“We need to do one last thing before you go.”
Davian stared in disbelief. The small bronze box gleamed, the strange symbols on it as alien as ever to his eyes. He stepped forward, snatching it from Malshash’s grasp and examining it closely.
There could be no doubt. This was the same Vessel that had guided him to Caeden.
He shook it at Malshash. “Explain.”
Malshash shook his head. "There's no time." He put one hand over the box and the other on Davian’s forehead; there was a flash of energy, a warmth flowing through him for a moment. Without asking, Davian knew that Malshash had just linked him to the box.
Davian just stared at him, incredulous. "You lied to me, didn't you. You said you didn't know anything about my future... but that was before you showed me how to see lies through a shield."
Malshash didn't deny it, tucking the box back into his pocket. He faced Davian, looking him in the eye.
"I tell you this, I tell you everything - and that's not safe for either of us. The only secrets a mind cannot give up are those it doesn't know," he said softly. "You taught me that, Davian."
Davian looked at him, head spinning. "I taught you -"
Another attack hit him without warning and he cut off, falling to his knees. Pain ripped through his stomach, his chest. He felt like he might burst open at any moment.
Malshash ran to him, looping a supporting arm under him and steadying him. They made their way over to the altar. Malshash helped Davian to sit on it, then held his hand out, palm up. Davian reluctantly slipped the silver ring off his finger.
So this was it. The moment had finally come. His stomach hurt too much to feel the butterflies, but he knew they were there.
“Just tell me,” groaned Davian, not taking his eyes from the ring. “Should I be trying to get that box to Caeden - the man it leads me to in my time?”
“Yes,” snapped Malshash, his tone impatient. "Now clear your mind, Davian. It's time to concentrate."
Davian gritted his teeth - he had so many more questions he wanted to ask - but he gave a reluctant nod. He knew that aside from the training he’d been doing, there was no real way to prepare for what was coming. Even Malshash had admitted that everything he knew of the rift was theoretical. Davian was probably the only person to ever survive it, and now he had to do it again.
Malshash placed the ring on the ground, then knelt and put his hand over it. He hesitated, though, twisting so he could look up at Davian.
“I have something I need you to remember. A message from me,” he said. “That it was worth it. It changed me. And… I am so very sorry.”
Davian frowned, repeating the message as he noticed a glow beginning to shine out from beneath Malshash’s hand. “Who is it for?”
Malshash didn’t reply for a few moments, then lifted his hand. All that remained of the ring was a small pool of molten metal on the ground. He stood, turning towards Davian. Even as he moved, Davian realised he was beginning to fade.
“It’s for you, Davian,” said Malshash softly. "You'll understand one day."
The grey torrent washed him from view. Davian was once again within the rift.
***
The river of grey nothingness was just as terrifying as before, but this time Davian’s mind reacted with instinctive discipline. After the first few moments of chaos, he found himself concentrating, focusing on the flow rather than struggling to break free of it. As he did so it seemed to slow, until it was a gentle stream rather than a raging river. He hovered within it, not comfortably, but no longer fearful of being torn apart by the raw power of this place.
He floated for a moment, or an hour, or a day – there was no way to tell, here. The longer he looked, the more he could see differences in the grey. A lighter patch here, a darker section there. Places he could go, if he so wished. Times he could go to.
But that was not where the flow was taking him. Time was trying to correct itself; though Malshash had not said so, it seemed only logical to Davian that the forces within the rift would therefore try to take him back to where he was supposed to be. So he passed by the distinct sections he made out – portals, as he thought of them – and waited patiently for a sign.
When that sign came, it was unmistakable. To one side, the greys were banished by a shining light, so bright that it reminded him of pure Essence. He pushed himself forward, not struggling, but guiding himself towards the light. He reached out to touch it.
He groaned.
How long had he been lying there? The stone was cold and rough against his cheek. His body felt drained, and hunger and thirst stabbed at him everywhere. He rolled, trying to get his bearings.
