An Echo of Things to Come

by James Islington

  “Is that … an offer?” she asked cautiously.

  “It is a statement,” said Breshada gruffly. “Watching you wield a blade makes me uncomfortable. It is like … watching a child who has never seen water deciding that they can swim. As there is the possibility that it will happen again, and as I do not wish to cringe in such a manner again, I will teach you.”

  Asha kept a straight face. “As I don’t wish for you to feel uncomfortable, I accept.”

  Breshada studied her for a moment, then snorted, though Asha thought there was the slightest hint of a smile on her lips. “Dawn, then,” she said.

  Asha grimaced. “Dawn? Surely sleep would be better to—”

  “Dawn,” said Breshada firmly.

  Asha hesitated for the briefest of moments; she was already more tired than she was used to and sorely tempted to refuse. But it felt like Breshada was reaching out, extending an olive branch.

  “Dawn,” she agreed heavily.

  Chapter 32

  Wirr made his way uneasily through the palace corridors, which were as empty as he’d ever seen them.

  It had been four days since Isiliar’s attack, but those still residing within the palace walls moved as if the shock of it had not yet faded. He could relate to that. This was his home, even more so than the Tel’Andras estate; for his whole life, no matter his political enemies, this had always felt like a place of at least physical safety. Aside from perhaps the two Tols, nowhere else in the entire kingdom was supposed to be as well-defended as here.

  Yet now, the hammering and sawing from the front of the palace was a constant audible reminder of how little that had mattered against Isiliar. Repairs were proceeding apace, but nothing here would ever be as it had.

  Wirr reached his destination—far enough to the back of the palace that the sounds of rebuilding were relatively faint—and took a deep breath. As heavily as recent events were weighing on him, he always tried to show a more positive side while he was here.

  He pushed open the door and smiled with as much cheerfulness as he could muster at the room’s two occupants.

  “Tor!” Deldri’s face lit up as she spotted him from her seated position in her bed. On a chair nearby, Dezia matched her smile.

  “Prince Torin,” Dezia said politely. “I was just getting to know your sister.”

  “Sorry,” said Wirr as he sat down next to her.

  Deldri stuck out her tongue at him. “I was just asking Dezia whether she knew anything more about your mysterious dark-haired girl from a few nights ago. Everyone’s still talking about it, you know. You may as well come clean.”

  Wirr snorted. By “everyone,” Deldri meant her and her friends; the attack on the palace had all but wiped the incident from everyone else’s memories. Still, he didn’t feel the need to point that out to her. “There’s nothing to tell. Trust me.”

  “Please.” Deldri gave him a stern look, then turned to Dezia conspiratorially. “Are you sure you don’t know anything? From the way he was talking on the way here, there’s clearly someone in the palace who he’s interested in.”

  Dezia raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” Despite her straight face, Wirr could see the amusement in her eyes.

  Wirr pointedly ignored her. “How are you feeling today, Del?” he asked.

  Deldri sighed, looking disappointed that he wasn’t going to engage in the topic. “Like I don’t need to be in this bed anymore.”

  “You were badly hurt,” said Wirr immediately. “You have to—”

  “I know, I know.” Deldri rolled her eyes at Dezia. “He thinks I’m an idiot sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” asked Wirr.

  He grinned as he easily evaded Deldri’s mock-irritated swipe, the expression not entirely forced this time. His sister didn’t remember anything of the attack or getting injured—whether because of her injuries or simply the trauma of what she’d seen, he didn’t know. Either way, he was grateful. She’d been through enough without having to live with memories like that.

  “I am fine,” said Deldri eventually, giving up on trying to hit her brother. “Your friend Taeris did a good job; I’m just a little stiff. You can barely even see the scars.”

  Wirr nodded, sobering, doing his best not to show the pain he felt at the words. Deldri had only been here at the palace because of him.

