James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

She opened it with still-trembling fingers.

Elder Olin,

Davian and I have had to leave at short notice, on a matter of some importance, and one I believe needs my oversight. Send no-one after us – Davian is under my protection. Please tell my father that if we are caught, I will use the name I used here. He can retrieve us both at his earliest convenience, and I will explain matters to him then.

Torin.

“I don’t understand,” she said, looking up at Ilseth in confusion. “Who’s Torin?”

Ilseth just nodded to himself, glancing towards the doorway. Then he gently removed his arm from around Asha, standing.

“It can never be easy,” he sighed, drawing a small black disc from his pocket. In a sudden movement, he leaned forward and pressed it against Asha’s neck.

Asha tried to jerk away, but the second the disc touched her skin it stuck like glue; she found herself paralysed, able only to move her eyes. She stared at Ilseth as he crouched down on his haunches in front of her, calm as he observed her for a few moments. She tried to talk, to ask him what he was doing, but no sound came from her throat.

“Becoming a Shadow is not so bad,” Ilseth said quietly. “It is quick, and you won’t remember the pain. In fact, you won’t remember anything since you woke up this morning. Almost a blessing, given what you’ve seen today.” He stared into her eyes. “Regardless, I can’t risk anyone realising that Davian got away. I would ask you whether he foresaw what I was planning, or whether he saved your friend through sheer dumb luck – but I doubt you know. And if you don’t know about that, I doubt you understand why the escherii spared you, either. But still… if it saw fit to let you live, then I suppose I should do the same. There are always reasons for these things.”

Asha tried desperately to move, to call for help, but it was no use. She watched in terror as Ilseth reached forward, pressing his finger against the disc on her neck and closing his eyes. For a few seconds a gentle warmth flowed through her body, relaxing every muscle.

Then the heat inside her became a raging fire, searing through her blood as if she were being burned alive from the inside. Every nerve shrieked in agony; her back arched of its own accord as muscles spasmed and convulsed. The tiny corner of her mind not screaming in pain watched as Ilseth nodded in quiet satisfaction, then turned and left.

Eventually the room, and then the pain, faded. She knew no more.

Davian held his breath as another group of blue-cloaked Administrators walked by, Finders glinting on their wrists as they observed the preparations for the evening’s festivities.

“They’re everywhere,” he muttered to Wirr, keeping his eyes firmly on the road ahead as he walked.

“Just ignore them. And try not to scratch your arm,” said Wirr without looking at his friend.

Davian grimaced, snatching his hand away from his left forearm. The makeup they had bought a few days ago hid their tattoos from all but the closest inspection, but it itched constantly. At the time it had seemed unnecessary – the vials of thick paint-like substance had cost more than Davian would have credited, and taken hours to mix to the right skin tones – but the last half-hour had proven otherwise. The fashion in Talmiel, it appeared, was to keep the forearms bare. A way for people to show that they were not Gifted.

“My nerves cannot take much more of this,” he said.

Wirr snorted. “’We need to go north , Wirr. Talmiel can’t be that dangerous, Wirr. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Wirr.’”

Davian grunted. “I know, I know. You warned me.” He checked in both directions as they emerged into a new street, but there was no sign of any blue cloaks here, only the general bustle of people hanging decorations. “I just didn’t think there would be so many, even with the festival tonight.”

Wirr sighed. “This is the only border crossing into Desriel, Dav. Desriel . The one country that hates the Gifted more than Andarra.” He shook his head. “The Administrators do a lot of their recruiting here. The only reason we haven’t been caught so far is because people like us aren’t stupid enough to come here any more, so nobody’s really looking.” He glanced around, unable to hide his apprehension. “Our luck will run out sooner or later, though. Are you sure we need to be here?”

Davian hesitated, unconsciously touching the pocket where he kept the Vessel. It had been nearly three weeks since they had left Caladel, and the further they travelled north, the more he had expected it to do… something. Something to show him what came next. But though he examined it at least once each day, the bronze box never changed.

“Ilseth said to travel north until I knew where to go next,” he said eventually. He gave his friend an apologetic look. “I just don’t know what else to do.”

Wirr nodded ruefully. “I know.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe I thought that sounded like a plan back at Caladel.”

“Thinking you should have stayed behind?”

“Thinking I should have tried harder to stop you from leaving.” Wirr shot him a crooked smile, then nodded towards an inn a little further down the street. “We should at least get inside. As many Administrators as there are now, there will be twice as many out tonight. It will be safer indoors, and it’s late anyway.”

Davian nodded his agreement. Talmiel was bustling with activity as it prepared for the Festival of Ravens; people hurried about everywhere in brightly-coloured clothing, and officials had begun lighting the traditional blue lanterns that lined each street of the city. Natural light was fading fast, and Davian had even seen a few children in ill-fitting Loyalist uniforms, the costume of choice for the feast that celebrated the overthrow of the Augurs. Davian had always found it odd that Tol Athian normally held its Trials to coincide with the festival. He could only assume that it must have held a nice sense of irony for someone.

They made their way over to the inn, which the sign out front proclaimed to be the King’s Repose. If a king had ever stayed there it must have been generations ago; the façade was dirty and cracked, and the picture on the sign had faded almost entirely. Exchanging dubious looks, Davian and Wirr headed inside.

The interior of the King’s Repose was as uninviting as the outside; the common room smelled of stale beer, and the tables and chairs looked rickety at best. Still, there were already plenty of people laughing and drinking, and the rotund innkeeper was friendly enough once he saw their coin. Before long, he was showing them to a small but clean room upstairs.

Once the innkeeper had left, Davian locked the door behind him and collapsed onto one of the beds with a deep sigh.

Wirr sat on the bed opposite. “So. What now, Dav?”

Davian drew the Vessel from his pocket, staring at it intently. As always, it was warm to the touch. Was it his imagination, or was it emanating more heat than previously? After a moment he replaced it with a shrug. “We keep heading north, I suppose.”

Wirr frowned. “Into Desriel?” He began chewing at a fingernail, a sure sign he was nervous. “You do know that any Gifted that the Gil’shar capture are executed as heretics, don’t you?”

Davian nodded. He’d read about the Gil’shar: part government, part religious body, they had absolute authority in Desriel. “I think they call us abominations rather than heretics, actually. They say only the gods are supposed to wield the Gift,” he said absently.

Wirr massaged his forehead. “You might be missing the point, Dav.”