“What is he, then? A man? A creature? Something else?” He gave a nervous laugh. “So what actually happens when the source of all evil gets free?”
Asar sighed at the cynicism in Caeden’s tone, not saying anything. Eventually, he just shook his head.
“It is a lot to take in. And I understand your doubt, Tal’kamar. Truly I do,” he said softly, “but we do not have time for it. Perhaps it is better if I show you.”
He leaned forward abruptly. Before Caeden could react, his fingers were touching Caeden’s forehead.
Caeden screamed, but here he had no voice. Shrieking pain raked at him, but though he tried to twist away from it, he had no body. He tried to focus but there was no clarity here, just a constantly rupturing schism of consciousness. Every fiber of his being scrabbled desperately to get away from the raw, cold torment. He could not.
He thrashed in convulsive agony for longer than he could bear, and then more. Days? Years? There was a screeching cacophony until it could be borne no longer; there was an empty, swirling silence that left a desolate panic bubbling uncontrollably inside of him. There was searing pain and icy wretchedness. There was misery and anguish and bottomless loss.
There was no relief.
Caeden woke to the sound of screams.
It took him a moment to realize that they were his own. Tears streamed down his face; his throat was on fire and every muscle was taut as he lay curled into a tight ball, shivering uncontrollably.
Time passed; eventually he took some deep, shuddering breaths and forced his body to unwind. Still trembling, he rolled onto his side, looking up at Asar.
“What … what was that?” he gasped.
“The Darklands,” said Asar quietly, leaning down and offering his hand. “It is where we think our enemy is from. His realm. And it is what this world may become if he succeeds.”
Caeden hesitated, then grasped Asar’s hand, letting the white-bearded man haul him back into his chair. “There was …” He trailed off, shuddering. His mind shied away from the memory. “I don’t know how to describe it.”
“Nobody does,” said Asar gently. “The best I have heard it explained is that it is an absence. It is what it would be if there was no joy, no life, no light, no hope. If everything—everything—that made this world a comfort to us was stripped away, completely and utterly.” Asar gazed at Caeden sympathetically.
Caeden just groaned. “How long was I there?”
“You were not there, Tal’kamar. I do not believe that is something which even we could endure. What you saw was a memory from a man named Alchesh. One that came at the cost of his sanity.” Asar paused. “And it was only a moment. What I just showed you was a fraction of a second in that place, no more.”
Caeden shivered, instinctively sinking back against the fabric of his seat.
“That is what we fight, Tal’kamar,” continued Asar quietly. “That is what is coming if the Boundary should fall. We believe that Shammaeloth’s goal is Deilannis—to reach the rift there and to tear it wide, so that he can escape this world. Escape time itself. And in doing so, allow the Darklands to consume what he leaves behind.” He leaned forward. “So now you see. That is why we do not have time to deal again with the doubt and unbelief that you have already been through once. That is why it is so imperative that we restore your memories.”
Caeden closed his eyes, still trying to steady himself.
“Why would I ever have fought for him, then?” he asked softly. “Why would anyone …”
“Because he fooled us.” Asar’s words were firm but gentle. “For a long time, we thought that we were doing the right thing.”
“The right thing?” repeated Caeden, a hint of scorn returning some of the strength to his voice. “How could he possibly fool someone into believing that?”
“It’s what he does.” Asar’s voice had turned sharp, and Caeden could see that he’d touched on a wound still not healed. “Do not assume that his intent was obvious, nor that we were simply stupid or naive. He gave us not only a compelling falsehood, but a compelling morality to go with it—something to live for and something to live by. Do not forget that he is older than even we can imagine. He spent hundreds of years proving himself, building trust, laying the foundation of his story and giving us a sense of purpose. He knows each of our weaknesses, and he exploits them in unimaginably subtle ways. He is more intelligent, more convincing, more clever, and more patient than any of us could ever hope to be. So much so that most of the others are not just still fighting for him—they believe in him, heart and soul.”
