James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

"Thank-you," she said softly.

Erran watched for a moment, his expression sad, then took two quick steps and embraced her. "Fates be with you, Asha."

"You too, Erran." Asha looked down at Fessi. "And you, Fess. I’ll be thinking of you. Be safe."

Fessi gave her a tight, tearful smile. "We’ll see you again, Asha." Her voice shook a little, but there was hardness behind her eyes, too. "We’ll be back to deal with Scyner soon enough."

She stood, reaching over and taking Erran’s hand in her own.

They vanished.

Asha didn’t move for a long moment, twisting the ring on her finger nervously. The Augurs' abrupt departure had suddenly given her pause, made her wonder whether it was really worth her going back to Fedris Idri. Her Reserve was close to drained; she wasn’t sure how much more she could do in battle anyway. And it felt wrong to leave Kol like this, alone on the floor….

But she knew straight away that those were just excuses. She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Even if she was only able to summon one final blast with her Vessel, returning to help at the Shields was the right thing to do.

She took a long last look at Kol’s lifeless form, grief still heavy in her chest.

Then she turned and left, heading for Fedris Idri.

Wirr rolled his shoulders, sensing more than seeing Elder Eilinar’s glare.

There was a stony silence as the group walked deeper into the Tol, broken only by the occasional nervous cough from one member of the Council or another. Wirr scowled to himself. His arrival at the Tol, and his announcement that he was going to change the Tenets, had been met with open arms. His insistence that Davian accompany him to do so had not.

He glanced across at his friend, who was walking alongside, evidently lost in thought. The Council had been furious at Wirr’s obstinance, going so far as to call Davian a threat after what he’d done to Ilseth Tenvar. Eventually, though, Eilinar had relented - if not graciously.

Wirr could still feel the man’s anger emanating from him whenever they locked gazes, but he didn’t care. He was here for one purpose only: to fulfil his father’s dying wish. To make sure his sacrifice had not been in vain.

"I would have understood, you know," murmured Davian suddenly, as if reading his thoughts. "You didn’t have to rile them on my account."

Wirr shrugged. "I needed someone with me for this. Someone I can trust."

Davian inclined his head. "Still. I’m not sure that I blame Eilinar. I probably wouldn’t want me involved in this either, after what happened this morning."

Wirr gave him a stern sideways glance. "What you did to Tenvar was an accident, Dav," he said. "You were doing what needed to be done - and honestly, it’s not like the man didn’t deserve it."

Davian grimaced, but nodded. He watched his friend for a moment. "How are you holding up?"

Wirr gritted his teeth, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. He’d managed to push what had happened to the back of his mind for now, and he wanted it to stay there, to keep the emotions at bay until this was done. "There will be time for grief later. This is what my father wanted," he said grimly.

Davian gave him another nod, accepting the statement in silence.

After a while they came to a halt in front of a large, solid-looking steel door; Eilinar pressed his hand against its surface, releasing the wards that protected it. Once he was done, he produced a set of keys and opened it, holding it ajar so that everyone could pass through.

Wirr stared around the chamber within as he entered. It was entirely empty of furnishings except for a thick, squat table in the centre, which itself looked carved from the same black rock as the rest of the room. In all, it seemed unremarkable.

Nashrel waited until all the Elders were inside and then walked over to the table, placing a hand on it with something approaching reverence as he closed his eyes. He murmured a few words under his breath, and Essence began flowing from him into the stone.

Wirr watched, wide-eyed. The table turned a deeper shade of black; suddenly the torches on the walls were reflected on its now glistening dark surface. Then there was a rippling, a shimmering in its centre; it began to stretch and morph as something new rose out of the stone.

Wirr stared. It appeared to be an ornate shield – but too large, taller and wider than even the largest of men, impossible to wield.

“This is the Vessel through which you will need to rebind the Tenets, Your Grace,” Nashrel explained to Wirr, eyes not leaving the shield. “You must place your hand on it, keeping a steady stream of Essence flowing into it, and speak the vows that you want all the Gifted to be bound by.”

Wirr frowned at the shield. “That’s it?”

Nashrel nodded. “Your new vows should take the place of the old ones. Beyond that….” He shrugged. “The Tenets have never been successfully changed, and this Vessel was not made by us, so I cannot speak as to any other consequences.”

Davian and Wirr both stared at the shield. Its steel was almost as black as the table beneath, and as Wirr took a closer look, he saw that it was covered by hundreds of finely inscribed symbols.

“Who did make it?” Wirr asked abruptly. “Where did it come from?”

"Only the Loyalists know the answer to that question," said Nashrel. His glance flicked to Wirr, then away again.

“Why doesn’t someone just destroy it?” asked Davian.

Nashrel shook his head. “That is why it is left in Athian’s care, hidden, and not at the palace. If it were destroyed, we suspect that the Tenets could not be undone. Its terms would last forever.”

“Then perhaps that is what we must do,” came a deep voice from the entrance.

Wirr spun, heart sinking as soon as he saw the blue cloak. All the Administrators were supposed to have left, called to fight at Fedris Idri.

Then he grimaced as the man stepped forward into the light.

“Ionis. I’m sorry, but this is how it has to be,” Wirr said quietly. “We need the Gifted to be able to fight, else the city will fall, and we’ll all die.”

“Then we will all die, Your Grace,” replied Ionis, his tone calm. “An unpleasant fate, and yet preferable to having the Bleeders running things again. I lived through those times, Prince Torin. I’ll not return to them.”

Wirr turned back to the shield, away from the Administrator. “You don’t have a choice.”

“Actually, I do. Prince Torin, I command you by the Fourth Tenet. Do not use Essence unless I tell you to.”

Wirr gasped as his hand froze, only inches above the shield. He scowled, concentrating, willing his hand downward. Instead he found himself pulling back, away from the metallic surface.

He took a couple of steps away from the table, until it was well out of reach. Then, able to move freely again, he rounded on Ionis.

“Administrator, you must do as I tell you. Fates, man, I’m the prince; I’m the Northwarden now! Release me to do as I wish, or I’ll have you strung up for treason!”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I won’t be doing that.” Ionis looked… composed. Almost unconcerned. With good reason, too, Wirr realised dully. So long as the original Tenets remained in place, Ionis was safe. “And I suspect that of the two of us, once King Andras finds out what has happened here today, it might rather be you looking at the hangman’s noose,” the Administrator added.

Wirr grimaced, remembering his last conversation with his uncle. “What do you want?”

Ionis leaned forward, and Wirr shuddered as he caught the look in his eye. There was a hint of mania there, an unmistakably zealous fire. “I want you to create a new, single Tenet. That any man, woman or child who is Gifted must take their own life.”