The Shadow Of What Was Lost (Book 1)

by James Islington

  "Where should I deliver the Vessels?" she asked.

  "I'll have people gather at the Silver Talon at dusk. From what I've been hearing, there will be no Administrators left in this part of the city to notice. Or anyone else, for that matter," said the Shadraehin.

  Asha nodded. "How many?" There were hundreds of catalogued weapons in the storeroom, so she wasn't worried about there not being enough.

  "A hundred should suffice."

  Asha's eyes narrowed. "I'll provide one Vessel per Shadow you can get to that inn. No more."

  The Shadraehin nodded. "And I expect there to be about a hundred present."

  Asha frowned, taken aback. It was good news of course; the more Shadows there were, the better defended the city would be. But she'd expected twenty, maybe thirty at best. People had been abandoning the city even prior to last night's news, and the Shadows - even the Shadraehin's people - hadn't had any good reason to stay. In fact, they'd had less reason to remain than most.

  Unless the Shadraehin had asked them to stay, of course.

  Asha was silent for several seconds as she studied the other woman.

  "You knew," she said.

  The Shadraehin kept her face smooth, but Asha saw the tiniest flicker of surprise in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

  "You knew Shadows could use Vessels. You knew I'd bring you this deal." Asha thought back to what Teran had said, about his having to spy on her even if the Blind were at the gates. His instructions not to touch her, even if she didn't deliver on her agreement. She looked the Shadraehin in the eye. "It doesn't change anything, you have my word - but tell me the truth. Did you know this would happen when you sent the Northwarden to me?"

  The Shadraehin just stared at her for a few moments. Then she gave a small laugh.

  "Too many," she sighed, shaking her head. "I did not think you would notice."

  "Then you did know?"

  "Not as such. I knew we would be fighting the Blind with Vessels, and I knew that Administration were the only ones with a significant number of them. Putting you close to the Northwarden was one of several ways I thought it might happen."

  Asha paused. It galled her to think that the Shadraehin had planned to get hold of the Vessels, but ultimately it mattered little. "So are you...."

  "An Augur? No." The Shadraehin sounded amused. "I'll tell you how I knew, if you're willing to tell me how you knew Scyner was not in charge. Or how you found out that I am a woman."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that."

  "I suspected as much." The Shadraehin gave a regretful sigh. "A mystery for another time, then." She stood, indicating the meeting was over. "Oh, and Ashalia. Neither Scyner nor myself will be at the Silver Talon, so I will be letting my people know that they are to follow your lead. They will do whatever you need them to, and go wherever you ask."

  Asha felt her eyebrows raise, but she quickly nodded. It was a lot of responsibility, but it still made her feel more comfortable than if the Shadraehin had been giving the orders.

  "One last thing," said Asha as she stood too. "I have a message for you, though I don't really understand it. A gift from someone called Davian."

  The Shadraehin smiled. "A gift from someone I do not know?"

  Asha ignored the other woman's amusement. "The message is that Tal'kamar is going to take Licanius to the Wells."

  The Shadraehin froze. For a fraction of a second she looked both excited and terrified, though the expression was quickly smoothed over, replaced by one of intense curiosity. She stared into Asha's eyes for a long moment, eyes focused.

  "You are certain that was the message?"

  Asha nodded, shivering a little under her gaze.

  "And that was all?"

  "Yes."

  The Shadraehin didn't move for a few seconds, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together absently. "Davian," she murmured. "Excellent. Please tell him that I am in his debt." She gave Asha a considering look, then the slightest nod of respect. "Now, however, you and I are both needed elsewhere, so you will need to see yourself out. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ashalia. I feel certain our paths will cross again."

  She gave Asha a final smile, then crossed to the door and left.

  As quickly as that, it was done.

  Asha did as the Shadraehin had suggested and found her own way out, not for the first time wondering exactly what Davian's message had meant. It didn't play on her mind for long this time, though; once back on the street she took a deep, steadying breath, then started back towards the palace. She already had the key to the storeroom, and a Veil would allow her to go to and from it several times without being detected.

