect them forever.”

  Then he straightened, gesturing behind Caeden. The tunnel door ground open again. “Now it is time for you to go.”

  Caeden hesitated. “How do I go back?”

  Garadis sighed. “To return to a question I asked before. How did you get here?”

  Caeden dug around in his pocket and produced the small bronze box, then handed it to Garadis.

  Garadis just stared at it for a long moment, stunned.

  “You have audacity, Tal’kamar,” he said softly. “I will grant you that.”

  “You know how it works?”

  Garadis gave a slow nod. “Considering you stole it from me? Yes, I know how it works,” he said, smoldering lip curling slightly. “To think, I didn’t even know it was gone.”

  Caeden found himself reddening. “I don’t know how it works,” he admitted in an embarrassed tone. “I… just touched it, and it took me here.”

  “That explains much,” said Garadis, his tone dry. He sighed. “It is a Portal Box. The Portal Box. It will take you to any destination you impart to it.” He turned it over in his hands. “Each face has a destination; you need only direct Essence into this character”—he pointed to a small symbol, which Caeden had previously noted as appearing on every side—“and depending on which face you activate, you will be transported to its destination. It seems all six are already set; your touching it triggered only one. Assuming you entered them in sequence, this would then be the next.” He indicated one of the faces.

  Caeden’s heart sank. “Can it get me back to Ilin Illan?”

  “No,” said Garadis. He gave Caeden a thoughtful look, then handed the Portal Box back with obvious reluctance. “But it is of no advantage to me if I delay you.”

  He made a sweeping motion with his hands, and suddenly everything… twisted.

  Caeden gaped as a darkened city street appeared through a hole in the air. It was just as with the stones Taeris had used—except Garadis had done it unaided, as easily as breathing.

  “Go,” said Garadis. “Do what you must. But return within a year and a day with your solution, else you will lose Licanius forever.”

  Caeden nodded. “I will.”

  Without hesitation he stepped through the shimmering portal and back onto the streets of Ilin Illan.

  Chapter 54

  Ilin Illan burned.

  The night was at its deepest now, and the city below was lit only by naked, furious flames. Davian stared despairingly at the scene from where he’d collapsed in exhaustion, a little way behind the now dangerously thin front line of Andarran soldiers. Every street, every building visible from his vantage point at the palace gates either glowed a hot, angry red, or sat in equally ominous darkness.

  He gasped for air and shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to get his bearings. He, Wirr, and Taeris had made it back to the Shields from the Tol, but their time there had been painfully short. Most of the city had been lost in that first disastrous hour after the Blind had found their way inside through Tol Athian; by the time someone had figured out exactly where the breach was, the Lower and Middle Districts were already ablaze.

  After the Shields… a desperate retreat, their only option to avoid being trapped in Fedris Idri. Chaos as the Blind hit them from in front and behind, cutting through their lines, the invaders’ unnaturally fast blades slashing everywhere. Struggling onward to the palace, the only defensible position left in the city, through a maelstrom of panic and screaming and running and blood.

  And then this current, ominous, near-unbearable silence that hung over the city like a shroud as the Blind prepared their next assault. Probably their final one, Davian realized dully. The Andarrans who had made it back to the palace had managed to regroup, to form a defensible line, but the damage had been done.

  They were going to lose.

  The Blind had been clever, he realized numbly. They’d known from the start that throwing more soldiers against the Shields would be a futile gesture; the narrow pass had meant that the three hundred men they’d sent had been no less effective than ten times that number. But it had been enough to keep the Andarran defenses focused around Fedris Idri, enough to be a threat. And combined with the Echoes, more than enough to not seem like simply a diversion.

  Davian shifted, trying not to let his muscles get too stiff as he watched the ragged Andarran line, its members peering nervously along the steadily darkening street. Red-cloaked Gifted stood shoulder to shoulder with Shadows, Administrators, and battered-looking soldiers—a surreal sight even now, and one that only reinforced how desperate their situation had become.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” came a familiar voice from behind him.

  Davian twisted to see Wirr, his friend’s gaze also on the odd mixture of defenders.

