He rubbed at his chin, gaze growing distant. “When I first discovered this place and realized it could serve as a haven for Shadows, Aelrith was already here, staring into that light. Aside from today, it’s the only time I know of that he’s stopped to speak to someone. He and I came to an agreement—we wouldn’t go near him, and he wouldn’t go near us. Today is the first time either of us has broken that accord.”
There was silence for a few seconds; finally Asha straightened, taking a deep breath. “So what are you going to do with me now?” she asked, dreading the answer.
Scyner raised an eyebrow. “Do with you? You’re free to return to the Tol, Ashalia. Or free to stay if you wish,” he said, looking mildly surprised. “You were locked up because I thought you might be a spy. Now I know you’re not.” He hesitated. “However, before you make any decisions, I do have a proposition for you which you may find interesting.”
Asha exhaled, tense muscles loosening a little. “Which is?”
“I have… something of an interest in finding out exactly what happened to your school and the others that were attacked,” said the Shadraehin. “I suspect you do, too. If you’re willing, I think I know how we might work together to find some answers.”
Asha stared at Scyner for a moment, barely daring to believe her ears. “How?” she asked eagerly. Then she paused. “Though… why would you be interested?”
The Shadraehin leaned forward. “The thing is, Ashalia—Administration knows about the Sanctuary. Not where it is, exactly, or how to get here. Yet. But they know it exists, and they have dedicated people trying to find a way to destroy it.”
“But won’t any Administrators die if they come down here?” asked Asha.
Scyner nodded. “That’s true—we’re not worried about a direct attack, at least not yet. At the moment Administration is focused on cutting off our supplies. Water isn’t an issue; there’s a river a little way into the catacombs that we use. Food, though… we can’t produce sufficient crops down here.” He sighed. “Up in the city, Shadows are now being told that they need a letter from their employer if they want to purchase large quantities of food. We can get around that for now, but it won’t be long before Administration starts making things even harder.”
He shrugged. “So as you can imagine, I’ve been looking for a way to get them to leave us alone. I’ve reached out a few times, tried to negotiate, but they just aren’t willing to listen. So now we’re keeping an eye on everyone with power in Administration. Trying to figure out a way to… force the issue.”
“To blackmail them, you mean,” said Asha, a little darkly.
Scyner gave her an apologetic smile. “I know it’s not the most pleasant method, but we have already tried the other avenues at our disposal.” He shook his head. “Regardless. A few months ago, we noticed that the Northwarden was abandoning some of his duties. A lot of his duties, in fact—in order to focus on something else. And as it turns out, that ‘something else’ was his trying to get to the bottom of the attacks.”
Asha frowned. “That doesn’t sound terribly strange.”
The Shadraehin raised an eyebrow. “We’re talking about the Northwarden—head of the Administrators, the man who created the Tenets. A man who hates the Gifted like few others. His looking into the attacks wasn’t unusual, but to not attend the formal swearing in of new Administrators? Turning down meetings with the Great Houses, missing entire sessions of the Assembly? It was definitely odd.”
Scyner smiled grimly. “And as it turns out, the more we looked into it, the more it became evident that the Northwarden was a little too interested in what was going on. Obsessed, I suppose you’d say. The man doesn’t sleep, some nights… from what we can tell he’s kept his inquiry from Administration, too. He’s been very carefully hiding the fact that he’s even interested.”
He rubbed his forehead. “What we don’t know is why. We have many contacts in the palace, and even some in Administration itself—but none have been able to get the answers we need.”
Asha watched him, an uneasy feeling growing in her stomach. “And how do I fit in?”
The Shadraehin looked her in the eye. “I want to tell him who you are, and where you are.”
Asha just stared at him for several seconds, trying to decide if the man was making some kind of odd joke. “You cannot think I would agree to that.”
