Wirr grunted. “Karaliene asked me the same question.”
“Your cousin can be very insightful.”
“Sometimes.” Wirr shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know. I came because I thought it was important to find out what was going on with the Boundary, with the sig’nari. And especially because I didn’t want Dav to be out here alone. For all his intelligence, he’s naive in many ways; he’d never been out in the real world before. He needed me along.” He shrugged. “But I won’t lie. The thought of going back to Ilin Illan, leaving my friends in the school behind and pretending I’d never been there, didn’t sit well, either. Maybe that influenced my decision, maybe it didn’t. It’s hard to say.”
There was silence for a few moments, then Wirr turned to Dezia. “What about you?”
Dezia frowned. “What about me?”
Wirr gestured around him. “You said you came because of your brother, but I remember most of the girls from the Houses—even if they were somehow forced to come on a journey like this, they would be kicking and screaming most of the way. I haven’t heard a word of complaint from you.”
Dezia raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’m not ladylike?”
Wirr grinned. “I’m saying that you had the opportunity to stay with Karaliene and enjoy an easy trip back to Ilin Illan, but you chose to come with us. I know a lot of that is from loyalty to your brother, but you don’t strike me as someone who’s pining to be home, either.”
Dezia smiled. “I suppose that’s true,” she admitted. She thought for a moment. “Life in the palace can be… difficult, sometimes. I don’t hate it, but I’m in no rush to return to it, either.”
“Any particular reason?”
Dezia gave an awkward shrug. “Being the king’s ward, and friends with Karaliene, isn’t always the easiest position to be in.”
Wirr nodded slowly. “People see you as an easily accessible way to influence her… and maybe my uncle, too?” he deduced.
“Exactly.” Dezia sighed. “Most days someone manages to corner me, trying to convince me of one thing or another. A tax should be raised. A law should be changed. The king should know about this nobleman’s bad behavior. And there are always… ‘incentives’ for me, should I decide to help.” She shrugged. “Recently it’s changed from that to suggestions about whom I should be marrying. Houses sending their sons to court me, after Karaliene turns them away.” She scowled. “That I hate most of all. And a lot of them don’t understand that persistence won’t change my mind.”
Wirr frowned. “They won’t leave you alone?”
Dezia shook her head. “Several of them were apparently told by their fathers to woo me at all costs. I’ve had more expressions of undying love in the last few months than I would want to see in a lifetime.” She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Though that may stop now.”
“Why’s that?”
Dezia hesitated, looking embarrassed. “I shot one of them. Just before I left.” She paused. “In fact, it may have been why Karaliene insisted I come with her and Aelric. I… wasn’t too popular with House Tel’Shan.”
Wirr gave her an incredulous stare. “Shot? As in, with an arrow?”
“Accidentally, and only in the shoulder. It wasn’t much more than a graze,” said Dezia defensively. “Denn Tel’Shan. He said he’d do anything for me, so I said I needed someone to hold up targets while I practiced.” She winced at the memory, but the edges of her mouth still curled upward slightly. “The idiot didn’t realize it was a joke. Then when I tried to back out by explaining to him that it was really dangerous, he got quite upset—said I was insulting him by suggesting that he wasn’t courageous enough to do it. So I let him.” She sighed. “I didn’t mean to hit him, of course, but he flinched on the first arrow. Not my proudest moment, even if he did bring it on himself somewhat.”
Wirr stared at her in astonishment for a moment, then gave a disbelieving laugh. “No wonder you agreed to come with us.”
Dezia punched him on the arm in a reproving manner, but she smiled back.
Wirr shifted. “So how does Aelric take all of this?”
Dezia smirked. “Not well. And being the swordsman that he is, he is rather handy to have as an older brother.” Her smile widened a little. “Most of the time.”
Wirr grinned back.
They spoke for a while longer until the smells of cooking wafted over to them, and they reluctantly made their way back over to the others. The rest of the evening proved to be uneventful, and soon Wirr was lying down to sleep, a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of Dezia.
In the back of his mind, though—and as hard as it was to remember sometimes—was the unavoidable truth of his position. He was a prince of the realm. There was a good chance that when the time came, his father would tell him with which girls he could socialize. Or, more to the point, with which House he should be allying himself.
Still, out here, in the open air and away from the eyes of the nobility and his responsibilities, he could dream.
* * *
Davian frowned at the dusty plain stretching out before him.
Where was he? A moment ago he had been bedding down to sleep on the road through the Menaath Mountains; his mind was clear, sharp, with none of the fuzziness he would have expected from a dream.
He looked around, trying to get his bearings. Behind him was a thick tangle of forest, but the trees were unlike anything he’d seen in Desriel. In front was a vast plain, in the middle of which a mountain range rose abruptly, majestically, silhouetted against the setting sun. The tallest mountain was cut in two, as if a great knife had carved a thin slice from its very core; the orange sunset shone directly through the gap, making each half of the mountain stand out in sharp relief.
Though he’d never been here before, Davian recognized it; many artists had rendered this very image on canvas. He was looking at Ilin Tora.
