James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

“That’s… okay,” said Davian, trying not to sound shaken. He glanced again at the shop door, hesitating as he thought of Leehim. He knew he shouldn’t say anything more.

“So you don’t serve Shadows?”

The butcher gave him a withering look. “No self-respecting shopkeep would, and fates take me if I care what they do up in Ilin Illan. I may not like you Gifted, but this is a business and I’d be a poor man if I only traded with those I liked. Shadows, on the other hand….” He looked around as if trying to find somewhere to spit. “I’ve been hearing plenty about them and this Shadraehin fellow that everyone’s talking about. The types of things, the evil things that their kind get up to… well, some stories you just can’t ignore. A man has to draw the line somewhere.”

Davian kept his expression carefully neutral. He’d never heard of this Shadraehin before - not unusual, as the school was too isolated to get many of the rumours that filtered down from the capital - but it just sounded like the usual fear-mongering Administration liked to spread.

Still, he could hardly say that to Master Dael’s face. All that would earn him was a forceful ejection from the shop, and the distinction of losing the school one of their few reliable suppliers.

“Maybe they’re not all like that,” he pointed out, trying not to sound argumentative.

The butcher’s face darkened, as if he’d just realised who he was talking to. “Some people say the Tols use them when they want to get around the Tenets, too,” he said, as if defying Davian to challenge the statement.

Davian kept his mouth shut after that.

Before long he was heading outside again, the butcher having regained his usual cool composure and instructing him to load up his cart around back. Davian looked briefly for the Shadow before leading Jeni into the alleyway beside the shop, but the young man had fled. He felt a brief pang of regret, wondering if he should have said something more in support. It would have been pointless, even foolish to bring down Master Dael’s inevitable wrath on himself. Still.

Before long, Master Dael had helped him secure the last of his purchases and had disappeared back inside the shop. Davian took Jeni’s reins.

A small object flew over his shoulder from behind, missing his face by inches.

He spun, startled, to see a group of boys lounging at the mouth of the alleyway. They looked younger than him by a couple of years – they were perhaps fourteen – and all wore wide smiles as they observed his discomfort. One of the boys was standing, tossing another small rock from hand to hand, eyeing him in the same way Davian had seen cats eye mice.

“Sorry, Bleeder. Must have slipped,” said the boy, affecting innocence. The others laughed.

Davian gritted his teeth, biting back a retort. Bleeder. A common enough slur against the Gifted, he knew, though he’d rarely heard it directed at him.

“What do you want?” he asked uneasily. He was accustomed to hostility and even outright verbal abuse, but there was something about this situation that seemed… off.

The boy who had called out – clearly the leader of the pack – smiled at him, hefting the stone in his hand.

Davian’s anxiety hardened into a sliver of panic; for a moment all he could think about was waking up three years ago, barely able to move from his myriad injuries. He tensed himself to run, to abandon his purchases in the event of an attack. The boys were all smaller than he, but the Shackle would rob him of some of his strength, and it would be five onto one in a straight fight.

Besides, he couldn’t risk an altercation. Administration would never listen to his side of the story. He’d be accused of provoking the attack, no matter the facts.

Suddenly there was a flash of blue on the main street.

“Administrator!” yelled Davian, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.

The Administrator paused at the shout, head swivelling towards the alleyway. He was a younger man, perhaps thirty. His eyes absorbed the scene with cool disinterest.

Then he turned and kept walking. Within moments, he was lost from view.

The boys had hesitated when Davian had cried out, but now their swagger returned.

“Nice try,” called one mockingly.

Their leader sauntered closer. “How did you get to be so ugly, Bleeder?” The boy grinned, tracing a finger down his cheek to indicate Davian’s scar.

Davian turned to run… and the blood drained from his face as he discovered more of the group had cut around the buildings, blocking off the other end of the alley.

The boy continued, “It looks like you got it in a fight. Bleeders aren’t supposed to be able to fight, you know.” The other boys muttered their agreement.

Davian’s mouth went dry. “It was an accident, from a long time ago,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. His hands were shaking, though whether it was in fear or anger he wasn’t sure. He did his best to sound deferential. “I apologise, but I really must be going.” He moved to step around one of the aggressors, but the boy side-stepped back into his path, staring at him with a smile that never touched his eyes.

“This is a violation of the Treaty,” Davian said desperately, stepping forward once again. This time the boy shoved him backwards, hard enough that Davian landed flat on his back, breath exploding from his lungs. Then the youths’ leader was leaning over him, face close to his.

“Do I look like an Administrator?” he whispered, a cold hunger in his eyes.

Davian tensed, expecting to feel the first blow at any moment.

Instead, an angry male voice yelled something from the main street; suddenly the boys were scattering, leaving him lying alone, dazed, on the sun-warmed stone.

He sensed rather than saw the approaching figure. Heart still pounding he stumbled to his feet, hands held out in a defensive posture.

“Easy, lad. I’m not going to hurt you.” The man standing before him gestured in a calming manner, his voice gentle with concern. Davian squinted. The voice seemed vaguely familiar, but the man was a stranger - middle-aged and with a thin, almost wiry build, probably in his mid to late forties. The small round glasses he now peered over gave him the appearance of a kindly, absent-minded scholar.

More importantly, he wore the crimson cloak of one of the Gifted, and his left arm was exposed to display his Shackle. Davian lowered his hands, finally taking the time to glance around. His assailants had vanished.

He took a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank-you,” he said, straightening and trying to brush the dust from his clothes.

The man inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Were you harmed at all?”

“Only my pride,” replied Davian, a flush of shame running to his cheeks.

The man gave him a sympathetic nod. “Something we can all relate to, these days.” He held out his hand. “I am Elder Ilseth Tenvar.”

Davian shook the outstretched hand as firmly as he could manage. “Davian.” The handshake felt off; glancing down, he noticed that the man’s forefinger was missing, only a scarred stump where it had once been.

Ilseth’s expression hardened as he gazed towards the street where the boys had vanished. “Do you know who they were?”

Davian shook his head. “I’ve never seen them before.”

Ilseth’s scowl deepened. “Opportunists, then. Cowards and fools. And here I was thinking that things might be different in the borderlands.” Sighing, he clapped Davian on the shoulder. “Do you have much more to do here in town?”

Davian gave Jeni a reassuring pat on the neck, though the gesture was more for himself than for the implacable mule. “I was just about to head back to the school.”