Scyner just held up his hand. “Hear me out,” he said calmly. “I understand the danger if Administration finds out about you… but the fact is, I don’t believe the Northwarden will tell them. He’s going to want to question you, maybe even take you back to the palace with him to keep you close. But if he turns you over to Administration then he loses that direct connection to you, has to share any information you might reveal.” He shook his head. “No—it’s more than likely that he’ll keep your secret. And if he wants your cooperation, he’s going to have to let you in on his investigation. Which is your best chance of getting answers.”
Asha bit her lip. “And maybe after a while he might let slip why it’s so important to him, too.”
“Exactly. Which you can then relay back to us.” The Shadraehin smiled. “Once we know the details, we can hopefully use the information to force the Northwarden’s hand, get him to have Administration back off. And we would find a way to do it without implicating you, of course,” he quickly assured her.
Asha frowned. “But that’s all you would use the information for?”
“That’s all,” promised the Shadraehin.
Asha shook her head. “It’s a huge risk,” she observed. “And even if the Northwarden doesn’t tell Administration about me, it doesn’t mean he won’t try to torture information from me himself.”
The Shadraehin nodded. “I know. And I won’t force you to be a part of this,” he said seriously. “But from what you were saying earlier, the Council has no leads. So if you really want to find out what happened at Caladel, this may be a chance you’re going to have to take.” He paused. “I can give you time to—”
“I’ll do it,” said Asha.
There had never been a question, really. She was useless sitting at the Tol, and each day that passed was another day the trail of Davian’s killer became colder. At least this way there was a possibility she could make a difference.
“Good.” The Shadraehin rose, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We will do everything we can to make sure you’re safe, Ashalia—there will always be someone keeping an eye out for you, you have my word. And if everything goes according to plan, I’ll make sure we find a way to contact you discreetly once you’re inside the palace.” He wandered over to the door, whispered something into one of the guards’ ears, then turned back to her.
“Shanin here will guide you back to the Tol, and… organize an explanation for why Jin is missing,” he said quietly. “Little enough time has passed since you left—your absence shouldn’t have been noticed.” He gave her a polite nod in farewell. “Fates guide you, Ashalia. I hope we meet again soon.”
As abruptly as that the meeting was over, and Asha was left to follow Shanin back into the Tol.
* * *
Soon she had found her way back to the familiar confines of her room.
It was late, but after sleeping earlier she wasn’t tired. She paced around for a while, then sat pensively on the bed. How long would it be before the Northwarden came to find her? Hours? Days? She glanced at the Decay Clock. Most of the night had gone; it was only a couple of hours until she had to be at the library.
She couldn’t sleep, but there was no point in wasting energy. No point in thinking about what was coming, either. She couldn’t stop it now, even if she’d wanted to.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she lay back on the bed and settled down to wait.
Chapter 13
Davian groaned.
He reluctantly emerged from unconsciousness, head throbbing. Something wasn’t right. Groggily he moved to rub his forehead, only to find that his ar
ms were pinned to his sides.
He came fully awake, remembering everything in a rush. Their rescue attempt. The soldiers. The creature.
His eyes snapped open and he struggled again to raise his arms, to move his body much at all. It was to no avail. With a chill he realized he could feel the cold metal of a Shackle sitting snugly around his arm. He thrashed around for several seconds; finally he took a deep breath, twisting his head—which appeared to be the only part of his body that had been left unrestrained—and forcing himself to take stock of the situation.
The room was small, tidy, and fairly plain; there was another bed set against the far wall, and a pallet squeezed in between for good measure. The window was open and the curtains drawn back, but this was clearly an upper floor and he could see little but rooftops from where he lay. The bustle of the street below drifted into the room, the sounds of merchants hawking their wares mingling with the clip-clop of horses on cobbled stone, the creak of carts, and the general chatter of people as they went about their daily business. Clearly a large town, perhaps even a city, though he had no clue as to how he’d gotten there.
Wirr was stretched out on the other bed, Shackle on his arm, lying in an awkward position as a result of his bindings. There was a none too gentle snoring coming from his direction, and much to Davian’s relief he did not appear to be injured.