Nihim's sightless eyes stared at him glassily.
The pool of blood surrounding him had dried long ago, now black and flaky where Davian was lying in it. Davian stared sadly at the priest’s body, the memories of what had happened rushing back. Somehow, he’d hoped Nihim had survived, had miraculously been saved. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that the priest had bled out on the ground next to him, but it did.
From the corner of his eye, Davian spotted something a little way away from Nihim’s corpse. Forcing himself to his knees, he reached over to the satchel, slowly unbuckling it and emptying its contents on the ground. Some fruit, well and truly rotten. Some tough strips of salted meat, which he wolfed down without a second thought.
Best of all was the canteen of water. Though he was tempted to try and down it all in a single gulp, Davian forced himself to take small sips, wetting his throat and moistening his lips only. There was a fountain a few streets away, but Davian had no idea if it would still be running in this time.
He was still awfully weak. He briefly thought about trying to bury Nihim’s body, but dismissed the idea as impractical - not only was he not strong enough, but almost the entire city to the outskirts was paved. He nodded a silent, sad goodbye to the priest, then set off down the street.
Despite knowing it was ninety years later, Davian felt completely at home; nothing in the city seemed to have changed at all. Still, it was with some relief that he arrived at the Central Fountain to see it in proper working order. Without wasting another second he opened his canteen and drank, savouring the cold, refreshing liquid as it flowed down his throat.
It barely helped, though. His muscles were stiff and aching; every step sent a jolt through his entire body. He stumbled over to one of the few remaining trees, leaning against it and draining it of its Essence. He felt better as it blackened and crumbled, but not strong. He made his way gradually to the next, and the next, until they were all gone.
He felt healthier - but far from whole. Still not well enough to make it out of the city. The rift had sucked his body dry of Essence, had weakened him too much.
He slowly made his way to the house where he and Malshash had stayed, but when he arrived it was empty, the cupboards bare. There wasn't even any fuel for a fire.
He closed his eyes, trying to think. He needed Essence. The Jha'vett was probably too far, even if he was willing to risk going near it again. Deilannis sucked Essence dry almost everywhere else... everywhere but a few places, like the Great Library. He was in no state to get out of the city, but he could make it there.
It took him almost thirty minutes, by his estimate, to shuffle to the library. As with everything else, the enormous domed building was exactly as he remembered it, every detail identical to how he’d left it nearly a century earlier. Too weak to do anything except marvel at the fact, he stumbled inside, relieved to see the cool blue light of the Adviser glowing in the main chamber.
He collapsed against the short column, placing his hands over the blue light. He could feel it this time, now he knew what to look for. He wasn’t controlling it, but his body was reaching out towards the Essence, sucking it in.
He drew a deep breath as his muscles relaxed, the ache of his head and stomach fading. He straightened, flexing his arms and legs experimentally.
“
Not bad,” he muttered to himself.
He turned to go, then hesitated. He was in the Great Library, knew how to use the Adviser. Before, when he’d been there, his mind had been influenced by Malshash. He could see that clearly, now. All the knowledge of the world at his fingertips, and he hadn’t even been curious?
He knew he should leave, but he also knew that the opportunity he had right now might never come again.
He placed his hands over the blue light of the Adviser and closed his eyes. What topics did he need to know about? He’d already read plenty of books on Augur abilities; he probably wouldn't benefit much from more of those. What he did need was information on the threat that was coming to Andarra. He needed to know more about Aarkein Devaed. He needed to know more about the invaders he’d seen.
He pictured their armour in his mind. That strange symbol, the three wavy lines.
He opened his eyes. A single tendril of blue light was snaking out, beyond the room. Davian hurried after it, eventually discovering where it had come to rest. A thick tome, bound in black leather, sitting beneath a pile of other books on a table in the corner.
Davian picked it up and dusted it off. It had no title on the cover, so he flipped it open.