Caeden subsided, shifting uncomfortably, not sure how to respond.
Eventually, he nodded.
“Very well,” he said reluctantly. It was a hard thing to comprehend, let alone accept—but at least for now, he didn’t seem to have a choice. He straightened, his heart rate finally slowing again after what Asar had shown him. “Who are these others you keep mentioning?”
Asar sighed again, impatience creeping into his tone this time. “There were eleven of us, originally. The Darecians called us the Venerate; in their language, it was a way of mocking us—both for the blind worship we received, and the blind worship we gave. But it stuck.” He took a deep breath. “You and me. Gassandrid. Alaris. Cyr. Isiliar. Andrael. Diara. Meldier. Wereth. Tysis. Three and a half thousand years ago, Shammaeloth brought us all together. We were immortal before we ever met him, but Shammaeloth is the one who first showed us how to use kan.”
Caeden opened his mouth, then shut it again. “So … these others are our enemies now, too?” he asked, thinking immediately of his previous encounter with Alaris.
Asar groaned, the sound one of pure frustration. “Shammaeloth’s true nature started to show through. Some of us saw it, some of us didn’t. Inevitably, we broke apart.” He shrugged tiredly. “Look—we could keep going like this for days. I could spend precious hours explaining our past, recounting events you’ve already experienced, trying to train you again—and in the end, that is exactly how much wiser you would be. Hours, not the centuries you need to be.” He rubbed his forehead. “Time is against us, and this will be a difficult process. Laborious. Every moment I spend giving you an overview of things that you have to remember regardless, is a moment utterly wasted.”
Caeden shifted uneasily. “But I already know so much more than I did an hour ago. What if I can’t remember at all? What if it takes too long and then you just have to tell me anyway?”
“I know that you are afraid of your memories, but do not let that fear dictate your actions,” growled Asar, a clear rebuke. “Give me a month. One month to try and sate your curiosity by restoring what you already know, rather than me trying to teach you. After that, if you still do not have everything you need? I will talk until my throat is raw and your ears bleed. I will impart every piece of knowledge I possibly can.” He leaned forward, gripping Caeden by the shoulder. “But Tal’kamar? If we get to that point, we have already failed. My words simply cannot replace your experiences. The truth is, I could talk for a hundred years and never bring you to where you need to be. So this is the only way forward.”
Caeden swallowed, chest taut, but nodded slowly.
“Then let’s begin,” he said quietly.
Chapter 1
Davian spun smoothly past another slow-moving bolt of shimmering white Essence, not bothering to extinguish it this time.
He darted across the rain-slick courtyard toward his target, weaving nimbly between the bright slivers of energy inching across the open space, all the while focusing on the spherical mesh of dark, hardened kan from which the attacks were emanating. He gritted his teeth, blinking away the occasional droplet of rain that made its way into his eyes, continuing to force back the flow of time as he moved. Everything was much harder this far from Deilannis. It was less than a minute since he’d begun, but already he was nearing his capacity to keep this up.
He stepped to the side as more bars of molten light appeared; he diverted
some of his focus and snatched a few of them from the air nearby with kan, redirecting them back at their source. They hit the spinning sphere and simply dissipated.
He grunted, not bothering to look around as the first of the bolts he’d ignored finally smashed into the tall stone archway behind him, accompanied by the muted roar of crumbling masonry as it began to collapse.
The Elders were not going to like that.
Brightening at the thought, he dodged between the two kan barriers in his path—similar in construction to the sphere ahead, but entirely static—and skidded to his knees as another stream of light, this one far stronger than anything he’d seen thus far, sliced through the air where his head had been a few seconds earlier.
His eyes widened a little. That was new.
Dangerous, too.
