James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Davian examined the box in silence. There were other memories outside it but Davian didn’t bother to look at them; if Tenvar didn’t feel the need to hide them, they were unimportant. He tried to remember how he’d broken into Malshash’s box, but the longer he stared at Tenvar’s, the more impregnable it seemed to become.

“I’m shielded, Davian,” said Ilseth, his tone relaxed, even slightly amused. “I’ve kept my thoughts private for forty years. From before the real Augurs fell. You’re not breaking in.”

Davian didn’t reply, but allowed his focus to wane for a few moments. Ilseth was putting all his concentration into maintaining that shield; even if Davian tried forcing the box open he would probably fail. He needed Ilseth’s attention elsewhere.

His stomach churned a little, but it needed to be done.

He leaned over and as coldly as possible, plunged his knife into Tenvar’s thigh.

Tenvar screamed in surprised pain; even as Davian pulled the knife out again, he slammed into Tenvar’s mental box with everything he had. It disintegrated, and Davian moaned as Tenvar’s agony flooded through to his own mind. He ignored the pain, clenching his fists.

Behind him, he could hear Nashrel yelling something, rushing into the cell. If Davian was going to get information, he had to be quick.

He searched for a way to stop the Blind, but to his frustration he discovered that Tenvar knew very little of the invasion. It made sense, he supposed; if he’d had something so vital in his memories then Devaed would surely have found a way to have him killed, tucked away in a Tol Athian dungeon or not.

Davian moved on to the question that had been burning inside him for so long now. Why had Tenvar given him the Vessel, sent him away before the slaughter of everyone else in the school?

He located the memory he was after, then took a deep breath.

Davian waited.

The small room was dark, dank, and had a musty smell which made him sporadically wrinkle his nose in disgust. A jumble of discarded boxes were heaped in the corner, where the damp had already contrived to rot through some of them. Otherwise, the room was empty. There were no windows this far beneath the surface of course, but his lamp, set down in the middle of the room, lit the black stone walls well enough.

He hoped this meeting would not take long. Being discovered in this section of Tol Athian, so deep beneath the ancient foundations, would result in questions he may not easily be able to answer.

He began to pace, tracking an imaginary path along the cold stone floor. He had received this summons so abruptly, so directly, that he did not know what to expect. For the thousandth time he pondered the possibility that it was a trap. The message had been written in an ancient Darecian dialect; there were only four or five people in Andarra who still knew that language, so a ruse seemed unlikely. Why he was being called upon at this vital moment, though – now, when he was so close to succeeding – he simply could not imagine.

He ran his fingers through his hair as he marched back and forth, mentally categorizing the possibilities. None of them were good.

Behind him, the lamp went out, plunging the room into darkness.

He froze mid-step, a shiver running up his spine as he heard the door to the stairwell creak shut. The hair at the base of his neck began to prickle.

“You have come,” a deep voice rumbled in approval.

Davian turned. The room seemed lit again, but it was a cold, pale luminescence, as if he were seeing through the darkness rather than by a natural light. In front of the closed door stood the faint outline of a lone man, cloaked and hooded, face shrouded in shadow. The stranger made no move to enter the room further.

“I would not refuse a summons from the master we serve,” said Davian. The man had to be using kan to manipulate Essence, illuminating the room but keeping himself in darkness. Not a trap, then – something more terrifying by far, in fact, though Davian could not fathom how one of them could be on this side of the Boundary.

They weren’t a myth, then. This was one of the Venerate.

The hooded man nodded, oblivious to Davian’s train of thought. “That is good,” he growled. “Then you would not refuse a task from him, either.” Davian thought he must be altering his voice somehow; certainly no-one could naturally sound so gravelly. Distracted by the thought, the stranger’s words took a few moments to sink in.

“It would be an honour to serve Lord Devaed in any task,” he said, almost tripping over the words in his haste to respond. The Venerate were not to be trifled with, but the question burned within him - he hesitated a second longer, swallowing hard, working up the courage to continue. “Before we proceed… if I may ask… why now? I mean no disrespect, but what could be worth risking my place here, so close to the end?” He had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, not to know.

There was a long silence; though Davian could not see beneath the other man’s hood, he could feel his gaze burrowing into his skull.

“Do you know why I chose this place to meet?” The words were spoken so softly that Davian barely heard them.

He shifted, his sense of unease growing. “No.”

“I chose it because the walls here have no Remembering.” The man raised his hand, brushing the stone with his fingertips. “In this room, Tenvar, I can do whatever I please.”

There was no warning.

Davian gasped as the index finger of his right hand began to burn; a second later a shriek ripped from his throat as agony coursed through him, nerves screaming as they were sliced open. He grasped the finger tightly but to no avail; he collapsed on the floor as it began to tear open from the tip downward, slowly splitting fingernail and then flesh in a shower of blood and pain, the bare bone itself splintering as impossibly fine strands of Essence pulled it carefully, inexorably, in opposite directions.

“Stop!” he sobbed, writhing helplessly. Already the finger was split down to the second joint. He moaned, heart pounding wildly, trying to focus on anything but the pain. “Stop,” he choked again.

After what seemed like an eternity, he felt the force exerted upon his rent flesh vanish. Essence flowed around him; his hand began to cool, and something dropped wetly to the floor. The pain eased. He sat up from his prostrate position, then turned away and retched, the bile acidic in his throat. The small, pulpy mass of twisted and torn flesh next to him was all that remained of his forefinger. On his hand, the dark red blood had vanished, and a smooth, scarred stump sat where the finger had been taken off. Only a throbbing remembrance of pain remained.

“That is a reminder,” the man said quietly. “I chose only a finger, to punish your insolence. I could as easily have chosen something more… important.” Davian shuddered, scrambling backward away from both the mangled digit and his attacker, until his back was pressed against the cold stone wall. The man seemed not to notice. “You are not here to question,” he continued, “but to serve as your master sees fit. Do you understand?”

Davian nodded, eyes wide with fear.

“Now. We received your message. You think the escherii’s attacks have finally borne fruit – that the heir is hiding in Caladel?”

Davian swallowed, his nod vigorous this time. “Nashrel insisted on holding the Trials there early this year. It’s for reasons of efficiency, supposedly, but that’s a weak excuse at best - it seems clear they are trying to get the boy out of harm’s way.” He paused. “I have already made sure I am part of the group going there. If my suspicions are correct, Eilinar will reveal the true purpose of the journey just before we leave.”