James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

He tried to speak, but no words came out. The pain roaring in his ears suddenly began to subside, and his vision blurred.

He slipped into unconsciousness.

Davian awoke.

He sat up sharply as he remembered where he was, what had happened. To his surprise he was lying in a large, comfortable bed. He leapt up and crossed to the window to discover he was on the second floor of a house - presumably the same one that Malshash had taken him to earlier. The dull grey mists made the passing of time difficult to calculate in Deilannis, but his instincts said he had been asleep for several hours at least.

He was still dressed, but his clothes showed no trace of blood. He examined where he’d been sleeping, but there were no bloodstains there either. Had he been dreaming? The army, the sha’teth, and then waking… it had all seemed so real.

He wandered downstairs, listening for any sign of movement and finding his way to the kitchen once he was satisfied he was alone. It was, indeed, Malshash’s house; the fire still burned in the hearth, and a meal of porridge and bacon had been laid out on the table. The smell made his stomach growl, despite having eaten just before he slept.

He stared at the food suspiciously for a few seconds, but eventually hunger overcame his caution and he sat, wolfing down the meal.

“I see I should have prepared for two,” an unfamiliar voice observed dryly from behind him.

Davian leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste. He spun to see an elderly man, perhaps in his late sixties, though apparently still hale and spry enough to move around without making a sound. His hair was shoulder-length, grey but with streaks of the black it must once have been. His hazel eyes twinkled in amusement as he watched Davian.

“Who are you?” said Davian, caught between fear and irritation.

The man blinked, then laughed. “Ah, of course. How foolish of me.” He stepped forward. “I am Malshash.”

Davian shook his head. “I met Malshash yesterday. You are not him.”

“And yet I am.” The man claiming to be Malshash took another step forward. “As I told you yesterday, we are the only two people in Deilannis. I would know immediately if it were otherwise.”

Davian allowed his tensed muscles to relax a little, though he remained cautious. “I don’t understand,” he admitted.

“I am what you would call a shapeshifter,” said Malshash, busying himself serving another plate of porridge. He paused. “Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I have… borrowed… a shapeshifter’s ability. Temporarily.” He shrugged. “As a result, I must use it at least once each day. If I do not, the ability reverts to its previous owner. Which – and you will need to trust me on this – would not end well for either of us.” He smiled to himself, as if he had just said something amusing. “Needless to say, if you see someone in this city, it will be me.”

Davian shook his head. “I’ve never heard of someone who can change their appearance.”

Malshash snorted. “Of course you have. You must have heard of Nethgalla? The Ath?”

Davian screwed up his face. “Well, of course I’ve heard of her, but that’s just….” He blinked, stopping short. “You stole the Ath’s ability?”

Malshash grinned. “Don’t worry. She’s not coming for it anytime soon.” He gestured to the half-eaten meal in front of Davian. “Eat. It will help restore your strength.”

Davian scowled. “And why am I weak to begin with?” he asked irritably, though he didn’t need a second invitation to continue the meal.

“Two reasons,” said Malshash. “The first being that you lost plenty of blood last night. I assume it wasn’t a deliberate act on your part, using your Foresight in the middle of Deilannis? For a while there, I wasn’t entirely sure you were going to live, even with all logic to the contrary.”

Davian paused. “So I didn’t imagine that?”

Malshash gave him a wry smile. “I’m afraid not. I took the liberty of suppressing your ability before you had another episode, though. You’re no longer in danger.”

Davian shook his head in confusion, then decided to let the matter slide until he had his bearings a little better. “You mentioned there were two reasons?”

Malshash nodded. “You stepped through time to get here,” he explained in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Or more to the point, you stepped outside of time. For a moment – a millionth of a millionth of a moment, and an eternity – you existed elsewhere.”

Davian gave a humourless laugh. “I don’t understand a word of what you just said.”

Malshash sighed. “You will. Or at least you’ll need to, if you ever hope to return to your own time.”

Davian paused mid-bite. “What do you mean?”

Malshash looked at him, expression serious. “This moment here, now? It is about seventy or so years before you were born.”

Davian stared at the plain wall of what was now, apparently, his room.

He had not reacted well to Malshash’s revelation. He had laughed at first, thinking it a joke; when Malshash had insisted it was true he had flatly refused to believe it, calling the man a liar and a fool.

And yet deep down, he’d known. Perhaps had known before Malshash had even told him. The sick feeling in his stomach was fear, and he was afraid because there was so much he didn’t understand.

In the end he’d stormed off back to this room; Malshash had let him go, evidently deciding it was best to leave him to his own devices for the time being. Davian knew he would have to go and apologise soon. He needed Malshash; the mysterious man seemed to know everything important about what was happening, including how to get him home.

Davian had been working up the courage, and the energy, to go back downstairs for the last hour now. There had just been so much happening – not only today, but over the past few weeks. He’d always thought of himself as mentally strong, able to adapt no matter what was thrown at him. But this, on top of everything else… whenever he tried to think about it, it felt as though his head was burning up.

He eventually rose and, steeling himself, headed back downstairs. Malshash was still sitting at the table, sipping a warm drink. The shapeshifter glanced up at Davian as he entered, but said nothing.

Davian sat himself opposite Malshash. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I said things -”

“Not your fault,” interrupted Malshash. “I wish there had been a better way to tell you, but it’s not something that’s easy to digest, no matter how you’re informed.”

Davian snorted. “There’s truth to that.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Let us say, for the time being, that I believe you. That I have somehow travelled eighty, ninety years into the past.”

Malshash inclined his head. “I’ll explain as best I can.” He paused, thinking. “You remember the room where we met?”

Davian nodded. “The one with the columns, and the altar in the middle.”

Malshash chuckled. “’Altar’. Yes, I suppose that’s about right,” he mused. “It’s called the Jha’vett. It is set in the very centre of the city. The exact midpoint.” He looked up expectantly, but Davian just gave him a blank stare back, not understanding the significance of what Malshash was saying.

Malshash sighed. “Three thousand years ago, a race called the Darecians came to Andarra as refugees, fleeing the destruction of their homeland. They conquered this continent and immediately began building Deilannis - a city that no native Andarran was allowed to enter, in which only High Darecians could live. They did all this because the city was, in fact, a weapon.”