The Shadow Of What Was Lost (Book 1)

by James Islington

  Then he spotted it. It was just a flash, a glimpse of white against the dirty black of a ditch. Uncomprehending, he wandered over, peering into the gloom.

  The cry was out of his throat before he realised what was happening. He was in the dirt, the cold mud, screaming for help, cradling Ell’s bloodied head in his lap. Her eyes stared sightlessly up at him, the jagged gash along her throat still leaking dark red fluid. Her dress was muddied everywhere, and torn in such a way that he did not want to think about what else may have happened to her. Even as he wept, he carefully, tenderly made her private again.

  There were shouts behind him as people ran to answer his screams. He heard gasps of horror as the first to arrive took in the scene, but he didn’t turn, couldn’t take his eyes from Ell. He rocked her back and forth gently, sobs ripping from his throat, tears spilling onto her beautiful, cold face.

  No. It couldn’t be this way. He would not let it be this way.

  He delved into his Reserve, drawing deeply, more deeply than he ever had before. All of it, in fact. He closed his eyes, putting his hands against Ell’s clammy skin and letting his Essence flow into her. He could feel the wound on her neck close, the bruises she had sustained all over her body fade away. He pushed more, willing her heart to begin beating again, willing her life to return. He drained himself, past the levels he knew to be dangerous. He could take it.

  But when he opened his eyes, Ell still lay there, staring up at the murky sky. Her chest was still, her skin cold.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed when he felt the hand on his shoulder. It was Ilrin, his teacher from the Academy.

  “Who did this?” Ilrin asked, his voice shaking. His eyes held horror, anger, pain, sorrow. Ell had been his student, too.

  Davian found himself looking around. His gaze fell on a young man; it took him a moment to place him, but when he did his grief flashed into white-hot fury. It was the servant who had led her out here. Led her to her death.

  He was on his feet in an instant; moving faster than he would have believed possible he slipped through the steadily growing crowd until he had both hands around the young man’s throat. “Tell me what happened,” he growled. He barely recognised his own voice. It was animal, feral.

  The blood had drained from the boy’s face. “It was the priest,” he managed to choke out. “The one who married you. He asked me to fetch your wife out here.”

  Davian looked at the young man and felt only rage. He had drawn Ell out to her death. He was a part of it.

  His Reserve was already refilling. He let Essence infuse his arm, giving it the strength of ten men, and then twisted.

  The servant’s neck snapped like a twig. A low moan went up from the stunned onlookers.

  Davian felt himself whirl, scanning the crowd. The priest. A holy man, supposedly. He had done this. People leapt from his path; a few of his friends called out to him, pleaded with him to stop, but none moved to get in his way. They knew better. They could all try to stop him, and it would be meaningless, nothing to him. He would brush them aside like flies. He would find the priest and kill him, slowly and painfully.

  It didn’t take him long. He sent his vision high above the castle, scanning the surrounding lands; almost immediately he spotted the lone figure scrambling along the north road, slipping on loose shale as it hurried down the steep hillside. The plain brown robe was obvious, even from this distance, even in the gloom.

  He moved, faster than he had ever moved before, and yet somehow with a cold deliberateness, a calm that belied the raging fire inside him. He walked, but those around him stood like statues. The wind seemed to slow so that he could barely feel it, and even the fire of the torches moved sluggishly. He took one off its bracket as he passed, leaving the castle and streaking northward. Somehow he knew that anyone watching would see only a blur of orange light, nothing more.

  He walked in front of the priest, setting his feet firmly in the portly man’s path. Davian wanted to see his face. He wanted to see his expression when he realised he was going to die.

  The priest skidded to a stop when he saw Davian in front of him. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, but the rest of his skin was pale as a ghost. His expression was one of pure terror.

  “Mercy,” he muttered, falling over as he moved backward as quickly as he could. Even sitting down he tried to scramble away, his eyes wild. “Mercy. It was not me. I swear it by El. It was not me.”