  She watched a patrol sweep through the street ahead of her, the soldiers' every motion taut with nervousness. She understood exactly how they felt.

  Things were coming to a head, and she had no idea how they were going to turn out.

  It was almost time.

  - Chapter 49 -

  Davian stared ahead grimly as he walked alongside Elder Eilinar down yet another flight of dimly-lit, rough stone stairs, deeper into the heart of Tol Athian.

  "You're angry," noted Nashrel, giving him a sideways glance.

  "Yes," Davian replied bluntly, too frustrated to be polite. He gritted his teeth for a few seconds in silence, then scowled, unable to contain his exasperation. "You and the Council are making the wrong decision. Having Gifted available to heal the wounded would save many lives."

  Nashrel made a calming gesture. "I'm on your side, Davian. If I had my way, we would be at the Shields as we speak," he said calmly. "But the others did make some valid points. The palace can hardly expect us to help, not if they're not willing to change the Tenets so that we can at least defend ourselves."

  "But you won't even talk to them," said Davian in frustration.

  "And as we told you, if changing the Tenets is not a part of the discussion, there is little point."

  "But if you just -"

  "It's not just the king's stubbornness regarding the Tenets, Davian." Nashrel stopped and turned to him, a serious look on his face. "This vitriol we've been hearing from him - these open threats against the Gifted - isn't something we can just ignore. You have to understand... all of us remember the Unseen War like it was yesterday, and what we've heard coming from the palace has been stirring up old memories. Old fears. "

  "So the solution is to hide in here and hope it all goes away?"

  Nashrel frowned at that. "Show a little respect," he said quietly, anger just beneath the surface. Davian coloured, knowing he'd overstepped, but Nashrel started walking again before Davian could respond. "I know you're frustrated, but the Elders on the Council went through things during the war that you can only imagine. Since then, being behind these walls is the only way many of them can feel safe. Fates, I can name four Elders who haven't left the Tol in near twenty years! These are deep-seated fears, Davian - not the kind that can be easily overcome. Especially not when they are fed by the king like this."

  Davian shook his head. "Maybe you're right," he conceded. "But it doesn't excuse the way they're abandoning everyone. It doesn't give them the right to bury their heads in the sand while the Blind threaten their city. Even the Gifted from Tol Shen have realised that."

  Nashrel didn't respond for a while. The stairwells and passageways seemed to narrow the further down they travelled; here, Davian would have been able to touch both walls simultaneously with his elbows if he'd tried. The rock of Ilin Tora itself had slowly transformed from the carefully carved, light-brown texture of the upper levels to a jagged, menacing black, rough-hewn and almost volcanic in its appearance. The air was musty, and there was such a fierce chill to it that Davian shivered despite his thick cloak.

  Eventually the Elder sighed. "There's some merit to what you're saying, Davian. And the news about Shen surprised me. But the Council have made their decision; what's done is done." He shook his head. "Just be glad they agreed to let you see Tenvar. I wasn't sure they were going to do that muc
h, to be honest, after you... expressed your displeasure about our decision not to fight. And Tol Athian is not in the habit of giving strangers free access to prisoners, either."

  Davian grunted. "I can't say I appreciated having to Read them like it was some kind of parlour trick, though," he said in disgust.

  "They needed proof that you were really an Augur - some guarantee you weren't lying - before they could let you down here. It was not unreasonable." Nashrel gave a slight smile. "Anyway, Fethrin and Ielsa certainly regret making you do it."

  Davian snorted. "They brought that on themselves."

  "That they did," said Nashrel in amusement.

  They turned down another passageway; here Essence orbs had been replaced with traditional torches, so sparsely placed along the hallways that it was almost pitch-black when walking in between them. The only sound was the constant echoing of the two men’s boots on the hard stone, and even that faint noise was quickly swallowed by the darkness.

  They emerged into a long hallway, wider and better-lit than those preceding. Rather than blank black rock, iron doorways with small barred windows lined the passage, and from the occasional cough, Davian could tell that the dungeon had at least a few occupants.

