“What was that?” he demanded. “And where is my Mark?”
The man frowned. “That was a binding,” he said. “It enforces your vow to me. As to the other… I don’t know to what you are referring.”
Davian paused for a moment, taken aback. “My Mark. From being Gifted.” When the man still stared at him blankly, Davian shook his head in disbelief. “You haven’t heard of the Tenets? They bind the Gifted and the Administrators to one another, stop us from using our powers in certain ways.”
The stranger cocked his head to the side. “Interesting,” he said. “A binding applied to every Gifted. Impressive. I wonder which one of them did that.” He looked at Davian thoughtfully. “What symbol did it leave?”
“It was the outline of three people within a circle. A man, woman, and child.” Davian stared at his arm. He’d lived with that brand for so long now, had known with such certainty that it was permanent. It was unsettling to see clean skin there again.
“Of course it was,” muttered the man, mostly to himself.
Davian frowned at him. “So where did it go?” he asked again.
“These Tenets, as you call them, don’t exist yet. Thus you’re not bound by them.”
Davian screwed up his face. “I don’t understand.”
The man gestured, and Davian found his feet were no longer anchored to the ground. “All in good time, Davian. Now follow me.”
Davian hesitantly trailed after the stranger into the shadows.
Once the darkness had closed around him and his eyes had adjusted to it, Davian could see that they were in a very, very large room—a hall of some kind, he assumed. Its size was the only thing spectacular about it, though; there were rows of stark gray columns, a smooth stone floor, an arched roof high above—and nothing else.
They walked for around thirty seconds before they came to a doorway, which opened into a narrow corridor. After the cavernous hall, the passage made Davian feel almost claustrophobic.
“Who are you?” asked Davian as they walked.
The man did not turn around. “My name is Malshash.”
“Well, Malshash,” said Davian, encouraged by the response, “can you tell me where I am?”
They were at the end of the passageway; Malshash grabbed one of the double doors in front of them and swung it wide.
Davian sighed. The mists were not as thick as they had been when the creature had attacked, but they were there.
“I’m still in Deilannis,” observed Davian, his tone flat.
“Yes.”
Davian walked outside, turning to examine the building he had just exited. To his surprise he recognized it. It was the same building Taeris had been so interested in—the one he had nearly stayed behind to enter, despite the danger. The memory reminded Davian of the threat, and he looked around with apprehension.
“The creature,” he said to Malshash in a low, urgent tone.
“We’re safe,” Malshash assured Davian. He started off down the road, in the direction opposite to that in which Taeris and the others had gone. Davian tried to stand his ground, but discovered that his feet were moving to follow Malshash.
“Wait!” Davian called softly. “My friends may still be here! One of them is badly hurt—the creature wounded him. If I can just find him…”
Malshash did not stop, or even turn. “If your friend was wounded by Orkoth, he is dead.” His tone held no emotion. “Even if he is not, there is no way for you to return to him.”
“But he’s only a few hundred feet the other way!” Davian protested, voice louder now as frustration and anger crept in.
Malshash shook his head. “There is no one here but us, Davian. I would know if it were otherwise.” He held up his hand peremptorily, still not looking back as he spoke. “No more questions. There will be time later.”
They walked for a few minutes, Davian throwing nervous glances over his shoulder, until they came to a large two-story house. Malshash entered, gesturing for Davian to follow. They passed through the entryway and into a large kitchen, where a small fire crackled merrily in the corner, casting a warm glow across the room that was in stark contrast to the cold whites and grays so prevalent in the rest of the city.
Malshash motioned Davian into one of the seats at the table, then began opening cupboards filled with food. Davian watched in surprise as the man began preparing a meal, though his absorbed expression suggested his thoughts were elsewhere.
“You live here?” Davian asked.
Malshash gave an absent nod. “For now.”
Davian watched in silence until Malshash set down two meals on the table.
“You must be hungry,” said Malshash, gesturing for Davian to eat.