  Davian took in the priest’s muddied clothes. His arms were bare, and he could see long scratches on them. Any semblance of calm evaporated.

  He reached out with Essence, holding the terrified man down. Then he concentrated on the man’s hands. The priest screamed as the little finger on his left hand snapped backward with a sharp crack. Davian released it and moved on to the next finger. Crack. The middle, the forefinger, the thumb. Then the other hand. Crack. Crack. Crack. Davian barely knew what he was doing. All he wanted was for this man to feel the pain he was feeling now. To feel worse.

  He moved on. He broke every toe, the priest’s screams intensifying until finally they died to almost a whimper.

  Davian frowned. That wouldn’t do. The man had felt nothing yet.

  He concentrated. He fed Essence into the priest, allowing the broken bones to mend themselves. He hadn’t bothered to straighten them; most healed at ghastly angles, deformed and likely still agonizing. Even so, the worst of the pain would be gone.

  He changed the flow of Essence, pointed it at the man’s blood. Heated it. A little at first, then more, until he could feel it boiling. The priest screamed properly this time. Prolonged cries of pain, gut-wrenching screams of agony. Davian watched impassively, feeling nothing. Not satisfaction. Not sorrow. This was not revenge. This was justice, plain and simple.

  Ensuring he still fed enough Essence into the man to keep him conscious, he turned another sliver of energy into a razor, thin and sharp. With one flick of the wrist, he castrated him.

  The priest made no noise now - just lay there, back arched, spasming. His mind was trying desperately to shut down, but Davian concentrated, made sure it was aware of every moment of what was happening. Boiling blood spilled out into the dirt, hissing as it hit the cold ground. This was how he would die. Bleeding out in slow agony.

  Davian made sure the man had absorbed enough Essence to keep him conscious to the end, then leaned forward until the priest was focused on his face.

  “For Ell,” he said softly.

  He turned and walked back up towards the castle.

  He’d come further than he’d realised; it was a good mile back to Caer Lyordas from where he was. How had he come here so quickly? He tried to remember. Everything was a blur….

  Suddenly it came crashing in on him. What had happened. What he’d done. He dropped to his knees and vomited, retching until his stomach was empty. Once he was finished, he stood shakily and kept walking to the castle. In a distant kind of way, he knew he was in shock.

  A crowd of people were waiting for him outside the gates, but he pushed by them, barely even hearing their questions or meaningless offerings of sympathy. He moved straight past them back to where his wife’s body lay. Someone had moved her from the gutter, laying her in the middle of the courtyard, her hands carefully folded over her breasts. Despite the position, she looked anything but peaceful. Her dress, torn and bloodied, told the true story.

  He stood over her, looking down vacantly. Inside, he felt… nothing. An emptiness so profound that it made it difficult to breathe. It was all so meaningless. She was gone, gone in a moment and suddenly nothing that was to come mattered any more.

  “No.” The word came from his throat unbidden. He knelt, cupping her cheek with his hand. “No.”

  He reached deep inside, drawing once again on Essence. Despite all his efforts tonight, his Reserve was nearly full again. But he knew somehow, instinctively, that even with all his powers he could never generate enough Essence to bring her back. He needed more. So much more
.

  He reached out. He could feel the Essence all around him, everywhere in the castle and its surrounds. The trees and grass. The torches on the walls.

  The people.

  There was no time to think; every second he delayed made it harder to bring her back. He drew in Essence, then let it flow into Ell. Her entire body glowed with the soft yellow light, but it wasn’t nearly enough. As his Reserve came close to dry, he started pulling Essence from around him. Vaguely, he could sense the grass withering; in the distance over the wind he could hear trees collapsing to the ground. The torches winked out around the castle one by one.

  It was still not enough.

  There was a scream from somewhere in the castle as the first person fell, dead, drained of their Essence. Screams started up elsewhere, but they were cut off as Davian snatched away their life force, taking it into himself and then letting it flow into Ell. In his mind, the area became darker and darker, until there was no Essence left. No life. Nothing but him.