  Finally they came to a stop in front of a cell, one of the last in the hallway. Dark though it was, Davian could make out the crouched human form within. He waited until Nashrel unlocked the steel-barred door, then turned to the Elder.

  “I'd prefer not to go in there unarmed.”

  Nashrel hesitated, then drew a short dagger from his belt. "Use this for anything but self-defence, and Augur or not, I'll have you thrown out of the Tol. Immediately."

  Davian nodded. "Of course."

  “Davian!” came a familiar voice from inside the cell. “I see the Gifted know what you are, now. And haven't turned you in yet. Good for you.” Tenvar walked forward so that his face was pressed up against the bars of the tiny window. He looked like he hadn't washed in days, and his beard was growing out to give him an entirely unkempt look.

  Davian glared at him, fury burning in his stomach. “Stand back,” he growled.

  Tenvar did as he was told.

  Davian opened the door with one hand, gripping the knife in the other. He doubted Tenvar could overpower him in his evidently weakened state, but there was no point taking the chance.

  Davian entered the cell warily, but Tenvar had taken a seat on the opposite side of the small room. Despite his condition he looked relaxed, even a little smug, his legs crossed and reclining as if the stone bench was the most comfortable chair in the world.

  Davian felt another flash of anger. “I’ve come to find out who you’re working for. And how to stop the Blind,” he said, keeping his tone as calm as he could manage.

  Tenvar smiled. “Ah, so that’s what they decided to call them. How unoriginal. And they’re here already, are they? Faster than I expected,” he said cheerfully. “Thank-you for that information. Nobody had told me I would be rescued quite so soon.”

  “Rescued?” Davian gave a bitter laugh. “You're not going anywhere, Tenvar. I'll see you dead before I see you free.”

  “Threatening my life?” Ilseth sighed. “Davian, you forget that I know you a little. Not well, perhaps, I’ll grant you that. But enough to know that you’re no murderer. You don’t have a violent bone in your body.”

  Davian said nothing for a moment, then took a deep breath. He wasn’t here to argue with Tenvar or rise to his taunts. He was here to Read him, plain and simple.

  He concentrated, reaching out until he could feel Tenvar’s mind. He was immediately, unsurprisingly presented with a locked box.

  Davian examined the box in silence. There were other memories outside it but Davian didn’t bother to look at them; if Tenvar didn’t feel the need to hide them, they were unimportant. He tried to remember how he’d broken into Malshash’s box, but the longer he stared at Tenvar’s, the more impregnable it seemed to become.

  “I’m shielded, Davian,” said Ilseth, his tone relaxed, even slightly amused. “I’ve kept my thoughts private for forty years. From before the real Augurs fell. You’re not breaking in.”

  Davian didn’t reply, but allowed his focus to wane for a few moments. Ilseth was putting all his concentration into maintaining that shield; even if Davian tried forcing the box open he would probably fail. He needed Ilseth’s attention elsewhere.

  His stomach churned a little, but it needed to be done.

  He leaned over and as coldly as possible, plunged his knife into Tenvar’s thigh.

  Tenvar screamed in surprised pain; even as Davian pulled the knife out again, he slammed into Tenvar’s mental box with everything he had. It disintegrated, and Davian moaned as Tenvar’s agony flooded through to his own mind. He ignored the pain, clenching his fists.

  Behind him, he could hear Nashrel yelling something, rushing into the cell. If Davian was going to get information, he had to be quick.

  He searched for a way to stop the Blind, but to his frustration he discovered that Tenvar knew very little of the invasion. It made sense, he supposed; if he’d had something so vital in his memories then Devaed would surely have found a way to have him killed, tucked away in a Tol Athian dungeon or not.

  Davian moved on to the question that had been burning inside him for so long now. Why had Tenvar given him the Vessel, sent him away before the slaughter of everyone else in the school?

  He located the memory he was after, then took a deep breath.

  Davian waited.