“A Collection Of Darecian Fables,” he said, reading the title aloud. An odd book to have information on Devaed, but this had been the first the Adviser had chosen. It had never steered him wrong in the past.
He hurried back, ready to collect the next tome. When he came to the main chamber, though, he stopped dead.
No more tendrils of light emanated from the Adviser. The blue glow of the column itself seemed to be dimmer – much dimmer, in fact.
Davian rushed forward, crouching so that he was at eye level with the light.
“No,” he muttered in frustration. “Not yet. Not now.” He stood, placing his hands on the Adviser and concentrating on Augur abilities. He knew there were books on that topic here – plenty of them.
When he opened his eyes, the light in the Adviser had gone dead.
“Two thousand years,” muttered Davian in disgust, “ and you couldn’t hang on for another ten minutes.” He gave the column a light kick, doing more damage to his toes than to the Adviser.
He knew what had happened. Like any Vessel, the Adviser stored a certain amount of Essence - and when it ran low, it drew on the Essence of the Gifted using it. Except Davian had drawn from it instead, draining the remaining Essence from the device, sucking it dry to restore his body to full health. It was a trade he’d had to make, but that knowledge made him no less irritated at the situation. The Adviser could be recharged, of course... but only with another source of Essence. Something not readily available to him at the moment.
Reluctantly slipping the sole book he had managed to find under his arm, he left, making his way out of the Great Library and down past the silent buildings of Deilannis. Orkoth would be around somewhere, but Davian knew he had nothing to fear from the creature, so he walked without concern for being seen.
Despite his lack of success at the Great Library, his heart was lighter than it had been in a while. He was back in his own time. More than that, he was able to wield the power of the Augurs - and Essence as an added bonus.
He paused, the thought reminding him of what had happened after his first trip through the Rift. He pulled up his shirt sleeve. The skin was still smooth beneath; despite being back in his own time, his Mark had not returned. Interesting. Perhaps if he avoided using too much Essence, he could keep free of the Tenets altogether.
Davian imagined Wirr’s face when he revealed his bare forearm, told him what he’d just been through. He smiled to himself. Wirr no doubt assumed he was dead. Though the thought should hardly have been amusing, his friend’s expression simply at seeing him walk into the palace would no doubt be something to remember.
Then, for the first time in weeks, his thoughts drifted to the school.
During his time under Malshash’s influence, his grief - so sharp just before Deilannis - had been… muted. Almost forgotten, so focused had he been on study. Now he was fully himself again, the pain of what had happened at Caladel returned - but it was fainter, an ache rather than an open wound. Sadness, rather than anguish.
For the first time, he felt like he’d moved on. That things were going to get better.
He made his way to the Northern Bridge, walking quickly but not hurrying. In some ways he had grown fond of the city over the past couple of weeks, despite the constant grey, heavy mists that hung over it. There was beauty in its design, when one could observe it without fear. He drank in the sight of the familiar buildings and roads, imprinting them on his memory. He had no intention of ever coming back, of risking any sort of proximity to the rift again.
Then he was crossing the bridge; after a few minutes he broke through the edge of the fog and into warm, bright sunlight. He squinted as pain shot through his eyes, unaccustomed as they were to the direct light of day. Once they had adjusted he stood there for a few moments, face towards the sun, drinking in its warmth. Its life. He could feel it now, he realised, even without concentrating. His body was drawing energy from the light and heat, sustaining itself.
He consciously reached out and drew in a little more, grinning at the sudden flush of energy. He felt good. Perhaps better than he ever had in his entire life.
He kept walking until the bridge, the mists, Deilannis itself had disappeared from view. Headed east.
It was time to go to Ilin Illan.
- Chapter 40 -
Caeden allowed himself to be ushered through the tunnels of Tol Athian, trying not to look intimidated.
Taeris had headed straight for the Tol once they'd parted ways with the others; though the scarred man had ducked his head a few times when he'd spotted blue cloaks up ahead, the journey through Ilin Illan's streets had been uneventful. There had been an empty quality to the city, though - a sense that things were too quiet. Everyone looked on edge, and it all only served to bring home the reality of what was coming.