Davian’s stomach growled, and he realized just how hungry he truly was. There was cooked meat of some kind—beef, he thought—and vegetables. It was simple fare, but to Davian it looked a feast.
Ravenous, he had eaten several mouthfuls before he realized that Malshash had not touched his food. He stopped, eyes narrowing, a flash of panic racing through him.
Malshash saw his reaction and gave him a slight smile. “I’m not poisoning you,” he reassured Davian, taking a quick bite of his own meal to prove the point. He leaned back, sighing. “So. You have questions.”
Davian swallowed his mouthful, nodding. “What happened to me? How did I end up in that building?”
Malshash paused. “What do you mean?”
“One moment I was on the road out of this El-cursed city. Then I was… somewhere else. Everything was gray, and I was being thrown around. I thought I was going to be torn apart, but I saw a light and headed toward it. The next thing I knew, I was waking up. You know the rest.”
“You… you don’t know what that was?”
“Should I?”
Malshash rubbed his forehead, for some reason looking shaken. “I suppose not. But for you to have survived the rift with no training, no idea what you were doing… it’s remarkable.”
“The rift?” Davian leaned forward, but even as he did so he realized that his eyelids were getting heavy. He yawned, long and loudly. The heat of the fire, combined with his full stomach, was making him drowsy—but far more so than it should have been. “What is this?” he said through another yawn. “You drugged me?”
“No. It’s just a side effect. The shock must have kept you awake until now.”
Davian felt his head getting heavy. He leaned forward until his head touched the table. “Side effect of what?” he mumbled.
If Malshash answered, Davian didn’t hear it. He slept.
Chapter 26
Wirr burst through the edge of the mists.
He collapsed upon the smooth white stone of the bridge, savoring the sight of the night sky and luxuriating in the feel of fresh air on his face. Even the roaring of the river below was musical compared to the sullen silence of the cursed city behind him. The stars were out, though no moon was in evidence; still, Wirr thought the cloudless heavens were as beautiful a thing as he had ever seen.
He twisted in his seated position to watch as Aelric and Dezia came stumbling from the thick blanket of fog, followed quickly by Caeden and then Taeris. From within Deilannis he could still hear occasional shrieks as the creature hunted, but the sounds were distant now.
Suddenly he went cold. He stared at the group on the bridge for a long moment.
“Where are Davian and Nihim?”
Taeris looked around at that, paling. “Nihim tripped,” he said after a moment, “but I didn’t see what happened to Davian.” As one they looked at the mists, as if expecting the remaining two men to emerge at any moment.
Nothing happened.
In the distance the creature shrieked again, but this time the sound was different, more urgent. It sent a shiver through Wirr like none of its previous cries.
Still short of breath, he struggled to his feet. “We have to go back.” He started forward shakily toward the white curtain of fog.
Taeris grabbed
his arm in a viselike grip, stopping him in midstep. He looked Wirr in the eye. “Don’t be a fool,” he said quietly.
Wirr struggled forward for a moment longer, but he knew Taeris was right. The last vestiges of energy drained from him and he slumped to the ground, staring back at the city.
“They must be lost,” he said, hearing the desperation seeping into his voice. “They’ll be hiding. But you can find them…”
Taeris closed his eyes for a long moment, and Wirr knew what he was about to say next.
“Wirr,” the older man said, his tone gentle. “I can’t feel Davian any more. My Contract with his Shackle was broken.”
Wirr just gazed blankly at Taeris for a moment, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, then shook his head in denial. “What does that mean?”
Taeris bowed his head, and everyone else looked away as the meaning of the Gifted’s words struck home. “They are dead, Wirr,” Taeris said, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s the only explanation.”
With that he slowly started walking along the bridge, toward Andarra.
Wirr, Caeden, and the others didn’t follow, just stared back into the mists, listening numbly to the shrill, staccato screeches of the creature.
This time it sounded triumphant.
* * *
Wirr perched on a boulder dangerously near the edge of the chasm, letting the roar of the Lantarche wash over him, his expression blank as he stared out toward the roiling mists.
