James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Asha nodded, was about to agree when she caught sight of Elocien down the hallway. She hesitated.

"I’ll come if I can," she promised, " but there’s something I must discuss with the duke first."

Michal looked about to protest, then nodded reluctantly. "If you can, then," he agreed.

Asha gave him an apologetic glance, then hurried after Elocien, falling into stride alongside him just before he turned the corner.

"Representative Chaedris," the duke said politely, nodding to her. He glanced around, seeing that there was no-one within hearing distance. "I know we shouldn’t be surprised, but I hadn’t imagined it would be this bad. Or happen so quickly."

Asha watched the duke as he walked. "I know," she said. "And I think it’s time we reached out for some aid."

The duke grimaced and shook his head, though not with his usual air of certainty. "No. These are dangerous people, Ashalia, and they still think you owe them something. I’m not going to send you to beg for their help, not after everything you’ve been through."

"But it’s my choice to go, and it’s something we need to do," observed Asha. "The Shadraehin can organise the Shadows, and we can provide them with weapons that may make the difference when the Blind get here. I know you can’t do this officially, that Administration will never go for it. But let me try. If we don’t try everything in our power to save the city, it’s no different from your brother refusing to change the Tenets."

Elocien said nothing for a few seconds, but eventually he slowed, then stopped altogether. He looked Asha in the eye, silent for a long moment.

Then he gave a reluctant nod.

"Let’s discuss the details in my study," he said quietly.

Wirr rose to leave, head still spinning from what Parathe had just told them.

Almost nine thousand men, dead in some sort of ambush. It didn’t take a military mind to understand that those losses were extraordinary. Unthinkable.

“Torin.” It was the king. “Stay. I would like to speak with you.”

Wirr gave a slight bow and sat again, waiting patiently for the others to file past.

Once everyone was gone, Wirr cast a cautious glance across at his uncle. Karaliene hadn’t been wrong about his condition. He was drawn, sweating and grey, a shadow of the man Wirr remembered.

“What can I do for you, uncle?” he asked eventually as the silence began to stretch.

Kevran didn’t reply for a moment, then leaned forward so that his face was close to Wirr’s.

“I have only one question for you, Torin. Whose side are you on?”

Wirr resisted the urge to flinch back. “What do you mean?”

The king grimaced. “Don’t play the fool. I know where you’ve been, these past few years,” he said, irritation thick in his tone. “I helped send you there, remember. You’re one of them. Or you were. So my question is, are you Gifted or are you a prince? Whose side are you on ?”

Wirr shook his head. “I would like to think it is not a case of ‘sides’.”

“The Treaty would suggest otherwise,” observed Kevran. “Or perhaps you have forgotten the meaning of that word. Treaties cannot be made without there first having been a war.”

Wirr bit his lip. His uncle spoke in a slightly breathless, manic way; anyone else and Wirr would have said he was insane. “I will always do what is best for Andarra, uncle,” he said after a moment. “But I don’t see myself as being on one side or another.”

“Then you have grown up to be a fool.” Kevran leaned back, looking disappointed. “The Gifted are traitors. Their power is a disease, a stain on the world. They are untrustworthy. Each and every one of them.”

Wirr bit back an angry retort. The way the king was acting, he knew that to protest would only be putting himself on dangerous ground.

“Is that all, Your Majesty?” he asked stiffly.

The king inclined his head, making a dismissive gesture.

Wirr stood slowly and left, shaken. What had happened to his uncle? The man he remembered had had no love for the Gifted, but nor had he hated them. If anything, it had always been Kevran that had the calm head, and Elocien who had spouted the rhetoric.

He was so caught up in his worries that he almost walked straight into Dras Lothlar, who had been waiting in the hallway outside. Wirr excused himself but when he tried to move around the other man, Dras stepped into his path again.

Wirr scowled as his already frayed temper threatened to snap, but held his tongue and looked at the Shen Representative steadily.

“Can I help you?”

Dras smiled at him, a look so predatory that it made Wirr shiver. “I just thought I should introduce myself, Your Highness,” he said in an obsequious tone. “I am Dras Lothlar, Representative for Tol Shen.”

“I know who you are, Representative Lothlar,” said Wirr, trying to sound irritated rather than anxious. Had Dras recognised him from Thrindar? Wirr looked different now: hair trimmed, a light beard, fine clothes rather than rags. And in Desriel, they had only spent a few minutes in each others’ presence. “As you can imagine, I have some very important things to discuss with my father. So if you wouldn’t mind….”

Dras didn’t move. “How was Calandra, these past few years, Your Highness?” he asked, his gaze intent. “Whereabouts were you stationed?”

“Ildora,” said Wirr automatically. He’d had these details drilled into him over the past few days.

“Ah, I remember Ildora. Lovely place.” Dras sounded relaxed, but Wirr could still see the focus behind his eyes.

“I don’t know about that. I saw plenty of good men die defending against the barbarians. It doesn’t bring back fond memories.”

Dras’ expression didn’t change. “I suppose you’ve been to the inn there? The Juggler?”

Wirr hesitated. He’d been told plenty about Ildora, but he had no information on the names of the inns there.

And… it was the same inn that Karaliene had sent them to in Thrindar. His heart sank.

“No,” he replied.

“No?” Dras looked surprised. “Not once? I remember it being very popular when I was there.” He frowned. “Perhaps I’m misremembering. Perhaps that inn was somewhere else.”

Wirr forced himself to keep his breathing steady. The man knew. “If you don’t want anything, Representative, get out of my way,” he growled.

Dras smiled. “I don’t want anything… for now. Your Highness.” He stepped to the side.

Wirr stalked away, not looking back but unable to stop picturing the smarmy expression on the Representative’s face. The Shen Gifted should have been thinking of ways to defend the city, not playing these games as if nothing were amiss.

Doing his best to banish Lothlar from his mind, he headed for his father’s study, arriving just as the door opened and Asha emerged into the hallway. They stared at each other in mild surprise for a second, and then Wirr gave her a rueful smile.

"Interesting night," he observed.

Asha nodded her agreement. "Remind me to stay away from your parties in the future," she said dryly. She slipped something into her pocket - a key, Wirr thought - then gave him an apologetic squeeze on the shoulder. "I’d stay to talk, but Michal needs my help, and then after that -"

"It’s okay. Go." Wirr hesitated. "And Ash, if I don’t see you again before the Blind get here…."

Asha smiled at him. "Then I’ll see you after," she said firmly.

Wirr watched her go, even now still barely believing it was really her. Asha’s survival of the attack at Caladel was astonishing, miraculous. And her new place here at the palace - what his father had been building with the Augurs, these past few years - was even moreso.