He growled, forcing himself up again and finally reaching the outer edge of the swirling sphere. He breathed deeply, the sharp cold of the winter’s morning in his lungs helping him focus, clearing his head. He could do this. The barrier wasn’t perfect—the hardened mesh confronting him was just a shell protecting active, malleable kan underneath, and he could occasionally spot the more vulnerable lines of dark energy writhing through the gaps.
The problem was that the mesh was constantly revolving. Even slowed though it was to his perception, the protective shell still moved too fast for him to accurately thread his own kan through it. And the moment any of his attacks touched the hardened, spinning outer layer, they dissipated like smoke in the wind.
Stepping into motion again he prowled the edge of the barrier, every nerve taut as Essence attacks flashed out at him, slowed but still requiring quick reactions at this range. In between the strikes he arrowed dark energy experimentally into the gaps of the sphere, probing for weaknesses. Each time, his threads were cut by the mesh before they could impact what was inside. He tried forcing the kan through faster, but to no avail. He tried matching his threads to the rotation; the shell somehow sensed what he was doing and jerked in response, changing direction, shifting savagely and unpredictably in order to slice through his attack.
He growled again, for a moment considering trying hardened kan of his own—but the memory of his last such attempt held him back. A kan blade would more easily disrupt the softer internal workings of the shield, but there was one firm rule when two constructs of hardened kan clashed: whichever was created first was stronger. Even if he succeeded in damaging what lay within, it wouldn’t be fast enough to stop the mesh from rotating into his own attack.
And the last time he’d been manipulating hardened kan when it had been broken, he’d ended up bedridden for an entire day combating the resulting headache.
Davian’s sense of urgency mounted as a faster-moving bar of Essence grazed his shoulder, and he felt time start to push against him again. He squinted. A portion of the sphere seemed to be only shell, with no active kan strands behind it at all. Was that right? Easier to maintain, he supposed, but flawed. Dependent on illusion for security. Hardened kan couldn’t stop him from physically moving through it. And if he could place himself inside it without being hit by any of the active kan strands, the rest would be easy.
He waited three more full rotations of the mesh, batting away flashes of Essence, until the gap he’d spotted came toward him again.
He dove forward.
The world lurched as the active strands—rotating with the shell, hidden neatly between two close-set layers of hardened kan—caught him. He was ripped violently back into time, dropping to one knee and groaning, head spinning. His limbs felt weak and he swallowed, barely avoiding dry-retching. Behind him, he could hear the last pieces of the shattered archway still smashing to the ground.
When he’d recovered enough to look up, Ishelle’s amused grin greeted him.
“You really thought you could just walk through it?”
Davian grunted. “I thought there was a gap,” he coughed, rising unsteadily to his feet, quickly supported by Ishelle as he stumbled. “That was dirty.”
Ishelle’s smile widened as she gestured with her free hand, dismissing the barrier that had been whirling around her. “Because my shield actually did what it was supposed to do? Or because I outsmarted you?”
“Dirty,” repeated Davian firmly, though he gave her a smile as he rubbed his head. He sighed, then politely disengaged himself from Ishelle’s grasp, glancing around at the cloud of dust where the archway into the courtyard had once been. “And … hmm.”
“Hmm,” agreed Ishelle, giving him a stern look.
“That’s not my fault,” protested Davian. “There was no way I could have absorbed all of those bolts and kept myself outside of time.”
“That was the point.” Ishelle peered at him. “You need to be less competitive.”
Davian snorted. “We won’t mention that one blast that nearly took my head off, then.” He sighed. “I still have no idea how to beat that shield of yours. You say you can maintain it while you’re asleep, now, too? If mine was half as effective, I’d be ecstatic.”
“A few years of constant nagging from Driscin helps get it right,” observed Ishelle. She paused. “And the fact I’m better than you, of course. That’s relevant, too.”
Davian barked out a laugh, then immediately regretted it as pain shot through his skull. “Of course. Not counting when we practice with Reading, or communicating mentally, or altering our passage through time, or drawing Essence, or—”
Ishelle cut him off with a loud sigh of mock sadness. “Better, Davian. Better.”