When they'd arrived at the Tol it had quickly become apparent that they were expected; as soon as Taeris had asked to see Councillor Eilinar, they had been immediately Shackled and escorted inside. From the way Caeden had three men flanking him, it didn't feel like they were being welcomed, either.
Finally they were shown into a small room, an office of some kind.
"Wait here," said one of their escorts, his tone brusque. The door closed, the clicking of the lock punctuating the command.
Caeden looked at Taeris worriedly. "What's happening?"
Taeris rubbed his forehead. "The Tol must have had advance word that I was coming," he said, looking grim. "Karaliene, maybe, or...." He cursed.
"What?"
"Dras. The snake." Taeris groaned. "He was angry, at Thrindar, and he knew where we were heading." He shook his head. "I hope I'm wrong, but -"
The lock clicked again, and the door swung open.
Three Gifted strode into the room, two men and a woman, the last one inside closing the door behind them. The first, clearly in charge, stopped and studied Taeris with cool blue eyes.
"Taeris. It has been a while," he said eventually, stepping forward and offering his hand. There was no smile, but if the action wasn't friendly, it at least held a measure of respect.
"Nashrel. It's good to see you," said Taeris, gripping the man's hand and shaking it firmly. "You don't seem surprised to see me."
"We had word. An anonymous note, about a week ago." His gaze shifted to Caeden. "Said you were alive, scarred, and that you were likely to turn up with an accused mass murderer."
Taeris sighed. "Dras, then."
Nashrel raised an eyebrow at that. "Lothlar?"
"Ran into him in Desriel. It's a long story."
"I'm sure." Nashrel paused, still watching Caeden. "Is it true?"
"Another part of that long story."
"We might have to hear it soon, then." Nashrel turned. "You remember Elder Haemi
sh and Elder Ciahn? I didn't want to risk gathering the entire Council in case an Administrator got wind of it, but these two... volunteered to be here."
"Insisted on it, actually." Haemish was an older man, wrinkled with greying hair that on many people would have made them look distinguished, but on him just aged him further. He spoke with an unconscious sneer. "Thought it would be a good idea to make sure you weren't coming back from the dead to cause more divisions, Sarr. The damage you did five years ago was enough."
"That's enough, Haemish." Ciahn was perhaps in her early forties, an attractive lady with a strong bearing. She smiled at Taeris. "I'm glad you're alive, Taeris. None of us thought you deserved that sentence." She glared to her right. "None of us."
Haemish muttered something under his breath, but gave a reluctant nod.
Nashrel turned to study Caeden again. "So your young friend here...."
"Caeden." Taeris gestured to the Elders. "Caeden - as you've probably gathered, these are Elders Nashrel, Haemish and Ciahn. We can trust them."
Caeden nodded. "Pleased to meet you," he said politely.
Nashrel and Ciahn nodded back, but Haemish glared at him with ill-concealed disgust. "So you're the murderer." He turned to Taeris. "You have a lot of explaining to do."
"Haemish. Please." Nashrel gave Taeris an apologetic look, but then sighed. "He's right, though. It's probably time we heard that long story of yours."
***
Caeden flushed under the stares of the three Elders as Taeris finished explaining the events of the past few months.
After a few seconds of silent study, Nashrel shifted.
"Show us your arm," he said quietly.
Caeden rolled back his sleeve, revealing the wolf tattoo, but otherwise bare skin beneath.
"That doesn't prove anything," pointed out Haemish. "We would know if the sha'teth were no longer under our control."
"Would we?" asked Ciahn.
Haemish scowled. "I suppose... maybe not." He rubbed his forehead, then looked at Taeris. "But tell me this. Do you still think it's Aarkein Devaed behind all this?"
The Shadow Of What Was Lost (Book 1) Page 49
