Laiman leaned forward. “Still—it’s too dangerous. You only need to lose control once, and you’ll be dead. Don’t think I can’t tell that scar is fresh,” he added accusingly.
Taeris made a dismissive gesture. “I’ve managed for three years. A while longer won’t make a difference.”
Laiman frowned. “Fine. Just… be careful.”
“I will.” Taeris shifted in his seat, clearly wanting to change the subject. “Have you heard anything more about the remaining Blind in the city?”
“All dead, as far as we can tell. Caeden was effective, I’ll give him that,” said Laiman. “I’ve had a closer look at the Blind’s armor, by the way. It was made up of these.” He dug into a pocket and held up a black disc, careful not to let the edges touch his skin.
Taeris shivered, and behind him Asha felt herself doing the same at the sight. “Dar’gaithin scales?”
Laiman nodded grimly. “Melded together into plates somehow.”
“So that’s our confirmation, then, if we needed any. Devaed was behind the invasion.”
“It would appear so.” Laiman shook his head, a hint of frustration in the motion. “But as to the why—the reason for this focused attack, before the Boundary has weakened enough for him to send his real forces through… I have no idea.” He sighed. “Your theory about Caeden is probably our best guess; this entire thing seems to revolve around him. Did you get to speak with him after the battle, before he disappeared again?”
“No… but Torin did. Caeden told him that this was only Devaed’s first strike—and said that we were to prepare for worse.” Taeris hesitated. “Much worse.”
The sick feeling in Asha’s stomach stirred again. Davian had already told her about Caeden’s warning, but this was the first time it had really struck home. The city had barely survived the attack the night before. She didn’t care to think about what anything worse would mean.
Laiman was silent for a moment. “Did he at least suggest how we were to prepare?”
“Nothing so specific, I’m afraid. But… he did have a sword, Laiman. A blade that made the sha’teth turn tail as soon as he drew it.”
Laiman raised an eyebrow. “Did he now,” he breathed, and Asha could see a spark of intense interest in his eyes. “I hadn’t heard that little piece of information. You think…?”
Taeris sighed. “Maybe. I didn’t get a good look at it, so I don’t know,” he admitted. “And Caeden is not around to ask.”
There was silence for a few seconds as Laiman stared into the fire. Then he drew a deep, reluctant breath.
“Speaking of the sha’teth.”
Taeris nodded. “I know. All three got away.”
Laiman’s expression twisted, and this time Asha could see real pain there. “They showed the Blind how to get access to Tol Athian, Taeris,” he said, the burden evident in his tone. “We were responsible for many deaths today.”
Taeris nodded bitterly. “Just one of our many mistakes, I fear.”
They sat in silence for some time, Asha barely daring to breathe. She didn’t know what to make of that last exchange… but if there had been any doubt before, she was certain now that there would be unpleasant consequences should she be discovered eavesdropping.
Finally Laiman straightened and shook himself back into the present, glancing across at Taeris.
“I do have some good news. I wasn’t going to tell you until it was official, but…”
Taeris raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m listening.”
“I spoke to both Torin and Karaliene earlier, and I mentioned that Representative Alac had fallen in battle. They thought that young Ashalia should stay on, but agreed that she will still need someone with more experience to guide her. When I put forward your name, they both seemed amenable to the idea.” He shrugged. “Torin was going to speak to Ashalia once everything had died down, but assuming neither she nor the king have any objections…”
Taeris stared at him in disbelief. “Ah… have you forgotten I’m still a wanted criminal?”
“A matter I believe our young Northwarden is clearing up as we speak,” said Laiman cheerfully. “Nothing is set in stone yet, but he has the power to reverse his father’s verdict. And despite Administration’s protests it looks like both the king and Karaliene want him to keep his new position, so I don’t foresee any problems on that front, either.” He gave Taeris a slight smile. “Welcome back, old friend.”
Taeris was silent for several seconds, stunned. “And… and Athian?”
Laiman chuckled. “I assume that when you are named their Representative, they will have to take you back, like it or not. It might just force them to give what you’ve been saying a little more consideration, too.”
Taeris barked a disbelieving laugh, then leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been busy.” He shook his head incredulously. “I truly don’t know how to thank you.”
Laiman inclined his head, smiling. “No need.” He gestured to the door. “All the same, we should find somewhere out of the way for you to stay tonight. We don’t want some overzealous Administrator recognizing you before everything’s sorted out.”
Taeris rose, a renewed vigor in the way he bore himself. “Lead the way.”
They moved into the passageway and paused just outside the doorway, blocking it. Asha took a hesitant half step forward, but there was no gap for her to slip through. She clenched a fist in silent frustration. If she couldn’t get out now, she’d have to wait until they were long gone.
Laiman grinned at his friend as they stood in the hallway, unaware of Asha’s dilemma. “So. After all these years you’re finally going to have some resources at your disposal, a bit of freedom to move around again. What’s your first order of business?”
Taeris thought for a few moments, tapping a finger absently against the side of the door. Then he leaned forward, eyes glinting.
“Laiman,” he said quietly, “I think it’s time we organized a trip back to Deilannis.”
