“That they did,” said Nashrel in amusement.
They turned down another passageway; here Essence orbs had been replaced with traditional torches, so sparsely placed along the hallways that it was almost pitch-black in between them. The only sound was the constant echoing of the two men’s boots on the hard stone, and even that faint noise was quickly swallowed by the darkness.
They emerged into a long hallway, wider and better lit than those preceding. Rather than unbroken black rock, the passage here was lined with iron doorways that had small barred windows. From the occasional cough, Davian could tell that the dungeon had at least a few occupants.
Finally they came to a stop in front of a cell, one of the last in the hallway. Dark though it was, Davian could make out the crouched human form within. He waited until Nashrel unlocked the steel-barred door, then turned to the Elder.
“I’d prefer not to go in there unarmed.”
Nashrel hesitated, then drew a short dagger from his belt. “Use this for anything but self-defense, and Augur or not, I’ll have you thrown out of the Tol. Immediately.”
Davian nodded. “Of course.”
“Davian!” came a familiar voice from inside the cell. “I see the Gifted know what you are now. And haven’t turned you in yet. Good for you.” Tenvar walked forward so that his face was pressed up against the bars of the tiny window. He looked as if he hadn’t washed in days, and his beard was growing out to give him an entirely unkempt look.
Davian glared at him, fury burning in his stomach. “Stand back,” he growled.
Tenvar did as he was told.
Davian opened the door with one hand, gripping the knife in the other. He doubted Tenvar could overpower him in his evidently weakened state, but there was no point taking the chance.
Davian entered the cell warily, but Tenvar had taken a seat on the opposite side of the small room. Despite his condition he looked relaxed, even a little smug, his legs crossed and reclining as if the stone bench were the most comfortable chair in the world.
Davian felt another flash of anger. “I’ve come to find out who you’re working for. And how to stop the Blind,” he said, keeping his tone as calm as he could manage.
Tenvar smiled. “Ah, so that’s what they decided to call them. How unoriginal. And they’re here already, are they? Faster than I expected,” he said cheerfully. “Thank you for that information. Nobody had told me I would be rescued quite so soon.”
“Rescued?” Davian gave a bitter laugh. “You’re not going anywhere, Tenvar. I’ll see you dead before I see you free.”
“Threatening my life?” Ilseth sighed. “Davian, you forget that I know you a little. Not well, perhaps, I’ll grant you that. But enough to know that you’re no murderer. You don’t have a violent bone in your body.”
Davian said nothing for a moment, then took a deep breath. He wasn’t here to argue with Tenvar or rise to his taunts. He was here to Read him, plain and simple.
He concentrated, reaching out until he could feel Tenvar’s mind. He was immediately, unsurprisingly, presented with a locked box.
Davian examined the box in silence. There were other memories outside it but Davian didn’t bother to look at them; if Tenvar didn’t feel the need to hide them, they were unimportant. He tried to remember how he’d broken into Malshash’s box, but the longer he stared at Tenvar’s, the more impregnable it seemed to become.
“I’m shielded, Davian,” said Ilseth, his tone relaxed, even slightly amused. “I’ve kept my thoughts private for forty years. From before the real Augurs fell. You’re not breaking in.”
Davian didn’t reply, but allowed his focus to wane for a few moments. Ilseth was putting all his concentration into maintaining that shield; even if Davian tried forcing the box open he would probably fail. He needed Ilseth’s attention elsewhere.
His stomach churned a little, but it needed to be done.
He leaned over and, as coldly as possible, plunged his knife into Tenvar’s thigh.
Tenvar screamed in surprised pain; even as Davian pulled the knife out again, he slammed into Tenvar’s mental box with everything he had. It disintegrated, and Davian moaned as Tenvar’s agony flooded through to his own mind. He ignored the pain, clenching his fists.
Behind him he could hear Nashrel yelling something, rushing into the cell. If Davian was going to get information, he had to be quick.