  Taeris had found them both, eventually, in the aftermath of the destruction—healed them, as well as any others that he could manage. Dras Lothlar had helped, and other Gifted had arrived soon after.

  Even so, many had not survived the injuries they’d sustained from the fall.

  “Just … rest,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to be up and doing anything, so take the time to recover properly. There’s no rush.”

  Deldri sighed. “Have you seen Mother yet?”

  Wirr shook his head, a little grimly. Geladra had arrived two evenings after the attack—she’d come as soon as she’d heard, presumably—but they hadn’t crossed paths yet.

  “I know your uncle has,” observed Dezia drily.

  Wirr grunted. The king had, thankfully, been kept well toward the back of the palace during the attack, and Wirr had been working together closely with him over the past few days. Kevran hadn’t gone into the details of his meeting with Geladra, but he’d been in a distinctly foul mood after seeing her.

  Deldri scowled. “She should go and see Torin. I told her that,” she added to Wirr.

  “I bet she took that well,” said Wirr.

  Deldri just shrugged, indicating that she didn’t care much what their mother’s reaction had been.

  They spoke for a while longer, but soon enough the physician stopped by to check on Deldri, shooing Wirr and Dezia from the room.

  Wirr sighed. “I have a meeting with Taeris. I should probably head there now.”

  “I’ll keep you company,” said Dezia cheerfully. “I want to hear all about this girl you’re so interested in.”

  “Well … you remember that dinner with Iria Tel’Rath?” asked Wirr as they started walking, wincing as he earned a sharp punch to the arm.

  Neither of them said anything for a few moments, and then Dezia looked across at Wirr, expression serious now. “So how are you?”

  Wirr shrugged, a little awkwardly. “No complaints.”

  Dezia came to an abrupt halt, locking eyes with him. “Really?”

  Wirr grimaced, then nodded apologetically. They had ascertained each other was safe after the attack, but hadn’t really had a chance to talk since.

  “It’s … going to take a while,” he admitted after a moment. “I didn’t like Pria, but fates know she didn’t deserve what happened. And Andyn …” His voice caught, and he swallowed a lump in his throat. His bodyguard’s death had hit him harder than he cared to admit; he’d felt a bond with the man, and the grief of his passing was still painfully sharp in Wirr’s chest whenever he allowed himself to think about it. “I liked Andyn. A lot. I know he was just doing his job, but …”

  “He was your friend, too. It hurts,” finished Dezia gently, nodding. She glanced around, then gave him a quick squeeze on the arm.

  They walked for a while in companionable silence.

  “Have you heard from Aelric lately?” asked Dezia eventually. “He mentioned that he was heading down to Miorette to do something for you, but I expected him back by now. Especially since he would surely have heard about what happened.”

  Wirr came to a sudden stop, closing his eyes and groaning. With everything that had been happening, he’d completely forgotten about Aelric.

  “He’s not back yet?” When Dezia shook her head, giving him a questioning look, he sighed. “Aelric asked me to give him an excuse to go. He said that there was a personal matter that he wanted to deal with, but he didn’t want you coming along.” He rubbed his forehead. “He wouldn’t tell me the details, but he mentioned that there might be trouble. He was worried you’d put yourself in danger if you found out.”

  Dezia leaned ba
ck, not taking her eyes from Wirr. “So there’s a good chance that he’s gone and done something stupid,” she said flatly.

  Wirr looked away. Her gaze was one of hurt and disappointment.

  “I’m sorry—I should have said something. I …” He rubbed his forehead, wanting to make excuses but knowing that there weren’t really any legitimate ones. “It was a bad decision.”

  “It really was.” There was an undeniable element of anger in Dezia’s evident concern for her brother, though she was still calm. “You knew that he was doing something dangerous, and you didn’t tell me.”

  “Yes,” acceded Wirr quietly.

  Dezia continued to meet his gaze. “Did he say anything about where he was really going?”

  “Variden,” said Wirr. “He wouldn’t say why, though.”