The pallet on the floor was occupied by a slender young man, also fast asleep. His shoulder-length reddish-brown hair fell loosely over his face, but Davian still recognized him. The bruises were gone and his ragged clothes were a little cleaner, but this was the man from the wagon—the man he and Wirr had tried to save. He was younger than Davian had first thought, no more than two or three years older than Davian himself.
Davian noted with chagrin that thick rope encircled the stranger’s hands and feet, and a Shackle was closed around his arm, too; it appeared the success of their rescue had been somewhat short-lived. At least, he consoled himself, someone had tended to the man’s injuries.
Before Davian could assess the situation further, there was a jangling of keys from just outside. He tensed as the door swung open.
The man who strode into the room was middle-aged; his hair still maintained its sandy-blond color, only a few flecks of gray starting to appear around the sides. It was his face that drew Davian’s attention, though. It was a mass of scars—some small and some large, some old and white, others still pink from recent healing. One in particular was puffy and raw, streaking from nose to ear, the red punctuated by black where it had been sewn together again. It gave him a terrifying aspect, and Davian shrank back.
The man’s deep-set eyes scanned the room as he entered; seeing that Davian was awake, he stopped short.
“Don’t yell,” he cautioned, his deep voice quiet but authoritative. In contrast to his face, it was reassuring. “I’m Gifted, too. If you draw attention to us, we are all dead.” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal his Mark; seeing that Davian did not seem inclined to start making a commotion, he relaxed a little. “You’re awake much earlier than you should be.”
Davian took a couple of deep, calming breaths. They hadn’t been captured by the Gil’shar. That was a start.
“Who are you?” he asked. “If you’re Gifted, why am I tied up?”
“You’re tied up because I don’t know what to make of you yet. We can talk about the other once I do.” The stranger motioned to the man on the floor. “You freed him. Why?”
Davian frowned. “It’s… complicated.”
“Then simplify it for me.” The man sat down on the sole chair in the room. “I have time.”
“He’s Gifted. It seemed like the right thing to do.” Davian barely kept himself from cringing; he could hear the lack of conviction in own voice.
His captor could hear it, too. “We’re in the middle of Desriel, lad. You didn’t rescue him on a whim. You’ll need to do better than that.”
Davian shook his head. “I’d prefer not to say.”
“What you’d prefer doesn’t really come into it,” said the stranger, his ruined face impassive. “You can tell your story to me, or you can have the Gil’shar pull it out of you. I know which option I’d choose. But until you’ve explained your part in this, to my satisfaction, you’ll not be untied.”
Davian paled. The man was not lying.
The stranger’s expression softened, as much as that was possible, as he saw the look on Davian’s face. “Look, lad, we’re likely all on the same side here. I was tracking this man for a week before you and your friend came along—I may have even tried saving him myself at some point. But that’s a risk I would have taken for my own reasons. I need to know what yours are before I can trust you.” He hesitated. “If it’s any help, I know you’re an Augur. So that’s one less thing you need to hide.”
Davian froze. He opened his mouth to deny it, but he knew from the other man’s face that it would serve no purpose. There was certainty in his eyes, cold and still.
He felt his resolve wilt under the stranger’s steady, calm stare. “I… I don’t know where to start,” he said, a little shakily.
The man leaned forward in his chair.
“From the beginning, lad,” he said quietly. “Start from the beginning.”
* * *
Davian’s throat was dry by the time he’d finished.
He’d related everything; if the stranger already knew he was an Augur, there was little point in concealing the rest. The scarred man had listened in attentive silence, occasionally nodding, sometimes frowning at one piece of information or another. Now he gazed at Davian and seemed… sad.
“Quite a tale,” he said softly. “You’ve raised more questions than you’ve answered, but… quite a tale.”
Davian released a deep breath. “So you believe me?”