He shifted his attention back to the plain. Dotted across it, small groups of men in black armor moved with mechanical efficiency as they built fires and cooked food. Davian frowned as he studied them. Many were wearing helmets in addition to their armor—but where there should have been a slit or holes for eyes, there was only smooth, dark metal. How could they possibly see what they were doing? Yet each man moved with an assured air, none looking even slightly troubled by their apparent lack of vision. Over each face was inscribed a single large symbol: three wavy vertical lines encapsulated by a circle. An insignia, perhaps?
Davian just stood for another minute or so, eyes narrowed as he observed the proceedings. Each fire was manned by a single soldier without a helmet, who simply watched as the other men went about their tasks. Commanders of some kind, presumably, though there were certainly a lot of them. He shivered as he watched. The entire picture was… unsettling.
Was he dreaming? He could feel the last of the day’s heat still radiating from the ground, the dryness of the air in his lungs. He pinched himself sharply on the wrist, wincing as the pain registered.
No, not dreaming. He was here.
Suddenly he noticed a tall, helmetless warrior with an authoritative air striding among the fires. Motion ceased where he passed; even those who appeared to have no way of seeing him paused in their tasks, turning to watch. He left the hush of expectation in his wake.
The man stopped in the center of the camp and raised his hand; immediately soldiers everywhere leaped to their feet, leaving what they were doing and pressing toward him eagerly. There was unmistakable excitement, a sense of anticipation that was palpable.
The general, as Davian thought of him, waited until every eye was on him. His features were rugged, with scars crisscrossing his face liberally. His black hair was shoulder length, tied back.
He gazed over his men calmly. His eyes were hard and proud.
“Two thousand years,” he said, barely loudly enough to be heard by the men in front. He shook his head. “Too long.”
There were murmurs of agreement a
mong the soldiers, but the general raised his hand, silencing them immediately. He stood straighter, taller, pride in his stance. This time he shouted so that all could hear him.
“Two thousand years our people have waited for justice. Two thousand years of survival, of struggle, of sacrifice. But our time has finally come! We have broken free of our prison. We are at last ready to face our ancient foe, and you who have passed through the ilshara unscathed are truly worthy of this fight.
“You all know me, or know of me. My name is Andan Mash’aan, Slayer of Lih’khaag, Second Sword of Danaris. My trust is in the steel on my hip and the men at my side. My faith is in the plans of the Protector and our resolve to carry them out.”
He looked out upon them with a fierceness that made Davian take an involuntary step back. “By all these things, by my name and honor, by my life itself, I swear this one thing to you. When our task here is complete, this country will burn. Her rivers will run red. Her armies will be like dust beneath our feet. Her women will scream and her children will weep.”
He raised his sword, screaming the last with fire in his eyes. “Andarra will fall. We will have our revenge.”
The roar of approval rolled over Davian like a wave, thunderous in his ears.
* * *
Davian shivered despite the afternoon heat.
The road had disappeared and the forest had become thick, almost impassable, as the day progressed, slowing them to a crawl as they hacked their way forward and upward through hundreds of years of undisturbed growth. Something about the forest was unsettling here; the shadows writhed and shifted in ways that did not marry with the movement of the trees, and it felt as though eyes were on them at every moment. The trees themselves were thick, bent and twisted, looming over them as if angered by their intrusion. No birds sang, and Davian had not heard the sounds of any other wildlife since early in the morning.
He hadn’t mentioned his odd dream of the previous night to anyone, not even Wirr. He’d spent the entire morning telling himself that it meant nothing—that Taeris’s talk of dangers beyond the Boundary had somehow brought it on—but deep down he knew that wasn’t true. He remembered every detail as if he had actually lived through it. He never remembered his dreams.
Though he did his best to ignore the knowledge, what he’d seen had to have been Foresight.
In some ways the development was actually a welcome distraction, something else to focus on. Too often since Thrindar he’d found his thoughts drifting to Asha. Picturing her face, her smile, and then gritting his teeth at the fierce, aching pain those memories produced.
He missed her. He’d never be able to speak with her again, never have a chance to tell her how he really felt. There was still a deep sadness at the death of Mistress Alita, Talean, all the others, too—but the thoughts of Asha were always worse, always more intense.
He looked up as Taeris, who was leading the group, sliced through some more vines and emerged onto what appeared to be a cliff top. The scarred man stopped, turning to the others with a half-relieved, half-worried expression.
“We’re here,” he announced.
Davian reached the top of the rise, his eyes widening as he took in the sight, troubles momentarily forgotten.
They were at the edge of a downward slope that was almost steep enough to describe as sheer; several sets of broken stairs wound their way sharply downward to what appeared to be the remnants of a small village below. No movement was visible in the streets; the buildings were crumbling shells, each one missing its roof and at least one wall. The stillness was eerie in the fading light.
Beyond the group of houses, the ground vanished into a vast chasm; the sound of distantly thundering water echoed even to where they were standing. Davian realized that if he were to go to the edge of that chasm he would be able to peer down and see the white, churning waters of the Lantarche River far below.