Davian grinned, but dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Give me a few moments, then we can go again?”
“You don’t want to try something a little less painful?” Ishelle glanced at the pile of debris. “Or, maybe, less destructive?”
“I want to.” Davian shrugged. “But that’s not why we’re here.”
Despite the light tone of the conversation, he couldn’t keep an undercurrent of unease from his voice as he said the words. That was usually present whenever he talked about their training now, though. It had already been a month since the battle in Ilin Illan—three long weeks on the road, then the last one at Tol Shen itself.
And despite his best efforts, he was still none the wiser as to how they were supposed to seal the Boundary.
He sighed. These Disruption shields—designed to block any kan attack—were, apparently, the very first thing most Augurs were taught. That made sense, once Davian had thought about it. Given the importance they had placed on confirming visions, they would also have needed a way to be certain that those visions had not been artificially created or altered in any way.
More importantly right now, though, he and Ishelle had agreed that this was the best way to prepare for when they eventually did reach the Boundary. Though neither of them had any real idea what they’d be facing once they headed north, learning to circumvent the protection of hardened kan seemed like a logical move. It would be on an entirely different scale, of course—but assuming that the Boundary was protected from tampering, these types of barriers would almost certainly be involved.
It was all still speculation, though. Despite his hounding of the various Elders here—as well as spending every spare second that he could in Tol Shen’s multiple libraries—information on what they were up against was even more scarce than Davian had initially feared.
Ishelle shrugged. “If you want to provide me with more entertainment, I won’t complain.”
Davian gave her a wry look, then stared up at the cold gray sky for a few seconds. “One more round. Just … give me a minute.”
“I don’t think a minute’s going to help you.” Ishelle slid smoothly onto the bench next to him—just close enough for him to feel uncomfortable, but not quite close enough for him to shuffle away without looking immature.
Davian leaned forward instead, twisting the ring on his forefinger absently and focusing on the courtyard. It was empty, as always. Reserved for the Augurs. Not just
the yard, either—the towering buildings that surrounded it on all four sides, too. A large statue sat at each corner, each one holding pulsing, burning representations of weapons that lit the area brightly at night, as well as giving the Augurs a constant source of Essence with which to train. Grand balconies across multiple floors overlooked the wide but enclosed space, and pathways between buildings crisscrossed the air above. A hundred windows reflected back the cloud-covered sky. All were empty. All were silent.
His vision swam for a moment as he stared; he hesitated, then slowly relaxed his mental control, allowing his body to begin drawing Essence again from the nearest statue. He’d been consciously, periodically cutting himself off since leaving Ilin Illan—a somewhat risky proposition, perhaps, but it was more dangerous by far to remain ignorant of his limitations.
In the past month, he’d learned that he could comfortably survive for at least a few hours without Essence: even more when completely sedentary, but significantly less when training with kan. How long had this time been? An hour? He never pushed his experimentation too far—the moment that he started to feel tired or nauseous, he always stopped—but he tried to do it regularly and under varying conditions. The more he knew about his unusual condition, the better.
“No new visions last night, I take it?” he asked eventually as the tightness in his muscles began to ease.
“Nothing.” Ishelle gave a languid stretch. “More terribly sad looks from Thameron later today, I fear.”
“Wouldn’t be an afternoon at Tol Shen without one or two of those,” agreed Davian.
Elder Thameron—Tol Shen’s appointed Scribe—had been one of the few people who had actually seemed excited by their arrival. But Ishelle’s Foresight was weak at best; since leaving Ilin Illan she’d had only a few visions, and none had been of anything particularly important.
Combined with Davian’s ability still being blocked after Deilannis—a problem Ishelle had been unable to detect, let alone fix—they had been a source of constant disappointment to the Council. In the last few days, Thameron had taken to looking a mixture of frustrated and depressed whenever he spotted them.
An Echo of Things to Come Page 3