  He’d drained his Reserve long ago, but he knew there was more. He was so close; he could almost see her breathing again, could almost see a tinge of red returning to her smooth cheeks. He tapped into his own Essence, the force that was sustaining his body. All he had left.

  He felt his limbs growing numb; his hand slipped from Ell’s cheek, the link finally broken. Had it worked? He strained to see her face, her chest, anything that might indicate if she were alive. But he was so tired.

  He closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, he was back in Deilannis opposite Malshash. He stood there for a long moment, aghast, unsure what to say. Malshash wore a similar expression, though his was mixed with something that sent a shiver of fear through Davian. White-hot anger.

  Davian blinked, suddenly making a connection. Malshash’s form today was familiar. The man from the wedding, the one who had tried to comfort him. Ilrin.

  It took him only a moment longer to make other connections. None he could put names to, but many he remembered clearly. All of them men whose form, at one time or another over the last couple of weeks, Malshash had chosen to take.

  Malshash just stood for a few more moments, staring at Davian, panting as if he had been running a race.

  “Prepare yourself, Davian,” he snarled eventually. “You leave this place today.”

  He spun without another word, stalking off down the road and into the mists.

  - Chapter 39 -

  Davian bit at his fingernails.

  He sat on the steps at the entrance to the Jha’vett; he assumed this was where Malshash would find him, though the shapeshifter hadn’t said so explicitly. Several times in the last couple of hours he’d considered going to search him out, but each time he thought of it, he remembered the expression on his teacher’s face.

  Davian shivered again at the memory of what he’d seen. Not just seen - experienced. Davian had lived Malshash’s grief, lived his rage. The emotions had been more powerful, more raw, than anything he'd ever felt. He knew that what Malshash had done was horribly, horribly wrong. Yet he had been Malshash, felt the irresistible need to mete out justice, to try everything – anything – to bring back his wife.

  It made him sick to his stomach every time he thought of it, and yet somehow, he also understood.

  He suspected he now knew Malshash’s reason for being in Deilannis, too. The shapeshifter had been trying to do exactly what Davian had done and travel to the past - except Malshash had thought to change his past, and Davian’s arrival had apparently proven that he could not. Though it was hardly his fault, Davian felt a sliver of guilt for denying Malshash that hope.

  After a few more minutes a figure emerged from the mists, trudging down the road towards him. Davian stood as Malshash approached. The shapeshifter still wore the same face, but somehow looked as if he had aged terribly. His gait was unsteady, weary, his expression sad rather than angry.

  Malshash stopped a little distance away from Davian, unable to meet his gaze, preferring instead to stare at the ground.

  “So. Now you know,” he said. “I am sorry you had to see that.”

  Davian blinked. He had expected a tongue-lashing at best. “I’m sorry I pried where I had no right,” he said, genuine remorse in his tone.

  Malshash barked a short laugh. Then he shook his head, sighing, any trace of amusement vanished. “I should probably say the same thing.” He walked up to Davian, and before Davian could react, Malshash’s hand was on his forehead.

  He gasped as a cold sensation washed through him, sharp but brief. When Malshash removed his hand, the world suddenly seemed both clearer and duller.

  “What did you do?” Davian demanded.

  “I removed my influence from your mind,” said Malshash, sounding tired.

  Davian gaped at him. “You’ve been Controlling me?” He took a step forward angrily. “All this time?”

  “No.” Malshash looked guilty, but his tone was firm. “Not Controlling. Influencing. Feeding. Focusing.” He gave a small smile. “Your mind is exceptional, Davian, have no doubt about that. But no-one can learn what you have learnt in a couple of weeks. Not without help.”