Most of the others had long since fallen asleep; the travails of the night had taken a toll, as he knew they should have on him, too. Still, he didn’t turn as the sound of crunching gravel indicated someone approaching.
“I would prefer to be alone,” he said quietly.
Aelric seated himself beside Wirr on the stone, not responding. They sat like that in silence for several minutes, just watching the mists; the moon had risen, and the fog glowed with an ethereal silvery light in the middle of the gorge. Wirr thought about asking Aelric to leave, but his heart wasn’t in it. As much as he wanted to lash out at something—anything, in fact—he was grateful for the company.
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Aelric suddenly.
Wirr didn’t react for a moment, but for some reason he didn’t understand, the words ignited a cold rage inside him.
“What makes you think I blame myself?” It came out as more of a snarl than anything else.
Aelric ignored his tone. “Because I can see it. Right now you’re sitting here, playing back every moment from today and thinking of all the things you could have done differently that would have saved your friend. You’re feeling guilty for a single moment, a single mistake. An accident.” He looked at Wirr with a serious expression. “Tell me I’m wrong, and I won’t say anything more about it.”
Wirr opened his mouth to do just that, but shut it again without making a sound. Aelric was right. He had been playing back every moment of the day in his head, wondering what he could have done differently. Cursing himself for not having enough self-control to be silent, not being smart enough to resist reaching for Essence in a panic.
He gave a heavy sigh, then pondered the tone of Aelric’s voice for a moment.
“You sound like you might know what that feels like,” he said grudgingly.
Aelric chuckled, though there was no joy to the sound. “There’s some truth to that.”
Wirr looked at him, frowning. “What happened?” The pain in Aelric’s voice had caught him by surprise. Since they’d met, Wirr had seen only bluster, swagger, and no small amount of belligerence from the young man.
Aelric stared into the chasm. “Do you know how Dezia and I came to be at court?”
Wirr shook his head. “Not the details. Dezia only said that after your father died, King Andras took you in.”
Aelric nodded. “We lived with my father,” he said, voice soft as he remembered. “He was vassal to Gerren Tel’An, a nobleman, but with no holdings of his own. The Tel’Ans all looked down on him, but he didn’t mind so long as we had a roof over our heads and food on the table.
“One day I was playing with Lein Tel’An. We used to practice against each other with training swords, but that day we broke into the armory and found some real short swords. We were fourteen, thought the swordmaster was an old fool who couldn’t see we were ready for the real thing.”
Wirr leaned forward. He remembered Lein: a skinny boy with golden hair and a shy smile. He’d been one of the better Tel’Ans. One of the few boys his age Wirr hadn’t completely disliked, in fact, though they’d not spoken often.
Aelric continued, “We were careful at first, but once we got used to the weight of the blades, we were swinging hard and fast. Just like real warriors.” He grimaced at the memory.
Wirr stared at Aelric, aghast. “You killed him?”
Aelric blinked in surprise, then gave a slight smile. “Fates, no,” he said with a chuckle. The smile faded. “I cut off his right hand. I was overconfident and slipped, and the sword went clean through his wrist.” Aelric shook his head, and Wirr could see him reliving the moment in his mind. “The second son of House Tel’An was crippled, and I was at fault.”
“And Lord Tel’An wanted you punished?”
“He wanted me flogged.”
Wirr stiffened. “But… at that age…”
“It could have killed me,” finished Aelric. “A fact my father knew all too well. He demanded that the king be consulted before the punishment was carried out, but Tel’An was having none of it. The day after the accident, I was brought into the town square and tied to the flogging post. My father tried to stop them, first with words, then with his blade.” He stared at the ground. “He was never much of a swordsman, and there were just too many of Tel’An’s men. They killed him.”
Wirr gazed at Aelric for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
Aelric inclined his head. “It was a long time ago.”
“Did they still flog you?”
