James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

She gave Asha a final smile, then crossed to the door and left.

As quickly as that, it was done.

Asha did as the Shadraehin had suggested and found her own way out, not for the first time wondering exactly what Davian’s message had meant. It didn’t play on her mind for long this time, though; once back on the street she took a deep, steadying breath, then started back towards the palace. She already had the key to the storeroom, and a Veil would allow her to go to and from it several times without being detected.

She watched a patrol sweep through the street ahead of her, the soldiers' every motion taut with nervousness. She understood exactly how they felt.

Things were coming to a head, and she had no idea how they were going to turn out.

It was almost time.

Davian stared ahead grimly as he walked alongside Elder Eilinar down yet another flight of dimly-lit, rough stone stairs, deeper into the heart of Tol Athian.

"You’re angry," noted Nashrel, giving him a sideways glance.

"Yes," Davian replied bluntly, too frustrated to be polite. He gritted his teeth for a few seconds in silence, then scowled, unable to contain his exasperation. "You and the Council are making the wrong decision. Having Gifted available to heal the wounded would save many lives."

Nashrel made a calming gesture. "I’m on your side, Davian. If I had my way, we would be at the Shields as we speak," he said calmly. "But the others did make some valid points. The palace can hardly expect us to help, not if they’re not willing to change the Tenets so that we can at least defend ourselves."

"But you won’t even talk to them," said Davian in frustration.

"And as we told you, if changing the Tenets is not a part of the discussion, there is little point."

"But if you just -"

"It’s not just the king’s stubbornness regarding the Tenets, Davian." Nashrel stopped and turned to him, a serious look on his face. "This vitriol we’ve been hearing from him - these open threats against the Gifted - isn’t something we can just ignore. You have to understand… all of us remember the Unseen War like it was yesterday, and what we’ve heard coming from the palace has been stirring up old memories. Old fears. "

"So the solution is to hide in here and hope it all goes away?"

Nashrel frowned at that. "Show a little respect," he said quietly, anger just beneath the surface. Davian coloured, knowing he’d overstepped, but Nashrel started walking again before Davian could respond. "I know you’re frustrated, but the Elders on the Council went through things during the war that you can only imagine. Since then, being behind these walls is the only way many of them can feel safe. Fates, I can name four Elders who haven’t left the Tol in near twenty years! These are deep-seated fears, Davian - not the kind that can be easily overcome. Especially not when they are fed by the king like this."

Davian shook his head. "Maybe you’re right," he conceded. "But it doesn’t excuse the way they’re abandoning everyone. It doesn’t give them the right to bury their heads in the sand while the Blind threaten their city. Even the Gifted from Tol Shen have realised that."

Nashrel didn’t respond for a while. The stairwells and passageways seemed to narrow the further down they travelled; here, Davian would have been able to touch both walls simultaneously with his elbows if he’d tried. The rock of Ilin Tora itself had slowly transformed from the carefully carved, light-brown texture of the upper levels to a jagged, menacing black, rough-hewn and almost volcanic in its appearance. The air was musty, and there was such a fierce chill to it that Davian shivered despite his thick cloak.

Eventually the Elder sighed. "There’s some merit to what you’re saying, Davian. And the news about Shen surprised me. But the Council have made their decision; what’s done is done." He shook his head. "Just be glad they agreed to let you see Tenvar. I wasn’t sure they were going to do that much, to be honest, after you… expressed your displeasure about our decision not to fight. And Tol Athian is not in the habit of giving strangers free access to prisoners, either."

Davian grunted. "I can’t say I appreciated having to Read them like it was some kind of parlour trick, though," he said in disgust.

"They needed proof that you were really an Augur - some guarantee you weren’t lying - before they could let you down here. It was not unreasonable." Nashrel gave a slight smile. "Anyway, Fethrin and Ielsa certainly regret making you do it."

Davian snorted. "They brought that on themselves."

"That they did," said Nashrel in amusement.

They turned down another passageway; here Essence orbs had been replaced with traditional torches, so sparsely placed along the hallways that it was almost pitch-black when walking in between them. The only sound was the constant echoing of the two men’s boots on the hard stone, and even that faint noise was quickly swallowed by the darkness.

They emerged into a long hallway, wider and better-lit than those preceding. Rather than blank black rock, iron doorways with small barred windows lined the passage, and from the occasional cough, Davian could tell that the dungeon had at least a few occupants.

Finally they came to a stop in front of a cell, one of the last in the hallway. Dark though it was, Davian could make out the crouched human form within. He waited until Nashrel unlocked the steel-barred door, then turned to the Elder.

“I’d prefer not to go in there unarmed.”

Nashrel hesitated, then drew a short dagger from his belt. "Use this for anything but self-defence, and Augur or not, I’ll have you thrown out of the Tol. Immediately."

Davian nodded. "Of course."

“Davian!” came a familiar voice from inside the cell. “I see the Gifted know what you are, now. And haven’t turned you in yet. Good for you.” Tenvar walked forward so that his face was pressed up against the bars of the tiny window. He looked like he hadn’t washed in days, and his beard was growing out to give him an entirely unkempt look.

Davian glared at him, fury burning in his stomach. “Stand back,” he growled.

Tenvar did as he was told.

Davian opened the door with one hand, gripping the knife in the other. He doubted Tenvar could overpower him in his evidently weakened state, but there was no point taking the chance.

Davian entered the cell warily, but Tenvar had taken a seat on the opposite side of the small room. Despite his condition he looked relaxed, even a little smug, his legs crossed and reclining as if the stone bench was the most comfortable chair in the world.

Davian felt another flash of anger. “I’ve come to find out who you’re working for. And how to stop the Blind,” he said, keeping his tone as calm as he could manage.

Tenvar smiled. “Ah, so that’s what they decided to call them. How unoriginal. And they’re here already, are they? Faster than I expected,” he said cheerfully. “Thank-you for that information. Nobody had told me I would be rescued quite so soon.”

“Rescued?” Davian gave a bitter laugh. “You’re not going anywhere, Tenvar. I’ll see you dead before I see you free.”

“Threatening my life?” Ilseth sighed. “Davian, you forget that I know you a little. Not well, perhaps, I’ll grant you that. But enough to know that you’re no murderer. You don’t have a violent bone in your body.”

Davian said nothing for a moment, then took a deep breath. He wasn’t here to argue with Tenvar or rise to his taunts. He was here to Read him, plain and simple.

He concentrated, reaching out until he could feel Tenvar’s mind. He was immediately, unsurprisingly presented with a locked box.