  “Yes,” said Davian softly. “It really is.”

  There was silence for a few moments, then Wirr gingerly lowered himself to the ground beside his friend. “How are you holding up?”

  Davian gave a soft laugh. “About as well as you’d expect. Against that El-cursed armor, I’ve been about as much use as the Gifted.”

  “That’s not nothing, Dav,” said Wirr. “You’ve made a real difference, as have Tol Athian’s people. We’d have been overrun long ago if we hadn’t changed the Tenets.”

  Davian nodded reluctantly, trying not to show his frustration. Though Essence itself was useless against the Blind’s armor, the Gifted had adapted, wielding swords, spears, even stones from a distance to deadly effect. The Blind’s unnatural strength and speed had minimized actual casualties, though. The presence of the Gifted had made the invaders more cautious, made their losses heavier. But it had come too late.

  “You’re right… though I’m not going to be able to even use Essence for much longer,” he admitted eventually. “I’m running out of sources.” He gestured through the gates to the palace gardens behind him; where a few hours earlier there had been lush green grass and flowering plants of all kinds, now there was only a wasteland of black, crumbling dust.

  Wirr just inclined his head, looking more sad than worried. “Between healing and fighting, my Reserve’s almost dry, too. I think nearly everyone is about empty, to be honest.” He glanced down the darkened street, toward the far end. “It won’t be long now,” he concluded softly.

  Davian followed his friend’s gaze. Ordered divisions of black-clad soldiers were lined up no more than five hundred yards away—just out of range of the Andarran archers, and far enough away that neither the Gifted nor the Shadows could attack with any efficacy.

  Then, to the side, he spotted another black-clad figure staring toward them. A deep hood concealed its face.

  “So the sha’teth finally showed up. Come to finish us off, I imagine,” he muttered. They hadn’t seen the creatures in battle so far, but it looked as if that was about to change. Davian took a few deep, calming breaths, ignoring the acrid taste of smoke at the back of his throat.

  Without warning a violent red gash of light ripped the air between the opposing forces.

  Davian leaned back, shielding his eyes from the blazing illumination. It faded almost as suddenly as it had appeared; when his vision cleared, a lone figure stood in the gloom, halfway between the Andarrans and the Blind.

  Davian stared in shock.

  “It’s Caeden,” he said in disbelief, pushing h
imself to his feet.

  The street had fallen deathly silent, neither side seeming to know what to make of this turn of events. Caeden glanced around as if getting his bearings, his gaze sweeping across the Andarran ranks. Then he turned calmly toward the Blind.

  “What’s he doing?” muttered Davian, trying not to sound panicked. Caeden had touched the box… and now here he was at the end, appearing as they teetered at the edge of defeat. Ilseth’s memory flashed through his thoughts. It will ensure our victory.

  “Just wait, Dav,” breathed Wirr, his tone suddenly hopeful.

  Caeden stared at the Blind in silence, and with every passing moment Davian found himself more unsure of their former companion’s motives.

  Finally Caeden took a deep breath.

  “I give you this one chance,” he shouted toward the black-armored men, his words carrying clearly to the Andarran line, too, echoing through the street. “Leave now. Go back beyond the Boundary.”

  There was movement along the front line of Blind soldiers, and a helmetless man stepped into view. Davian’s eyes widened; he recognized the figure despite the distance.

  “I am Andan Mash’aan, Slayer of Lih’khaag, Second Sword of Danaris,” the man shouted back in a loud, confident voice. His smile was mocking as he examined Caeden. “My people have waited two thousand years for this moment. Who are you, boy, to dare ask them to give it up—and with us on the cusp of a victory more complete than even the Protector had hoped, no less? Understand this, child. We will drink your blood. We will grind your bones to dust. We will carve our names—”

  The man’s words were cut off, and his eyes widened. Caeden hadn’t moved, but the commander was sinking to his knees, his look of confusion quickly replaced by one of sheer terror. After a moment Davian could see exactly what Caeden was doing—though how, while Mash’aan was wearing that armor, he had no idea.

  It was precisely what Davian himself had done to Ionis earlier that day.