“No.” Aelric sighed. “My father’s death put a stop to the proceedings. That night the king received word of what Tel’An had done, and sent for Dezia and myself. Tel’An was furious, but even he was not fool enough to defy the king.”
He paused for a few moments in remembrance, then turned to face Wirr. “What happened with Lein… it was an accident. Carelessness. A moment of madness that changed the course of my life, and Dezia’s, forever. I still regret it, every day, but… it gets better. The pain is still there, even now… but it does fade.”
Wirr nodded slowly. Taeris and the others had told him that he shouldn’t feel guilty for what had happened in Deilannis, but their words had been hollow, meaningless, however well intentioned. Aelric, though, understood that the pain of his mistake wouldn’t be so easy to simply put aside. Strangely, Wirr found that more comforting.
They were silent for a time. “So is that why you became so good with a sword?” Wirr asked eventually.
Aelric hesitated. “In part, I think that’s probably true. It took me a while to pick up a blade again, though. Almost a year after I got to court.” He gave a rueful smile. “To be honest, I was… not highly regarded at the palace, to begin with. I shirked my responsibilities and hid from my tutors. I suspect it was only Dezia’s friendship with Karaliene that saved me from being sent back to Tel’An within the first few months.”
“What changed?”
Aelric chuckled. “Unguin heard that I’d been showing some promise, before the accident. Once he found out all the details, he insisted on training me—wouldn’t take no for an answer. Made my life such a misery that it ended up being easier to just turn up for drills every morning.”
Wirr looked up in interest. Unguin was the palace swordmaster; Wirr had been given many—mostly unsuccessful, but still beneficial—lessons under his tutelage. “He must have seen something in you, for him to be so persistent.” That was the truth. Unguin was a no-nonsense man, straight as an arrow and with little patience for the pretensions of the nobilit
y. If he’d gone out of his way to tutor Aelric, there was more to the young man than Wirr had initially credited.
Aelric shrugged. “He said that my skills weren’t anything special, but my motivations were. That I wouldn’t just understand why control was more important than strength or speed—I’d live by the concept.” He gave a short laugh. “And I suppose he was right. Once I picked up a blade again, I didn’t stop working at it until I was certain that what happened with Lein would never happen again. I worked as hard as I could, as long as I could, every day… though Unguin would tell you otherwise, of course.”
Wirr smiled. “He sounds like a hard man to please.”
“You would know, I suppose.”
There was silence for a few seconds as Wirr hesitated, processing the comment, trying to see if there was a meaning he had somehow missed. Finally he looked sideways at Aelric, who was still staring into the chasm.
“Karaliene and Dezia are like sisters,” said Aelric, not looking at Wirr. “After I walked in on you hugging Karaliene, Dezia swore to me there was nothing between you. She wouldn’t betray Karaliene’s confidence, but I know she wouldn’t lie to me, either.” He shrugged. “If it wasn’t that, the only other person who could be that familiar with the princess would have to be a relative. It was easy from there. You look a lot like your father.”
Wirr shook his head in chagrin. “You’ve known all this time?”
Aelric allowed a half smile to creep onto his face. “Since the second day.” He paused, the faint trace of amusement quickly disappearing. “As, I assume, has my sister.”
Wirr nodded mutely.
Aelric gave a slight shake of his head, looking frustrated at the confirmation. “You’d think she’d have learned from my example,” he muttered in a wry tone. He rubbed his forehead. “Look—I can’t tell either of you what to do, and maybe this isn’t the best time to bring it up. But if it hasn’t been clear, I don’t think you and Dezia getting attached to each other is a good idea.”
Wirr flushed. “It’s not like that.”
“I’m not an idiot, Wirr. Torin. Whatever you want me to call you.” Aelric said the words gently, only a hint of reproach in his voice. “The two of you are becoming close—anyone with eyes can see it. Once we’re back in Ilin Illan, though, how long will it take for your father to start pairing you off with one of the girls from the Great Houses? A month? Two? The more time you spend with Dezia now, the harder that will be for her. For both of you.”
The Shadow of What Was Lost Page 33