He flicked the door shut, cutting off Laiman’s response.
Asha was alone once again.
* * *
Caeden crept forward, parting the darkness ahead with a small sphere of pulsing white Essence.
He was underground again, though his surroundings were markedly different from Res Kartha. This place was silent, dead: just a long, narrow, gritty shaft that seemed intent on going nowhere but deeper into the damp, musty earth. He’d been walking for at least an hour now, and in all that time there had been no side tunnels, no rooms, no change in slope or direction. No sound except the soft pad of his own footsteps, either. Veins of quartz and metals occasionally sparkled in the wall as he trudged forward, but otherwise he had neither seen nor heard anything of note.
Just as he was beginning to wonder if he’d somehow arrived at the wrong place, the tunnel began to level out.
Abruptly he realized that the walls ahead were widening into a small room, an antechamber of sorts, from which there were several exits. He came to a stuttering stop, hesitating. There were four passageways, each looking as menacing as the next. His light did not penetrate far into the tunnels, but he could see from the sloping floors that one led up, one continued down, and two appeared to keep on level. Which way was correct? Was there a correct choice? He didn’t even know why he was here, so whatever decision he made would inevitably be a guess.
Suddenly there was a stirring in the darkness from the leftmost passageway, just beyond his light—a scratching of movement against stone, slight, but comparatively loud after the heavy silence of the past hour. Flinching toward it, Caeden instinctively drew Essence from his Reserve, then extinguished his sphere and directed a blast of energy at the tunnel. Enough to stun, but not kill.
The afterimage of the flash quickly faded, leaving only complete darkness and a sullen, tense silence. Nerves stretched taut, Caeden stood motionless for a few seconds, listening. There was nothing.
Then an unseen force gripped him like a great hand, r
aising him a full foot into the air and slamming him back hard against the stone wall. Dazed and not a little disoriented, he drew in Essence again—as much as he could, this time—and threw it wildly at whatever was holding him. To his dismay the pressure on his chest and arms did not relent even a little.
Suddenly the room was lit; the illumination had no source he could pinpoint, as if darkness had simply been transformed into light. A man was standing in front of him, arms crossed and expression thoughtful as he studied his prisoner. He was older, nearly bald, with a lined face and a small beard of startling white. Still, his blue eyes glittered with a keen, strangely energetic intelligence.
“Tal’kamar. I’d begun to wonder if something had gone wrong,” said the old man. “But I see that all has gone as planned after all.” He indicated the sword hanging from Caeden’s belt.
Caeden struggled in vain against his invisible bonds. “Who are you? Where am I, and why am I here?” he demanded. He tried to reach for Licanius, but it was no use. His arms might as well have been encased in stone, for all he could move them.
His attacker smiled. “Good to see you too, old friend,” he said. “To answer each of your questions: I am Tae’shadon, the Keeper—Asar Shenelac to my friends. These are the Wells of Mor Aruil. And you, Tal’kamar, are here to remember.”
Caeden was silent for a moment as he processed the response, then forced himself to relax his tensed muscles. He appeared to be in no immediate danger. “The last part might be difficult,” he said in a dry tone. “My memories have been erased.”
“Not erased,” chided Asar gently. “Just hidden.”
Caeden scowled. “Then let me down and show them to me!” he snapped.
To his surprise the pressure on his body vanished. He dropped to the floor awkwardly and stumbled forward, falling to his knees; he scrambled up again, wary, but Asar just watched him with an unperturbed expression.
“You know me?” asked Caeden once he had recovered, irritably trying to dust off his already ragged attire.
“We are acquainted,” said Asar. “You asked me to restore your memories, once you arrived here.”
Caeden stared at Asar for a moment, then just shrugged. He refused to be surprised, or concerned, by his own plans any more. “Very well. No point in wasting time.”
Asar shook his head. “There is more,” he said. “You have asked me to only restore specific memories—the ones that will help you fight in the coming war. No others.” He hesitated. “Against my advice.”
Caeden frowned. “Only some? Why would I want that?”
Asar sighed. “I think… I think you wanted to change who you were.” He leaned forward. “The problem, Tal’kamar, is that if you do not know who you were, you cannot know to change.”
A chill slid down Caeden’s spine. Who had he been, that he was so willing to leave parts of his past erased? “I will have to take your word on that,” he said slowly, “but there is at least one extra memory I wish to have returned to me.”
Asar blinked, for the first time looking as if he hadn’t anticipated something. “Which is?”
“The hours before I awoke in that forest. The most recent memory I do not have,” said Caeden softly. He knew he’d arranged all of this to fight Devaed, knew which side he was on—but the faces of those villagers, their accusations and their unbridled, unthinking hatred, still haunted him. He needed to know, with certainty, that it had been undeserved.
Asar hesitated, then nodded. “Then we shall do that first.”
Before Caeden could react, the old man stepped forward and placed two fingers against Caeden’s forehead.
Caeden’s heart pounded as he walked into the village.
It had worked; he’d appeared only a few hundred meters into the forest, exactly where he’d planned. No one would think to look for him here in Desriel—at least not unless Tenvar talked, and he was fairly certain that taking the man’s finger had insured against that.