  The small room was dark, dank, and had a musty smell which made him sporadically wrinkle his nose in disgust. A jumble of discarded boxes were heaped in the corner, where the damp had already contrived to rot through some of them. Otherwise, the room was empty. There were no windows this far beneath the surface of course, but his lamp, set down in the middle of the room, lit the black stone walls well enough.

  He hoped this meeting would not take long. Being discovered in this section of Tol Athian, so deep beneath the ancient foundations, would result in questions he may not easily be able to answer.

  He began to pace, tracking an imaginary path along the cold stone floor. He had received this summons so abruptly, so directly, that he did not know what to expect. For the thousandth time he pondered the possibility that it was a trap. The message had been written in an ancient Darecian dialect; there were only four or five people in Andarra who still knew that language, so a ruse seemed unlikely. Why he was being called upon at this vital moment, though – now, when he was so close to succeeding – he simply could not imagine.

  He ran his fingers through his hair as he marched back and forth, mentally categorizing the possibilities. None of them were good.

  Behind him, the lamp went out, plunging the room into darkness.

  He froze mid-step, a shiver running up his spine as he heard the door to the stairwell creak shut. The hair at the base of his neck began to prickle.

  “You have come,” a deep voice rumbled in approval.

  Davian turned. The room seemed lit again, but it was a cold, pale luminescence, as if he were seeing through the darkness rather than by a natural light. In front of the closed door stood the faint outline of a lone man, cloaked and hooded, face shrouded in shadow. The stranger made no move to enter the room further.

  “I would not refuse a summons from the master we serve,” said Davian. The man had to be using kan to manipulate Essence, illuminating the room but keeping himself in darkness. Not a trap, then – something more terrifying by far, in fact, though Davian could not fathom how one of them could be on this side of the Boundary.

  They weren’t a myth, then. This was one of the Venerate.

  The hooded man nodded, oblivious to Davian’s train of thought. “That is good,” he growled. “Then you would not refuse a task from him, either.” Davian thought he must be altering his voice somehow; certainly no-one could naturally sound so gravelly. Distracted by the thought, the stranger’s words took a few m
oments to sink in.

  “It would be an honour to serve Lord Devaed in any task,” he said, almost tripping over the words in his haste to respond. The Venerate were not to be trifled with, but the question burned within him - he hesitated a second longer, swallowing hard, working up the courage to continue. “Before we proceed… if I may ask… why now? I mean no disrespect, but what could be worth risking my place here, so close to the end?” He had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, not to know.

  There was a long silence; though Davian could not see beneath the other man’s hood, he could feel his gaze burrowing into his skull.

  “Do you know why I chose this place to meet?” The words were spoken so softly that Davian barely heard them.

  He shifted, his sense of unease growing. “No.”

  “I chose it because the walls here have no Remembering.” The man raised his hand, brushing the stone with his fingertips. “In this room, Tenvar, I can do whatever I please.”

  There was no warning.

  Davian gasped as the index finger of his right hand began to burn; a second later a shriek ripped from his throat as agony coursed through him, nerves screaming as they were sliced open. He grasped the finger tightly but to no avail; he collapsed on the floor as it began to tear open from the tip downward, slowly splitting fingernail and then flesh in a shower of blood and pain, the bare bone itself splintering as impossibly fine strands of Essence pulled it carefully, inexorably, in opposite directions.

  “Stop!” he sobbed, writhing helplessly. Already the finger was split down to the second joint. He moaned, heart pounding wildly, trying to focus on anything but the pain. “Stop,” he choked again.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he felt the force exerted upon his rent flesh vanish. Essence flowed around him; his hand began to cool, and something dropped wetly to the floor. The pain eased. He sat up from his prostrate position, then turned away and retched, the bile acidic in his throat. The small, pulpy mass of twisted and torn flesh next to him was all that remained of his forefinger. On his hand, the dark red blood had vanished, and a smooth, scarred stump sat where the finger had been taken off. Only a throbbing remembrance of pain remained.