  Davian opened his mouth to protest, but was suddenly struck by just how hard he’d been studying and practicing. He had been sleeping one, maybe two hours a day, and hadn’t questioned it. The oddity of it hit him. He knew that it had before, too – remembered thinking it curious before now – but somehow, he’d never been motivated to follow up on the thought.

  “You’ve been keeping me awake. Alert,” he said, some of his initial anger dissipating.

  Malshash shrugged. “That, and keeping you focused on the task at hand. A little too focused, apparently.” He shook his head, chagrined. “You have a hundred different questions about the things I know. Some of them I wouldn’t answer, the rest I couldn’t, and none of that was going to be conducive to your studies. With the time we had, Davian, you couldn’t just get no answers. You had to forget there were questions.” He screwed up his face. “I truly am sorry, but you needed to be ready. If I hadn’t done this, you wouldn’t have had a chance of surviving the trip back through the rift.”

  Davian clenched his fists. Some of those questions were already coming back to him, and he didn’t know which ones to ask first. “At least tell me one thing.”

  Malshash gave him a wary look. “It depends on the question,” he warned.

  “You said that you stole your shapeshifting ability from the Ath. That you gave up your ability to See.” He gestured in confusion. “I’ve read nothing like that, anywhere, in the library. I’ve never heard of it even being possible. These abilities are all just applications of kan, aren’t they? If you can do one, why not another?”

  Malshash rubbed his chin. “That is too complicated a question to answer properly right now,” he said. “The short version is, it’s just a very complex use of Control. I’m linked to the part of the Ath’s mind that understands shapeshifting – not the theoretical knowledge, but what you would call the talent, her unique mixture of instinct and experience. When I shapeshift, I use both her talent and my own. When she tries to shapeshift, she hits a kind of mental barrier. As long as I hold the link, it’s like at a very deep level, she just can’t grasp how to do it.”

  Davian gave a thoughtful nod, accepting the explanation. “And when you gave up Foresight?”

  “It was the same," admitted Malshash. "I could try to See right now, but it simply wouldn’t work - any natural sense I have for it is completely blocked.”

  “But why? Why give away your ability?” He frowned. “And to whom?”

  Malshash sighed. “I gave it away because of what you saw before,” he said quietly. “Seeing can work in both directions, forwards and backwards. Not many people know that. Most people with the talent are naturally focused on what is to come. But I….” He shook his head. “When I See, I go back there. I was reliving it, again and again, every time I closed my eyes. I couldn’t make it stop any o
ther way.” He paused. “Whom I gave it to is not your concern, though.”

  Davian opened his mouth, but grunted as another attack punched into him. It felt like his stomach was eating itself from the inside. He doubled over, gasping for breath. He knew it would pass – there had been three since he’d begun waiting for Malshash – but they seemed to be increasing in intensity.

  Malshash watched him, looking troubled. “There’s no more time, Davian. We need to do this now.”

  Davian nodded, following Malshash into the building and along the long corridor. As they walked, more and more questions filled Davian’s head. He scowled to himself.

  “Tell me one last thing before I leave,” he said.

  Malshash hesitated, then nodded. “Very well.”

  “Why do you wear the faces of the people at the wedding. The ones who….”

  “The ones I killed,” finished Malshash. He looked at Davian with an expression of immense sadness. “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you?”

  “Figured out what?”

  Malshash hesitated. “A shapeshifter can only take the form of someone who is dead,” he said eventually.

  “Oh.” Davian lapsed into silence. Malshash was watching him expectantly, but Davian didn’t know how he was supposed to react to that news. Idly, he wondered again about the identity of the blond-haired man he had changed into. Whomever it had been was dead? It didn’t bring him any closer to determining who it was. He wondered why Malshash had thought it so important to hide that detail from him.

  They were in the enormous room now, and Davian could see the Jha’vett itself, lit up between the columns. As they approached, Malshash reached beneath his cloak and drew something out – an object that fit into the palm of his hand, shining slightly even in the dull light. They stopped just short of the altar, and Malshash held out the object for Davian to see.