  Dezia thought for a few moments. Then she paled.

  “Telemaki. Devarius Telemaki lives in Variden.”

  Wirr looked at her blankly. “Who’s that?”

  “The man leading the group who backed Aelric for the Song,” Dezia said softly.

  Wirr took a moment to realize what she was saying. Then his heart dropped, and he inwardly cursed himself for not finding out more. Aelric had deliberately lost his final match in the Song of Swords, costing those who had backed him a fortune.

  He understood why Aelric had asked him to lie now. There was no way that Dezia would have stood by if she’d known where he was going.

  “I’ll send some men to make inquiries,” said Wirr quickly.

  Dezia shook her head. “No. You need everyone either here or in the north,” she said reluctantly. “I’ll ask around. I know some people who might be able to find out what’s happening.”

  “Can I help?”

  Dezia was silent for a long moment.

  “Not for now,” she said eventually, hurt still thick in her tone. “I know you were doing what you thought was best, Wirr, but …” Her jaw clenched a little, and he could see her keeping in the emotions. “We should talk about this later. When I’ve had a chance to process it.”

  Wirr hesitated—he didn’t want to let her leave with this unresolved—but after a second, he nodded.

  “If you need me to do anything—anything at all—just let me know,” he said softly. “I’ll send word if I hear from him.”

  Dezia inclined her head, then left without another word.

  Wirr sat down at his desk with a heavy sigh, flipping open his father’s notebook once again.

  He needed something to take his mind off what had just happened, and this was the most constructive way that he could think of to distract himself until his meeting with Taeris. He’d been reading more of it in every spare moment he had been able to find over the past few days. It was a fascinating read in and of itself—but since Isiliar’s attack, he’d had another, more pressing interest.

  He hadn’t really remembered the oddity of what had happened until yesterday. The day after the assault, his only concern had been to ensure that everyone he knew—which was quite a large group, here in the palace—was all right. Aside from Deldri, those closest to him hadn’t been caught in the attack, but there were plenty of others who had been affected. Many of those were allies, and some he even considered friends.

  Yesterday, though—as he’d been considering what to say at a memorial for those who had died—he had thought again about Pria and the other Administrators. Not how they’d died, necessarily, but how they had seemed to resist Isiliar’s Control.

  How his desperate shout had appeared to interrupt what she had been trying to make them do.

  The more he’d thought about it, the more certain he’d become. It might have been his imagination—or it might have been Alaris, interfering before he had revealed his presence. But it had seemed related to what Wirr had yelled out to them.

  He closed his eyes, going through his logic again. A simple shout wouldn’t have been enough to break Control—of that much, he was certain. If he’d done something—if—then it had to have been because of his relationship with the Administrators.

  It had to be something to do with his being Northwarden.

  Wirr knew that that alone wasn’t it; he’d given plenty of orders to Administrators in the past that they hadn’t even pretended to obey. He had almost given up trying to figure it out, when another factor had occurred to him.

  He’d still had the Oathstone in his pocket.

  Wirr rolled the Oathstone around in his spare hand as he flipped forward through the pages of Elocien’s notebook. He hadn’t let the sliver of stone out of his sight since he’d realized the possible connection. It had been strange that his father had kept it hidden away in his safe. Perhaps this was why.

  And if so, it was surely detailed somewhere within these pages.

  He’d continued reading for most of last night, but the notebook was thick and his father had gone into enormous amounts of detail, evidently wanting to ensure that no important information was left out after his memories were removed. Much of the book described various secretive meetings with the mysterious blond woman, including several—often violent—demonstrations of Traps, Shackles, and other Vessels that Wirr was now unwelcomely familiar with.

  This morning, though, he had been reading for only ten minutes when a new passage caught his eye.

  It was only our meeting three weeks ago—the one that ultimately led to the writing of these pages—that finally answered the last of our lingering questions.