He searched for a way to stop the Blind, but to his frustration he discovered that Tenvar knew very little of the invasion. It made sense, he supposed; if he’d had something so vital in his memories then Devaed would surely have found a way to have him killed, tucked away in a Tol Athian dungeon or not.
Davian moved on to the question that had been burning inside him for so long now. Why had Tenvar given him the Vessel, sent him away before the slaughter of everyone else in the school?
He located the memory he was after, then took a deep breath.
Davian waited.
The small room was dark and dank, and had a musty smell that made him sporadically wrinkle his nose in disgust. A jumble of discarded boxes were heaped in the corner, where the damp had already contrived to rot through some of them. Otherwise the room was empty. There were no windows this far beneath the surface, of course, but his lamp, set down in the middle of the room, lit the black stone walls well enough.
He hoped this meeting would not take long. Being discovered in this section of Tol Athian, so deep beneath the ancient foundations, would result in questions he might not easily be able to answer.
He began to pace, tracking an imaginary path along the cold stone floor. He had received this summons so abruptly, so directly, that he did not know what to expect. For the thousandth time he pondered the possibility that it was a trap. The message had been written in an ancient Darecian dialect; there were only four or five people in Andarra who still knew that language, so a ruse was unlikely. Why he was being called upon at this vital moment, though—now, when he was so close to succeeding—he simply could not imagine.
He ran his fingers through his hair as he marched back and forth, mentally categorizing the possibilities. None of them were good.
Behind him the lamp went out, plunging the room into darkness.
He froze in midstep, a shiver running up his spine as he heard the door to the stairwell creak shut. The hair at the base of his neck began to prickle.
“You have come,” a deep voice rumbled in approval.
Davian turned. The room appeared lit again, but this time with a cold, unnaturally pale luminescence. In front of the closed door stood the faint outline of a lone man, cloaked and hooded, face shrouded in shadow. The stranger made no move to enter the room farther.
“I would not refuse a summons from the master we serve,” said Davian. The man had to be using kan to manipulate Essence, illuminating the room but keeping himself in darkness. Not a trap, then—something more terrifying by far, in fact, though Davian could not fathom how one of them could be on this side of the Boundary.
They weren’t a myth, then. This was one of the Venerate.
The hooded man nodded, oblivious to Davian’s train of thought. “That is good,” he growled. “Then you would not refuse a task from him, either.” Davian thought he must be altering his voice somehow; certainly no one could naturally sound so gravelly. Distracted by the concept, he took a few moments to comprehend the stranger’s words.
“It would be an honor to serve Lord Devaed in any task,” he said, almost tripping over the words in his haste to respond. The Venerate were not to be trifled with, but the question burned within him—he hesitated a second longer, swallowing hard, working up the courage to continue. “Before we proceed… if I may ask… why now? I mean no disrespect, but what could be worth risking my place here, so close to the end?” He had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, not to know.
There was a long silence; though Davian could not see beneath the other man’s hood, he could feel his gaze burrowing into his skull.
�
��Do you know why I chose this place to meet?” The words were spoken so softly that Davian barely heard them.
He shifted, his sense of unease growing. “No.”
“I chose it because the walls here have no Remembering.” The man raised his hand, brushing the stone with his fingertips. “In this room, Tenvar, I can do whatever I please.”
There was no warning.
Davian gasped as the index finger of his right hand began to burn; a second later a shriek ripped from his throat as agony coursed through him, nerves screaming as they were sliced open. He grasped the finger tightly but to no avail; he collapsed on the floor as it began to tear open from the tip downward, fingernail and then flesh slowly splitting in a shower of blood and pain, the bare bone itself splintering as impossibly fine strands of Essence pulled it carefully, inexorably, in opposite directions.
“Stop!” he sobbed, writhing helplessly. Already the finger was split down to the second joint. He moaned, heart pounding wildly, trying to focus on anything but the pain. “Stop,” he choked again.