A massive bridge stretched out at least a hundred feet over the abyss, maybe more, before vanishing into thick mist. It was made of a white stone that gleamed in the last rays of the day; no cracks or joins were evident, as if the entire thing had been carved from one enormous piece of rock. From this distance it looked wide enough to comfortably take five men walking abreast—perhaps even wider. Despite its length, Davian could not see any supports; it simply extended out in a smooth, straight line until it was eventually swallowed from view.
It was the mist, however, that made him pause. Unnaturally thick and dark, it hung like a shroud in the middle of the chasm; it devoured the waning sunlight, making the entire scene feel colder and darker than it should have. Staring out at it, Davian suddenly realized he could make out vague shapes within it—the very tops of houses and other structures within the city. If he had not seen those, he might not have believed there was anything at all between the two sides of the gorge.
“Deilannis,” Wirr murmured beside him in an awestruck voice.
Taeris dismounted. “We will have to leave the horses,” he observed regretfully.
“Will they survive?” protested Dezia.
“There’s a good chance they’ll make their way back to the road.” Taeris gestured to his own mount, which was whickering softly, rolling its eyes so it didn’t have to look upon the city below. “Animals have a sense about this place—they want to get away from it as quickly as possible. By the time they lose that feeling, they should be back where someone will find them.”
Dezia looked as if she was going to object, but then took another look at the narrow, crumbling steps and remained silent. They began unpacking their mounts, taking as much food and water as they could comfortably carry. Taeris quickly fed each horse in turn, then gave it a slap to send it on its way. As he’d predicted, the animals didn’t need much motivation, moving back along the path the humans had carved through the forest at a steady trot.
The group made its way carefully down one of the many stairways, which were etched straight from the rocky sides of the cliff. The steps were narrow and quite steep; Davian forced himself to focus on each one, taking care not to slip. Grass and weeds had long ago begun creeping through cracks in the stone; though the stairs had doubtless once been well maintained, shale and other loose rubble now made the descent a dangerous undertaking.
Finally they had picked their way safely to the bottom. The thundering of the Lantarche was louder now, though the air remained unnaturally absent other sounds. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and the dark, empty husks of buildings glowered at the party as they trudged through the narrow streets. An occasional gust of wind blew a loose window shutter that was somehow still on its hinges, making everyone flinch and look around nervously.
“Perhaps we should make camp for the night here, and cross Deilannis in the morning,” Aelric suggested.
Taeris hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “It wouldn’t hurt to be rested when we try the city,” he agreed.
They made a rudimentary camp and settled in, trying to ignore the sinister feeling of the abandoned town around them.
A couple of hours had passed when a prickling on the back of Davian’s neck made him twist in his seated position. He looked up; at the top of the cliff-side stairs, silhouetted against the fading light, stood two figures. The wind was blowing, yet their cloaks did not seem to move.
“Taeris,” he said, not taking his eyes from the scene.
Taeris followed Davian’s line of sight and inhaled sharply. “Get to the bridge. Run.”
Davian sat rooted to the spot for a few more seconds.
The figures moved.
Suddenly they were starting down the stairs; they seemed to move casually, almost lazily, but their progress was terrifyingly quick. There was a flash of light, and the earth in front of Davian erupted, showering him with shale.
Spurred into motion, he and the others scrambled to their feet and ran.
They were already close to the bridge. Davian knew that it could not have taken him more than twenty seconds to reach its edge,
but it felt like an eternity; around him bursts of power flew past, any one of which would have torn his body apart if it had struck him. Some of the houses, already decaying, collapsed entirely as bolts of light smashed through their foundations, sending clouds of dust and grit into the air.
He was the last to reach the bridge; without hesitation he ran onto its smooth surface, the roaring of the Lantarche far below crashing in his ears. A few paces in he slipped, tumbling. The stone was so smooth that it didn’t even badly graze his skin; he rolled over, scrambling to his feet.
He turned to see how far behind the sha’teth were, and let out a cry of terror.
The two figures stood at the very edge of the bridge, less than five feet from Davian. The shadows hid their faces, but he could feel the malice, the frustration, in their gaze. Vaguely, behind him, he could hear someone calling his name—Aelric, he thought—but all his senses were consumed by the black-cloaked creatures in front of him.
For a long moment, Davian was sure he was going to die.
Then he was backing away as fast as he could. The sha’teth just stood there, watching him. The bolts of Essence had stopped.
A hand clasped his shoulder from behind; he leaped, heart racing, before he realized it was Taeris’s.
“What are they doing?” Davian whispered, eyes still fixed on the sha’teth.
“Either they cannot cross, or they refuse to,” Taeris puffed, out of breath from the sprint. He glanced over his shoulder, toward the mist-wreathed city. “The Law of Decay is warped from the edges of the bridges inward. They know that if they try to attack us with Essence now, it would simply… dissolve before it reached us.”
“But why did they wait until now to show themselves?” asked Dezia, looking puzzled. “They’ve had our trail for nearly two weeks.”
“Perhaps they were trying to force us into the city all along.” It was Caeden, watching the creatures at the edge of the bridge worriedly. Nobody said anything to that, but the mere possibility sent a shiver down Davian’s spine.
The Shadow of What Was Lost Page 30
