James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Davian groaned.

He reluctantly emerged from unconsciousness, head throbbing. Something wasn’t right. Groggily, he moved to rub his forehead, only to find that his arms were pinned to his sides.

He came fully awake, remembering everything in a rush. Their rescue attempt. The soldiers. The creature.

His eyes snapped open and he struggled again to raise his arms, to move his body at all. It was to no avail. With a chill, he realised he could feel the cold metal of a Shackle sitting snugly around his arm. He thrashed around for several seconds; finally he took a deep breath, twisting his head - which seemed to be the only part of his body that had been left unrestrained - and forcing himself to take stock of the situation.

The room was small, tidy and fairly plain; there was another bed set against the far wall, and a pallet squeezed in between for good measure. The window was open and the curtains drawn back, but wherever he was seemed to be on an upper floor and he could see little from where he lay. The bustle of the street below drifted into the room, the sounds of merchants hawking their wares mingling with the clip-clop of horses on cobbled stone, the creak of carts, and the general chatter of people as they went about their daily business. Clearly a large town, perhaps even a city, though he had no clue as to how he’d gotten there.

Wirr was stretched out on the other bed, Shackle on his arm, lying in an awkward position as a result of his bindings. There was a none-too-gentle snoring coming from his direction, and much to Davian’s relief he did not appear to be injured.

The pallet on the floor was occupied by a slender young man, also fast asleep. His shoulder-length reddish-brown hair fell loosely over his face, but Davian still recognised him. The bruises were gone and his ragged clothes were a little cleaner, but this was the man from the wagon – the man he and Wirr had tried to save. He was younger than Davian had first thought, no more than two or three years older than Davian himself.

Davian noted with chagrin that thick rope encircled the stranger’s hands and feet, and a Shackle was closed around his arm, too; it seemed the success of their rescue had been somewhat short-lived. At least, he consoled himself, someone had tended the man’s injuries.

Before Davian could assess the situation further, there was a jangling of keys from just outside. He tensed as the door swung open.

The man who strode into the room was middle-aged; his hair still maintained its sandy-blond colour, only a few flecks of grey starting to appear around the sides. It was his face that drew Davian’s attention, though. It was a mass of scars – some small and some large, some old and white, others still pink from where they had recently healed. One in particular was puffy and raw, streaking from nose to ear, the red punctuated by black where it had been sewn together again. It gave him a terrifying aspect, and Davian shrank back.

The man’s deep-set eyes scanned the room as he entered; seeing that Davian was awake he stopped short.

“Don’t yell,” he cautioned, his deep voice quiet but authoritative. In contrast to his face, it was reassuring. “I’m Gifted too. If you draw attention to us, we are all dead.” He rolled up his sleeve to reveal his Mark; seeing that Davian did not seem inclined to start making a commotion, he relaxed a little. “You’re awake much earlier than you should be.”

Davian took a couple of deep, calming breaths. They hadn’t been captured by the Gil’shar. That was a start.

“Who are you?” he asked. “If you’re Gifted, why am I tied up?”

“You’re tied up because I don’t know what to make of you yet. We can talk about the other once I do.” The stranger motioned to the man on the floor. “You freed him. Why?”

Davian frowned. “It’s… complicated.”

“Then simplify it for me.” The man sat down on the sole chair in the room. “I have time.”

“He’s Gifted too. It seemed like the right thing to do.” Davian barely kept back a grimace; he could hear the lack of conviction in own voice.

His captor could hear it too. “We’re in the middle of Desriel, lad. You didn’t rescue him on a whim. You’ll need to do better than that.”

Davian shook his head. “I’d prefer not to say.”

“What you’d prefer doesn’t really come into it,” said the stranger, his ruined face impassive. “You can tell your story to me, or you can have the Gil’shar pull it out of you. I know which option I’d choose. But until you’ve explained your part in this, to my satisfaction, you’ll not be untied.”

Davian paled. The man was not lying.

The stranger’s expression softened, as much as that was possible, as he saw the look on Davian’s face. “Look, lad, we’re likely all on the same side here. I was tracking this man for a week before you and your friend came along – I may have even tried saving him myself at some point. But that’s a risk I would have taken for my own reasons. I need to know what yours are before I can trust you.” He hesitated. “If it’s any help, I know you’re an Augur. So that’s one less thing you need to hide.”

Davian froze. He opened his mouth to deny it, but he knew from the other man’s face that it would serve no purpose. There was certainty in his eyes, cold and still.

He felt his resolve wilt under the stranger’s steady, calm stare. “I… I don’t know where to start,” he said, a little shakily.

The man leaned forward in his chair.

“From the beginning, lad,” he said quietly. "Start from the beginning."

Davian’s throat was dry by the time he’d finished.

He’d related everything; if the stranger knew he was an Augur, there had seemed little point in concealing the rest of it. The scarred man had listened in attentive silence, occasionally nodding, sometimes frowning at one piece of information or another. Now, he gazed at Davian and seemed… sad. That scared Davian more than anything else.

“Quite a tale,” he said softly. “You’ve raised more questions than you’ve answered, but… quite a tale.”

Davian released a deep breath. “So you believe me?”

Ignoring the question, the man drew something from his pocket. The bronze Vessel, Davian realised after a moment. The stranger turned it over in his hands, examining it, though Davian could tell from his demeanour that he had already looked it over. “Yes. I believe you,” he said. “That isn’t the same as me trusting you – not yet – but it is a start.” He raised his gaze from the box, looking Davian in the eye. “This box cannot be just a Wayfinder. It’s ancient, whatever it is. You truly don’t have any idea what it does?”

Davian shook his head. He could see that the part of the box facing the unconscious man was still shining brightly. “It’s still active,” he supplied. “Whichever side of it is closest to him” – he nodded towards the man on the floor – “ lights up with that wolf symbol so brightly that it’s hard to look at.”

The man grunted, staring at the bronze box as if he could see the same thing if he just looked hard enough. “The symbol you’re talking about, the one tattooed on his wrist - it’s the symbol of Tar Anan. The symbol found all across the Boundary.”

Davian frowned. “What… what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure.” Davian’s captor glanced at the man on the floor. “When I’m holding this, his tattoo lights up. But I see nothing on the box itself.” He screwed up his face in puzzlement. “No, I don’t doubt it’s a Wayfinder; the symbols are the link. It will probably stay active until the two physically complete the connection, actually touch each other. But what I don’t understand is how the box could possibly be coupled only to you. Not without your knowledge. Your consent.” Sighing, he tucked the Vessel into one of the folds of his cloak.