James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Asar blinked, for the first time looking like he hadn’t anticipated something. “Which is?”

“The hours before I awoke in that forest. The most recent memory I do not have,” said Caeden softly. He knew he’d arranged all of this to fight Devaed, knew which side he was on - but the faces of those villagers, their accusations and their unbridled, unthinking hatred, still haunted him. He needed to know, with certainty, that it had been undeserved.

Asar hesitated, then nodded. “Then we shall do that first.”

Before Caeden could react, the old man stepped forward and placed two fingers against Caeden’s forehead.

Caeden’s heart pounded as he walked into the village.

It had worked; he’d appeared only a few hundred metres into the forest, exactly where he’d planned. No-one would think to look for him here in Desriel - at least not unless Tenvar talked, and he was fairly certain that taking the man’s finger had insured against that.

The Waters of Renewal had quickly begun to take effect; his days as a youth in the Shining Lands were already barely more than a fog. He’d estimated that it could take as little as an hour for all the memories to go - but they should at least fade in sequence, according to his experiments. That was fortunate. He only needed to remember the last few years to know what he had to do, and why.

He found he was clutching the hilt of his sword tightly, nervously; he took a deep breath, forcing the hand to his side again and trying his utmost to appear casual. He had no wish to do what came next, but he’d carefully considered the alternatives and had accepted that this was the only way. The Venerate between them knew each of his faces. If he were identified too soon, this would all be for naught.

A few people gave him a second glance as he walked by, but travellers were not uncommon, even this far from a major town. It didn’t really matter if they remembered what he looked like, anyway. He’d thought about choosing a more isolated spot – a farm, perhaps – but the risk had been too high. In that scenario, if no-one had been home, his memories could have been gone before he found a replacement.

After a minute or two of aimless wandering, he spotted a young man strolling up to a quaint, thatched-roof house that was set a little apart from the other buildings. Caeden checked to see that no-one was looking his way, then hurried up to the stranger. He was little more than a boy, Caeden realised with a slight pang of regret - reddish-brown hair, blue eyes and an easy smile. A farmer, probably. They almost all would be around here.

“Excuse me,” Caeden said in a polite tone. “I’m a little lost. I was wondering if you had a map of the area?” He knew it was unlikely, but any excuse would do.

The young man shook his head, then nodded to the door. “Sorry, friend,” he said. “No maps, but if you’d like to come inside, I’ll see if I can help you out with some directions.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said Caeden. He kept his face carefully neutral, even as his stomach twisted. The poor lad was so trusting.

They were soon inside, and the door shut. “Now,” said the boy, turning towards the simple hewn table. “If I can just -”

Caeden’s long, thin blade caught him in the side of the throat, stabbing upward into his brain. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Caeden checked his memories. Nothing before the Siege of Al’gast; that was worryingly recent, not too long before he’d realised the Darecians had escaped. He got to work, taking note of the boy’s features and then cutting into his face. It was horrible, stomach-turning work, but the body had to be unrecognisable. Even as he went about the grisly task, he concentrated, picturing the features of the young man he had just killed. Pain abruptly snapped through him, his bones breaking and reforming, muscles tearing, contorting and stretching. Caeden grimaced, but kept working as best he could. He was well accustomed to these transformations.

It was over in the space of a minute. Now, all he had to do was dispose of the body and –

“Caeden?” a cheerful female voice called from the front door. “Where are you, son?”

Caeden’s heart sank. There was no time, no way he could get the body out. He froze, keeping quiet, praying that the woman would not walk into this room.

An ear-piercing scream shattered that hope.

“Caeden!” the woman shrieked. She was looking wildly between Caeden and the disfigured body on the floor. “What are you doing?”

Caeden stood, his blade whipping out, slicing smoothly through the woman’s throat before she could say anything more. She gurgled as she stared at what she thought was her son, uncomprehending horror in her eyes. Caeden looked away. She’d seen him in this form, seen what he’d done. He couldn’t risk leaving her alive.

Before he could move, though, shouts from outside were followed by the sound of the front door crashing open. He closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply.

Pretending it hadn’t gone so wrong.

There were thirty-one dead by the end – seventeen men, nine women and five children who had been drawn by the screams. Most of the village, he suspected.

He stared at the bodies morosely. It had all happened so fast, and it was getting harder to focus as more and more memories drained away. Could he have avoided this? Using Control hadn’t been an option - Alaris would have located him within minutes. Fleeing would have meant leaving witnesses, leading to his inevitable capture, a quick trial and a failed execution. Though the flow of information from Desriel to Talan Gol was still limited, word of something like that would have doubtless found its way back across the ilshara.

No. This way he’d probably be detained, suspected of what had happened here, but they wouldn’t have the evidence to execute him. It was still a risk, but it left him hidden from the people that mattered. He hardened his heart against the guilt, as he’d done so many times before. It had been the best course of action in a bad situation. The practical, necessary choice.

He put his hand against the still-warm skin of each corpse in turn, then carefully disfigured them. Their deaths would not be for nothing. Even though he wouldn’t remember them directly, their Imprints would remain with him; each one would eventually give him a new, untraceable identity, a body in which he could move freely outside of Talan Gol. He’d not wanted it to come to this, but now that it had, there was no point wasting the opportunity.

He checked his memories, startled to find that his oldest one was of speaking to the Ath. That was only a hundred years ago - not long before he’d finally rejected the name Aarkein Devaed, realised his mistakes and started along the path that had ultimately led here. He knew he’d hated what he’d done, hated what he’d become as Devaed, but he couldn’t remember the details any more. Odd, but he supposed it didn’t really matter now. He would be free of it all for good soon enough.

He finally turned away from the corpses, knowing he had only minutes left – nowhere near enough time to hide the bodies. He needed to flee, to get as far from here as he possibly could.

He ran.

He dashed into the forest heedlessly, ignoring how the twigs and branches scraped at his arms and legs, tugged and tore at his bloodied clothing. He only had to survive a few weeks, just until Davian arrived with the Portal Box. He had to get far enough away to give the Gil’shar reason to doubt his guilt. If they tried to execute him, the Venerate would get word. It would jeopardize everything. It would jeopardize….