After what felt like an eternity, the force exerted upon his rent flesh vanished. Essence flowed around him; his hand began to cool, and something dropped wetly to the floor. The pain eased. He sat up from his prostrate position, then turned away and retched, the bile acidic in his throat. The small, pulpy mass of twisted and torn flesh next to him was all that remained of his forefinger. On his hand the dark red blood had vanished, and a smooth, scarred stump sat where the finger had been taken off. Only a throbbing remembrance of pain remained.
“That is a reminder,” the man said quietly. “I chose only a finger, to punish your insolence. I could as easily have chosen something more… important.” Davian shuddered, scrambling backward away from both the mangled digit and his attacker, until his back was pressed against the cold stone wall. The man paid his actions no heed. “You are not here to question,” he continued, “but to serve as your master sees fit. Do you understand?”
Davian nodded, eyes wide with fear.
“Now. We received your message. You think the escherii’s attacks have finally borne fruit—that the heir is hiding in Caladel?”
Davian swallowed, his nod vigorous this time. “Nashrel insisted on holding the Trials there early this year. It’s for reasons of efficiency, supposedly, but that’s a weak excuse at best—it seems clear they are trying to get the boy out of harm’s way.” He paused. “I have already made sure I am part of the group going there. If my suspicions are correct, Eilinar will reveal the true purpose of the journey just before we leave.”
“Good.” Suddenly the stranger was moving, striding across the room; Davian pressed farther back against the wall, as if trying to sink into the stone itself. The man stopped directly in front of him, towering over him.
Then, in one smooth motion, he retrieved something from beneath his robes. He held it out to Davian.
“Take it,” he instructed.
Davian leaned forward hesitantly, then removed the item from the man’s gloved hand, almost snatching it in his haste to retreat again. He managed to drag his gaze downward for a moment, giving the object a quick glance. It was small, small enough to fit snugly in his palm, and appeared to be a metallic cube of some kind.
As Davian took the object, the man’s sleeve pulled back slightly. Davian saw it for only a moment, but there was a symbol tattooed on his wrist—the ilsharat, the symbol of the Boundary, he thought—that flickered with light as Davian touched the box. He looked back up straight away, knowing he was not supposed to have seen what he had. The other man, fortunately, appeared not to have noticed.
“There is a boy in the school at Caladel called Davian. He is an Augur—barely aware of his abilities; however, he knows how to discern deception. You know how to counter that?”
“Of course,” said Davian, still dazed.
“Good. You are to give him that box, and tell him that he needs to deliver it for you. It doesn’t matter what reason you give, just ensure it is something that he can believe, and that it motivates him sufficiently to go through with it. Allow him to leave the school safely and undetected.”
Davian nodded. He had a hundred questions, but he knew better than to ask most of them. “Where is he to take it?”
“North,” replied the man. “Tell him to head north. He will know where to go thereafter.”
Davian coughed. “My lord, if there were something more specific, perhaps it would be easier to…” He trailed off, realizing what he was saying. “As our master wishes. What of the heir?”
“He dies, as planned. Along with the rest,” said the man. “No survivors, no one to confirm that Davian is missing. Understand: this is even more important than killing Torin Andras. Davian must deliver the box at all costs.”
Davian repressed a frown. That was explicitly different from what he’d been told before. Still, there could be no doubt that this man had been sent by Aarkein Devaed. Whatever had caused the change in plan, it seemed he was not to be privy to it.
He gave a weak nod. “It must be important,” he said cautiously.
The man paused. “It will ensure our master’s return from his exile in Talan Gol. It will ensure our victory, Tenvar.” He leaned forward. “Is that motivation enough for you?”
“I will not fail you,” Davian managed to stutter out, but the other man had already spun and was heading toward the door. A shadowy swirl of kan covered the messenger as he reached the heavy oak and he melted through the wood, vanishing from sight. As soon as he had gone, the room was once more plunged into darkness.
