The young man shook his head, then nodded to the door. “Sorry, friend,” he said. “No maps, but if you’d like to come inside, I’ll see if I can help you out with some directions.”
“I’d appreciate that,” said Caeden. He kept his face carefully neutral, even as his stomach twisted. The poor lad was so trusting.
They were soon inside, and the door shut. “Now,” said the boy, turning towards the simple hewn table. “If I can just -”
Caeden’s long, thin blade caught him in the side of the throat, stabbing upward into his brain. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Caeden checked his memories. Nothing before the Siege of Al’gast; that was worryingly recent, not too long before he’d realised the Darecians had escaped. He got to work, taking note of the boy’s features and then cutting into his face. It was horrible, stomach-turning work, but the body had to be unrecognisable. Even as he went about the grisly task, he concentrated, picturing the features of the young man he had just killed. Pain abruptly snapped through him, his bones breaking and reforming, muscles tearing, contorting and stretching. Caeden grimaced, but kept working as best he could. He was well accustomed to these transformations.
It was over in the space of a minute. Now, all he had to do was dispose of the body and –
“Caeden?” a cheerful female voice called from the front door. “Where are you, son?”
Caeden’s heart sank. There was no time, no way he could get the body out. He froze, keeping quiet, praying that the woman would not walk into this room.
An ear-piercing scream shattered that hope.
“Caeden!” the woman shrieked. She was looking wildly between Caeden and the disfigured body on the floor. “What are you doing?”
Caeden stood, his blade whipping out, slicing smoothly through the woman’s throat before she could say anything more. She gurgled as she stared at what she thought was her son, uncomprehending horror in her eyes. Caeden looked away. She’d seen him in this form, seen what he’d done. He couldn’t risk leaving her alive.
Before he could move, though, shouts from outside were followed by the sound of the front door crashing open. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply.
Pretending it hadn’t gone so wrong.
There were thirty-one dead by the end – seventeen men, nine women and five children who had been drawn by the screams. Most of the village, he suspected.
He stared at the bodies morosely. It had all happened so fast, and it was getting harder to focus as more and more memories drained away. Could he have avoided this? Using Control hadn’t been an option - Alaris would have located him within minutes. Fleeing would have meant leaving witnesses, leading to his inevitable capture, a quick trial and a failed execution. Though the flow of information from Desriel to Talan Gol was still limited, word of something like that would have doubtless found its way back across the ilshara.
No. This way he’d probably be detained, suspected of what had happened here, but they wouldn’t have the evidence to execute him. It was still a risk, but it left him hidden from the people that mattered. He hardened his heart against the guilt, as he’d done so many times before. It had been the best course of action in a bad situation. The practical, necessary choice.
He put his hand against the still-warm skin of each corpse in turn, then carefully disfigured them. Their deaths would not be for nothing. Even though he wouldn’t remember them directly, their Imprints would remain with him; each one would eventually give him a new, untraceable identity, a body in which he could move freely outside of Talan Gol. He’d not wanted it to come to this, but now that it had, there was no point wasting the opportunity.
He checked his memories, startled to find that his oldest one was of speaking to the Ath. That was only a hundred years ago - not long before he’d finally rejected the name Aarkein Devaed, realised his mistakes and started along the path that had ultimately led here. He knew he’d hated what he’d done, hated what he’d become as Devaed, but he couldn’t remember the details any more. Odd, but he supposed it didn’t really matter now. He would be free of it all for good soon enough.
He finally turned away from the corpses, knowing he had only minutes left – nowhere near enough time to hide the bodies. He needed to flee, to get as far from here as he possibly could.
He ran.
He dashed into the forest heedlessly, ignoring how the twigs and branches scraped at his arms and legs, tugged and tore at his bloodied clothing. He only had to survive a few weeks, just until Davian arrived with the Portal Box. He had to get far enough away to give the Gil’shar reason to doubt his guilt. If they tried to execute him, the Venerate would get word. It would jeopardize everything. It would jeopardize….
He frowned in confusion. Why was he running? Where was he? He glanced down, horrified to see blood all over his hands. He quickly checked himself, but aside from minor cuts, he did not seem to be wounded.
He took a deep breath, tried to concentrate. Why was he here? Panic began to set in. Where was he from? What was his name? He stood for a long few minutes, heart pounding, trying to recall something. Anything. But it was of no use.
He started forward. Evening was coming, and whatever had happened to him, he needed help.
Caeden gasped as he came awake again.
He was on his knees, he realised numbly. Vomit spattered on the cold stone before him; his hands shook, and his entire body spasmed with heaving sobs.
“It’s not true,” he choked, staring up at Asar, who was watching him impassively.
“It is,” he replied.
“But it can’t be!” Caeden shook his head desperately, tears streaming down his face. The images of the people he’d killed flashed in a grisly parade before him. “No. I can’t be him. I can’t be Aarkein Devaed. No. I’m supposed to fight Devaed, to help save Andarra.” His voice broke. “I can’t be him.”
Asar just stared at him. For a moment, his expression was… pitying.
“You are who you are, Tal’kamar,” he said softly. “When you’re ready to know more, come and find me.”
Without another word he turned and vanished back into the darkened passageway, leaving Caeden – Tal’kamar – alone to his grief.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
James Islington was born and raised in southern Victoria, Australia. His influences growing up were the stories of Raymond E. Feist and Robert Jordan, but it wasn't until later, when he read Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn series - followed soon after by Patrick Rothfuss' Name of the Wind - that he was finally inspired to sit down and write something of his own. He now lives with his wife, Sonja, on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria.
Table of Contents
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Prologue -
- Chapter 1 -
- Chapter 2 -
- Chapter 3 -
- Chapter 4 -
- Chapter 5 -
- Chapter 6 -
- Chapter 7 -
- Chapter 8 -
- Chapter 9 -
- Chapter 10 -
- Chapter 11 -
- Chapter 12 -
- Chapter 13 -
- Chapter 14 -
- Chapter 15 -
- Chapter 16 -
- Chapter 17 -
- Chapter 18 -
- Chapter 19 -
- Chapter 20 -
- Chapter 21 -
- Chapter 22 -
- Chapter 23 -
- Chapter 24 -
- Chapter 25 -
- Chapter 26 -
- Chapter 27 -
- Chapter 28 -
- Chapter 29 -
- Chapter 30 -
- Chapter 31 -
- Chapter 32 -
- Chapter 33 -
- Chapter 34 -
- Chapter 35 -
- Chapter 36 -
- Chapter 37 -
- Chapter 38 -
- Chapter 39 -
- Chapter 40 -
-
Chapter 41 -
- Chapter 42 -
- Chapter 43 -
- Chapter 44 -
- Chapter 45 -
- Chapter 46 -
- Chapter 47 -
- Chapter 48 -
- Chapter 49 -
- Chapter 50 -
- Chapter 51 -
- Chapter 52 -
- Chapter 53 -
- Chapter 54 -
- Epilogue -
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Shadow Of What Was Lost (Book 1) Page 72
