James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

“So you believe?” asked Davian.

Malshash hesitated. “In His existence? Yes,” he said slowly. “Do you know why the Augurs were thought to prove it?”

Davian nodded, thinking back to what Mistress Alita had taught him. “El was supposed to have the perfect plan, to be in complete control of the world. The Grand Design. You can’t have a perfect plan if men can determine their own futures – and the Augurs were proof that the future was set.” He raised an eyebrow. “Until they started getting things wrong.”

“Exactly.” Malshash sighed. “Everyone thinks of us as great men. Wise. Untouchable. But you’re an Augur, Davian. You don’t think you could be tricked?”

Davian made to protest, then hesitated. He thought back to how Tenvar had fooled him at the school. “I suppose I could.”

“And if a great power - an ancient, malevolent power - bent its entire will to fooling you?”

Davian paled. “Is that what happened to the Augurs?”

"Maybe." Malshash shrugged. “I can only speculate.”

Davian frowned. “You said an ancient power. A malevolent power.” His eyes narrowed. “Were you talking about Aarkein Devaed?”

Malshash grimaced. “No.”

“He really exists, though?” Davian shuffled his feet nervously. “He’s still alive, after all this time?”

Malshash chuckled, though the sound was humourless. “Oh yes. He is very much alive.” He rose, indicating the end of the conversation. “Enough about that. We should take a break for a meal, and then continue your training.”

Davian gave an absent nod in response. For a moment he wanted to pursue what Malshash had said… but even as he opened his mouth the desire left him, replaced by excitement at the prospect of learning new skills. “Can we try shapeshifting next?” he asked, unable to keep the eagerness from his tone.

Malshash shook his head. “Another skill that is too dangerous,” he admitted. “There’s a good reason you didn’t know about it before you came here. No Augur who has discovered the ability has ever passed on its knowledge. That alone should tell you how unsafe it is.”

Davian sighed. Along with Seeing, shapeshifting had been the ability he’d been most looking forward to learning. “I’ll take the risk,” he said stubbornly. He grinned. “If you’ve seen me in the future, it means it can’t kill me, right?”

“True, but it isn’t relevant to what you need to know to get home.” Malshash gave him an apologetic shrug. “We don’t have time for anything extra, Davian. Your bond here will begin weakening soon. It’s already been two weeks; I’m surprised there have been no problems as it is. And I still don’t believe you’re ready to face the rift again.”

Davian thought about protesting, but decided against it. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “I think I’ll stay here and do some reading, if you want to eat.”

Malshash hesitated, but nodded. “I’ll bring back some food. See you in an hour or so.” He turned and walked through the door, leaving Davian alone in the Great Library once again.

Davian sat for a while, lost in thought.

Then he came to a decision. He moved over to place his hand on the Adviser and closed his eyes, concentrating.

The blue line shot straight for one of the books on a nearby shelf. Davian grabbed it, then flipped through until he found what he was looking for: the section entitled Shapeshifting, best practices .

He scanned the text, frowning. The entry was only a page long - but he knew that in the other books he’d read, Shapeshifting was mentioned only briefly too, if at all. It seemed Malshash had been right about its knowledge not being passed on.

The description in this book of how to undertake the process was vague, but it sounded simple enough. Davian read the section a few times to make sure he understood everything, then closed his eyes.

He held a picture of Wirr in his mind. The book specified that the shapeshifter needed only a passing familiarity with the appearance of whomever they were trying to change into, an imprint of the person, but Davian thought it would be safest to pick someone he knew well. He drew on kan, let the dark substance settle into his flesh, cooling and warming at the same time. He pictured Wirr in his mind as clearly as he could, then willed his own flesh, his own face, to look the same.

Immense pain tore through him.

A scream ripped from his throat as he fell to the ground. Every nerve ending in his body felt like it was being burned by ice, and his eyes felt like someone was scraping hot knives across them. He could feel his ribs expanding, his bones growing, his muscles contorting themselves into position around his changing ligaments. His skin stretched until it felt as though it would break apart. He tasted blood.

Then it was over. He lay on the cold stone floor for several minutes, drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind trying to recover from what had just happened. Eventually he forced himself to kneel, then stand. He shuffled unsteadily on shaky legs that were longer than he was used to. He was taller; everything seemed just a little further down than normal.

Despite the aches, despite the memory of the fierce, unimaginable pain, he smiled to himself. It had worked.

He hurried down a corridor into a room which he knew contained a mirror. As he came within sight of his reflection, he froze, staring in horror.

His features, his body, were normal enough. But they were not Wirr’s.

The reflection in the mirror was of an older man, at least in his thirties. He had dirty blond hair and was of a size with Wirr, but there the similarities ended. He had a hooked nose and small, beady black eyes. When Davian tried to smile, his lips curled upward into a sneer instead. His skin was weather-beaten rather than tanned – the skin of a sailor, perhaps? Whomever the man was, Davian was quite certain he had never seen him before.

Davian scowled as he continued to examine his new visage. This man had facial scars too; if anything, they stood out more than Davian’s. That had been one of the fantasies he’d had about shapeshifting. He could finally wear a face that wasn’t marred.

“Davian? Where are you?” It was Malshash calling out, apparently having returned sooner than expected. Either that, or Davian had been unconscious longer than he’d realised.

For a second he considered trying to turn back, to hide what he’d done. But he knew immediately that it would not work, and was too dangerous besides. He was probably fortunate to have survived the first transition alone. He needed Malshash’s help to return to his normal body.

He slowly walked back down the corridor to the main chamber. Malshash was laying out some food on a nearby table, his back turned.

“I’m here,” said Davian, flinching as the voice emanating from his throat was deeper, huskier than his own.

Malshash whirled in alarm. Before Davian knew what was happening he was frozen to the spot, unable to move, though he could feel no bindings holding him in place. He stared at Malshash pleadingly.

“It’s me,” he said, hanging his head. “I shapeshifted. I… I’m sorry.”

There was silence. Davian raised his head again to find Malshash just looking at him, seeming more horrified than angry.

“Whose form is this?” asked Malshash eventually, sounding shaken.

Davian grimaced. “I’m not sure. I pictured my friend Wirr, but ended up like this. They look vaguely similar, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen this man before.”

Malshash swallowed, looking disturbed. He waved his hand in the air, and Davian found he could move again. “You must have seen him before,” Malshash said softly. “There is no other explanation.” He seemed… off. Not just concerned, or shocked. He appeared suddenly wary of Davian. As if he’d arrived expecting a mouse and instead found a lion.