Davian huddled farther into the corner, eyes squeezed shut, nursing his hand and choking back the sobs that threatened to explode out of him now that he was alone.
He did not move for a very, very long time.
Davian gasped as he dragged himself out of Tenvar’s mind, stumbling backward and then crashing to the ground as Nashrel tackled him.
He allowed himself to be dragged to his feet and shoved bodily against the wall, mind still reeling from the impact of forcing his way into Tenvar’s thoughts, as well as what he’d just seen.
“Give me the knife,” said Nashrel, his voice high with tension. “And don’t move.”
Davian released his grip on the bloodstained blade, letting it fall to the ground, his mind spinning. The stranger had been linked to the box, just as Caeden was. What did that mean? That Caeden was associated with him, somehow? That the box had been linked to someone else initially? It hadn’t been Caeden himself; the man in the hood had been too tall, too thin—and the hand Davian had seen had been wrinkled, the hand of an older man.
Another thought struck him. Given what the stranger had said at the end, why would Malshash have told him to follow through on getting the box to Caeden… unless Malshash wanted Devaed to be freed? Davian went cold at the thought. He’d never once considered it before, but after what he’d just seen…
He clenched his fists. The memory had told him a little… but not enough. And in many ways it had only raised more questions.
“What did you do to him?” Nashrel’s voice broke through Davian’s train of thought.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to kill him,” Davian reassured the Elder. “I just needed to disrupt his concentration so I could get to his memories. I knew you’d be able to heal the wound. He’ll be fine.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
Davian frowned, twisting from his position pressed up against the stone wall to see what the Elder was talking about.
Ilseth lay, mouth and eyes wide open, on the floor. Nashrel had already used Essence to heal his leg wound, but the man’s expression was… vacant. Lifeless. His chest rose and fell, but it was as if a light had gone out behind his eyes.
Davian grimaced. Malshash had warned him about the possibility of doing permanent damage.
For a moment he felt glad, as if perhaps some form of justice had been done.
Then he recoiled at the thought, felt bile swirlin
g in his stomach. He’d wanted vengeance for those who had died at Caladel, certainly. For what had happened to Asha. But he wasn’t the kind of man to take it with violence.
Was he?
Davian swallowed. His emotions had been… murky, ever since he’d accessed Malshash’s memory back in Deilannis. He still felt as if he’d done those things at the wedding, killed all those people. Just as he now rubbed at his forefinger, vaguely surprised to find it intact.
He shook his head to clear it. He would deal with whatever this was later. For the moment he had more important things to worry about.
He shivered as he remembered the hooded man’s words to Ilseth. It will ensure our victory.
Then he froze.
“We need to leave,” he said to Nashrel suddenly.
The Elder grunted. “You certainly do. Because I warned you what would happen if you used that knife.”
“No.” Davian looked at him, urgent. “There’s something you need to know. We need to get to wherever you store your Vessels.”
Davian’s heart pounded as he explained. Whatever else happened, whether he was an enemy or just a pawn in all that was happening, Caeden needed to be kept far, far away from that box.
* * *
Caeden sat on the low stone wall next to Kara, silent as he digested what the princess had just told him.
He stared out over the empty courtyard, the only other people in view a pair of distant guards going about their predawn patrol. The space would be full of soldiers soon enough, and given the news, today more than ever the mood during their training would be somber. The Blind had defeated General Jash’tar’s army. Were coming straight for the city.
Caeden shivered a little, and he wasn’t entirely sure it was just from the crisp night air.
He glanced across at the princess, chest constricting a little as he realized that this meant his time with her was rapidly drawing to a close. These early-morning conversations between them had become a routine over the past week; Kara would slip out of her rooms without her father’s guards’ realizing, knock at his door, and the two of them would come out here and spend hours just… talking.
The Shadow of What Was Lost Page 62