  We had often wondered to our mysterious benefactor whether we would be able to coexist with the Gifted, should our coup be successful. Though the weapons demonstrated to us thus far were certainly effective, they were still weapons—a path to victory, perhaps, but not to an ultimately peaceable society. The woman had promised us answers to this problem several times, and this was the encounter in which we finally saw the future that she envisaged.

  Just as she had several times before, she had taken two Gifted captive in order to demonstrate her devices to us. As usual the men railed against us as soon as they recognized Kevran and I, demanding their release. However, as I came to realize later, their threats no longer unsettled me. Having seen others of their kind brought low in similar fashion, I no longer feared or hallowed their authority as I once had.

  After gagging the men and engaging with us in a discussion regarding the logistics of distributing her weapons to the outer regions of Andarra, the woman produced a small black disc, little larger than the size of a thumbnail. She pressed it against one the Gifted’s necks; to my surprise the man appeared to be immediately, completely paralyzed.

  She then un-Shackled the other Gifted, telling him plainly that there would be no mercy shown should he resist or refuse her commands. The Gifted, of course, disregarded the woman’s warning, clearly even now unable to believe that a non-Gifted could resist him. She was prepared for the eventuality, and the Gifted’s screams as he endured his punishment are something that I will be grateful to no longer remember.

  Once she was certain that the man would not resist again, she commanded him to direct a small trickle of Essence into the device on his colleague’s neck. Upon doing so, the paralyzed Gifted began to convulse, and black lines the likes of which I have never seen appeared everywhere on his face, as if his very veins had been corrupted by darkness. It turned my stomach to watch, but despite my and Kevran’s protests—the process appeared not unlike torture—the woman assured us that it was necessary.

  She continued until the process was complete, whereby the paralyzed man fell unconscious. She then proceeded to kill the Gifted who had used Essence, but left the unconscious one alive, his face now marred almost beyond recognition.

  She calmly explained to us that this procedure rendered the Gifted permanently unable to use their powers, but—besides the initially unpleasant process, and some associated memory loss—did them no lasting harm. Though at first Kevran and I were enthused by this prospect (if not the distasteful method of its execution), the wom
an warned us against considering it a blanket solution. She felt—and upon reflection, we agreed—that the Gifted would never peaceably coexist if they were forced to entirely, permanently forego their powers. This, she assured us, was better kept as a deterrent: a punishment less dire than execution, but awful enough to the Gifted that it would undoubtedly keep them in check.

  She followed this by explaining that there was yet another device which would not only be exactly what we needed, but would restrict the Gifted in a far more efficient way.

  It was at this point that Jakarris himself walked in.

  When I saw the head of the Augurs enter that room—the black-veined Gifted still slumped on the floor, next to the bloodied corpse of his peer—I felt certain that we were dead men. Even knowing Jakarris only from afar, as with all the Augurs, there was no doubting who he was.

  Yet to my and Kevran’s astonishment, Jakarris proceeded to greet us in a friendly manner, quickly assuring us that he knew our purpose and was in fact there to assist. He explained that he had thus far concealed his involvement because he wished to be certain of our commitment and discretion before revealing himself.

  Though this will undoubtedly be shocking news to you—and still is to me—I believe that Jakarris’s intent is genuine. He gains nothing by pretending to support our cause, and has had more than enough opportunity to betray us since that meeting. I know it will be hard for you to trust him, and I do not suggest wholeheartedly doing so. Still, I urge you to remember these facts.

  Regardless—the discussions in that meeting were particularly terse at first, neither myself nor my brother believing that one of the Augurs could truly be involved in plotting their downfall. Jakarris sensed this—or perhaps Read us—because he eventually insisted on elaborating upon his position.

  What followed was as strange a tale as I have heard; even now, I am unsure whether it could possibly be true. Kevran, certainly, is more than skeptical. Yet Jakarris appears to believe. Ultimately that is what will drive his actions, and therefore is all that matters.