James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

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.

“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.