Ignoring the question, the man drew something from his pocket. The bronze Vessel, Davian realized after a moment. The stranger turned it over in his hands, examining it, though Davian could tell from his demeanor that he had already looked it over. “Yes. I believe you,” he said. “That isn’t the same as me trusting you—not yet—but it is a start.” He raised his gaze from the box, looking Davian in the eye. “This box cannot be just a Wayfinder. It’s ancient, whatever it is. You truly don’t have any idea what it does?”
Davian shook his head. He could see that the part of the box facing the unconscious man was still shining brightly. “It’s still active,” he supplied. “Whichever side of it is closest to him”—he nodded toward the man on the floor—“lights up with that wolf symbol so brightly that it’s hard to look at.”
The man grunted, staring at the bronze box as if he could see the same thing if he just looked hard enough. “The symbol you’re talking about, the one tattooed on his wrist—it’s the symbol of Tar Anan. The symbol found all across the Boundary.”
Davian frowned. “What… what does that mean?”
“I’m not sure.” Davian’s captor glanced at the man on the floor. “When I’m holding this, his tattoo lights up. But I see nothing on the box itself.” He screwed up his face in puzzlement. “No, I don’t doubt it’s a Wayfinder; the symbols are the link. It will probably stay active until the two physically complete the connection, actually touch each other. But what I don’t understand is how the box could possibly be coupled only to you. Not without your knowledge. Your consent.” Sighing, he tucked the Vessel into one of the folds of his cloak.
Davian shifted uncomfortably. “Are you going to untie me now?”
The stranger glanced at Wirr and the young man on the floor, then shook his head. “No. I have the means to verify at least some of your story, so I’ll do that first. I do believe you… but then I’ve met some good liars before. Even ones as young as you.”
Davian scowled. “Do you at least trust me enough to tell me your name?”
The man nodded. “Taeris Sarr,” he said, watching Davian’s face for a reaction.
The name took a moment to registe
r. The same name as the man who had saved him three years earlier, who had supposedly broken the First Tenet to kill his attackers.
The man who had been executed by Administration.
“No, you’re not,” said Davian, his brow furrowing. “Taeris Sarr is dead.”
The man smiled. “Is that what they’ve been saying? I wondered.” He shook his head in amusement. “But no. Definitely not dead.”
“You’re lying.” Davian’s voice was flat.
“Is that what your ability is telling you?”
Davian went silent. No puffs of black smoke had escaped the man’s mouth.
“How?” he asked after a few seconds.
The stranger rubbed his disfigured face absently. “I escaped. Presumably Administration decided to tell everyone I’d been executed as planned, rather than face public embarrassment.” He shrugged. “I fled here—one of the few places no one would think to look for me. Though it seems I cannot escape my past entirely,” he added in a dry tone.
Davian made to protest, then subsided. Again the man was telling the truth.
This was Taeris Sarr.
“It’s… it’s an honor to meet you, Elder Sarr,” said Davian when he’d recovered enough to speak. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I could thank you for what you did.”
“Taeris will do just fine. Anyone overhears you calling me Elder, and we’re all dead.” Taeris cleared his throat, looking awkward. “And you don’t need to thank me. Three grown men attacking a thirteen-year-old boy? I’d have been a poor excuse for a man to not intervene.”
“Still. I’m grateful.” Davian shook his head, dazed. “I have so many questions.”
Taeris glanced out the window. “There is time, I suppose. We cannot do anything until the other two wake, anyway.” He gestured. “Ask away.”
Davian thought for a moment. “Did you really break the First Tenet, when you saved me?”
Taeris chuckled, though the sound held little humor. “Ah. So you still don’t remember, after all this time?” He sighed. “No, lad. I had a couple of daggers, is all. I told them to stop, and they attacked me. So I defended myself. They were drunk, and I’m faster than I look… but after it was done, all Administration saw was three dead men, and an old Gifted who couldn’t have possibly overpowered them.”
The Shadow of What Was Lost Page 16