The Waters of Renewal had quickly begun to take effect; his days as a youth in the Shining Lands were already barely more than a fog. He’d estimated that it could take as little as an hour for all the memories to go—but they should at least fade in sequence, according to his experiments. That was fortunate. He needed only to remember the last few years to know what he had to do, and why.
He found he was clutching the hilt of his sword tightly, nervously; he took a deep breath, forcing the hand to his side again and trying his utmost to appear casual. He had no wish to do what came next, but he’d carefully considered the alternatives and had accepted that this was the only way. The Venerate between them knew each of his faces. If he was identified too soon, this would all be for naught.
A few people gave him a second glance as he walked by, but travelers were not uncommon, even this far from a major town. It didn’t really matter if they remembered what he looked like, anyway. He’d thought about choosing a more isolated spot—a farm, perhaps—but the risk had been too high. In that scenario, if no one had been home, his memories could have been gone before he found a replacement.
After a minute or two of aimless wandering, he spotted a young man strolling up to a quaint, thatch-roofed house that was set a little apart from the other buildings. Caeden checked to see that no one was looking his way, then hurried up to the stranger. He was little more than a boy, Caeden realized with a slight pang of regret—reddish-brown hair, blue eyes, and an easy smile. A farmer, probably. They almost all would be around here.
“Excuse me,” Caeden said in a polite tone. “I’m a little lost. I was wondering if you had a map of the area?” He knew it was unlikely, but any excuse would do.
The young man shook his head, then nodded to the door. “Sorry, friend,” he said. “No maps, but if you’d like to come inside, I’ll see if I can help you out with some directions.”
“I’d appreciate that,” said Caeden. He kept his face carefully neutral, even as his stomach twisted. The poor lad was so trusting.
They were soon inside, and the door shut. “Now,” said the boy, turning toward the simple hewn table. “If I can just—”
Caeden’s long, thin blade caught him in the side of the throat, stabbing upward into his brain. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Caeden checked his memories. Nothing before the Siege of Al’gast; that was worryingly recent, not too long before he’d realized the Darecians had escaped. He got to work, taking note of the boy’s features and then cutting into his face. It was horrible, stomach-turning work, but the body had to be unrecognizable. Even as he went about the grisly task, he concentrated, picturing the features of the young man he had just killed. Pain abruptly snapped through him, his bones breaking and reforming, muscles tearing, contorting, and stretching. Caeden gritted his teeth, but kept working as best he could. He was well accustomed to these transformations.
It was over in the space of a minute. Now all he had to do was dispose of the body and—
“Caeden?” a cheerful female voice called from the front door. “Where are you, Son?”
Caeden’s heart sank. There was no time, no way he could get the body out. He froze, keeping quiet, praying that the woman would not walk into this room.
An ear-piercing scream shattered that hope.
“Caeden!” the woman shrieked. She was looking wildly between Caeden and the disfigured body on the floor. “What are you doing?”
Caeden stood, his blade whipping out, slicing smoothly through the woman’s throat before she could say anything more. She gurgled as she stared at what she thought was her son, uncomprehending horror in her eyes. Caeden looked away. She’d seen him in this form, seen what he’d done. He couldn’t risk leaving her alive.
Before he could move, though, shouts from outside were followed by the sound of the front door crashing open. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply.
Pretending it hadn’t gone so wrong.
There were thirty-one dead by the end—seventeen men, nine women, and five
children who had been drawn by the screams. Most of the village, he suspected.
He stared at the bodies morosely. It had all happened so fast, and it was getting harder to focus as more and more memories drained away. Could he have avoided this? Using Control hadn’t been an option—Alaris would have located him within minutes. Fleeing would have meant leaving witnesses, which would have led to his inevitable capture, a quick trial, and a failed execution. Though the flow of information from Desriel to Talan Gol was still limited, word of something like that would have doubtless found its way back across the ilshara.
No. This way he’d probably be detained, suspected of what had happened here, but they wouldn’t have the evidence to execute him. It was still a risk, but it left him hidden from the people who mattered. He hardened his heart against the guilt, as he’d done so many times before. It had been the best course of action in a bad situation. The practical, necessary choice.
He put his hand against the still-warm skin of each corpse in turn, then carefully disfigured them. Their deaths would not be for nothing. Even though he wouldn’t remember them directly, their Imprints would remain with him; each one would eventually give him a new, untraceable identity, a body in which he could move freely outside Talan Gol. He’d not wanted it to come to this, but now that it had, there was no point wasting the opportunity.
He checked his memories, startled to find that his oldest one was of speaking to the Ath. That had been only a hundred years ago—not long before he’d finally rejected the name Aarkein Devaed, realized his mistakes, and started along the path that had ultimately led here. He knew he’d hated what he’d done, hated what he’d become as Devaed, but he couldn’t remember the details any more. Odd, but he supposed it didn’t really matter now. He would be free of it all for good soon enough.
He finally turned away from the corpses, knowing he had only minutes left—nowhere near enough time to hide the bodies. He needed to flee, to get as far from here as he possibly could.
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