James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

He thought to find out where Malshash had lived, before he came to Deilannis. He was confronted with the locked box again. He wondered where Malshash had received his Augur training. The locked box. He wondered why Malshash had been so upset to discover Davian could shapeshift. The locked box. Davian felt his frustration turn to anger. What was the point of this ability if people could just hide things so easily?

He wondered why Malshash had given up his ability to See. The locked box.

Rather than move on, Davian imagined himself directly in front of the box. He concentrated, gripping the lid with his hands and pulling .

The lid came open, and he heard a gasp of horror from Malshash.

He was in a large, long room, filled with table upon table of people talking and laughing, all dressed in fine suits and elegant gowns. He felt his heart swelling as he gazed out across the crowd from his position, his own table slightly raised above everyone else’s. So many people. His friends and family, come to celebrate with him. A feeling of pleasant warmth flooded through him, not just the fine wine they had been drinking.

This was happiness.

Detached, Davian forced himself to stay alert. He knew this feeling. He was reliving the memory, unable to alter it in any way, but experiencing it exactly as Malshash had. He knew he’d somehow broken into Malshash’s locked box, knew this memory was supposed to be personal, but had no idea how to stop it now.

He glanced to his left, and his breath caught in his throat. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen sat alongside him. Her long black hair was straight and gleamed in the light of the lanterns. She was slim, with an oval face, large blue eyes and a delicate mouth. Her full lips curled upward slightly as she saw him watching her, and she leaned towards him.

“See anything you like?”

Davian felt himself grin in return. “I think you know the answer to that.” He looked around. “Is it wrong to wish your own wedding were over?” he whispered conspiratorially.

The woman – Elliavia was her name, Davian suddenly knew – leaned forward and gave him a long, passionate kiss. In the background, he could hear a few people starting to hoot and whistle. “Not at all… husband,” she whispered back.

Davian sat back, trying to drink it all in. This was the moment. It was perfect, better than he could have imagined, than he could have hoped for. He looked again at Elliavia. She was amazing. He knew, perhaps more deeply than he’d known anything before, that he didn’t deserve her. No-one deserved her. Perhaps that was where he’d been so lucky. He’d been the closest thing she’d found to a good match.

A servant came and touched Ell lightly on the shoulder, whispering something in her ear. She nodded, then leaned towards him again, her lips tickling his ear she was so close. “I will be back in a moment, my love,” she said, her eyes shining as she looked at him.

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll be waiting."

He watched her slip away after the servant, so beautiful in her white wedding dress. Once she was through the door he returned his attention to the festivities, nodding politely as people came past his table, offering their congratulations. His face hurt – it actually hurt! – from the effort of smiling so much, but he didn’t mind in the slightest. He was not by nature a man who found happiness easily, but tonight most certainly qualified.

A half-hour passed. He found himself glancing towards the door his wife had disappeared through, expecting to see her reappear at any moment. It remained closed, though. He scanned the crowd, but the servant who had come to fetch her was nowhere to be seen either.

Finally he called over another weary-looking young man who was serving drinks. “Excuse me,” he said, “ but have you seen my wife?”

The boy stared at him for a moment to see whether he was joking, then glanced around the room as if expecting to see Elliavia standing somewhere obvious. Finally he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lord Deshrel. I haven’t.”

Davian felt himself frowning, and sighed in vague exasperation. It seemed he would need to find her himself. He rose, navigating through the jumble of chairs that had been abandoned mid-aisle, then slipped through the door Ell had gone through.

There was a short passage, lit by a single torch, and then another door that opened into the castle courtyard. He felt his frown deepen. He didn’t know Caer Lyordas well, hadn’t realised this door led outside. Why would Ell have needed to come out here?

The courtyard was lit, but it was a gusty night and some of the torches had guttered out – this area was unattended, as most of the guardsmen tonight were focused around the feast. Davian found himself meandering aimlessly, a little light-headed from the wine, around the side of the castle.

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.