James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Davian gave an uncertain shrug. “So I’ll just… see what I can find?”

Malshash smiled. “Good. Study hard. The faster you understand the basics, the faster you will be able to return home.”

Without anything further, he turned and left.

Davian stared after him for a few moments, feeling cast adrift. He hadn’t known what to think of Malshash – still didn’t; the man clearly didn’t want to reveal much about himself – but the presence of another human being had been comforting. Left so completely alone now, Davian was struck by just how silent the building was, how empty the city felt.

Shaking off the sensation as best he could, he turned back to the book in his hand. Whatever else the events of the last few days had done, they had delivered him an amazing opportunity to learn about his powers – his hopes for which had been dashed since the moment he’d realised Ilseth Tenvar had lied to him.

His face hardened into a mask of determination as, for the first time in a while, he allowed himself to think about the man who had fooled him into this journey. Who had probably known in advance that Asha was going to die.

He would learn these abilities, and find a way back to his own time. Do his best to stop whatever was going on with the Boundary.

And after that, he would seek out Ilseth Tenvar.

Caeden woke.

He climbed slowly to his feet, wincing as he stretched stiff muscles. It was just past dawn; the sun had not yet risen above the mountains behind them.

They were only a day past Deilannis, yet already he felt… less. The overpowering familiarity he’d felt in the city – his recognition of buildings, streets – had faded almost as soon as they had left the mists. He’d felt stronger there, more confident.

Now it was all a distant memory, and the old feelings of helplessness had returned. He didn’t know who he was. Didn’t know why Davian had been sent to find him, or why he was connected to the Vessel Taeris was carrying, or what he was involved in.

Worst of all, he didn’t know if he’d done what he’d been accused of.

He rubbed the Shackle on his left arm, trying to ignore the constant glow of the wolf tattoo there. Its light never faded; Taeris still had the Vessel on his person somewhere, though Caeden hadn’t sighted it since Thrindar. There were moments he’d considered trying to find it – there had been opportunities, while Taeris was asleep – but caution had won out each time. Taeris said it could be dangerous, and the scarred man had helped him, saved him. Caeden had to put aside his uncertainties and trust in his companions.

Still, the lure of the box was almost more than he could bear, sometimes. None of them spoke about it, but everyone knew that there was a possibility it was meant to restore his memories. And as much as Caeden dreaded that happening, not knowing the truth was worse by far.

Sighing, he glanced over towards the rest of the group as they began to stir.

Everyone’s mood, Caeden’s included, had been understandably morose since the loss of Davian and Nihim. Caeden had liked Davian, and his conversation with Nihim after his duel had been a comfort, too. He’d felt their absence keenly since Deilannis, and still sometimes found himself glancing over his shoulder, scanning the horizon for them.

He often caught Wirr doing the same thing. Despite Taeris' grim assurances, none of them really felt as though the other two were truly gone.

He stretched, nodding to Taeris, who was already up and had evidently been on watch. Though Caeden tried not to let on, Taeris' scars sometimes made him uncomfortable. They were a constant reminder of what the Gil’shar had accused him of doing to the villagers' bodies.

Taeris nodded back, looking thoughtful, then walked over to him.

“Can I trust you?”

Caeden blinked, taken aback by the question. “Yes. Of course,” he replied after a moment.

Taeris locked eyes with him for a long few seconds. Then he reached down and before Caeden realised what was happening, touched the Shackle on his arm.

There was a cold, slithering feeling, and the metallic torc dropped to the ground. Caeden shook his head in surprise. He suddenly felt lighter, more energetic. Free. Even the tattoo on his wrist seemed to pulse brighter. It had been so long since he’d felt this way, he’d barely remembered what it was like.

Aelric, who was standing a little way off, rushed over when he saw what was happening. “What do you think you’re doing?” he exclaimed.

Taeris raised an eyebrow at him. “I’ve been thinking about this all night, Aelric, and Caeden has earned our trust. We have monsters hunting us - going through Deilannis has gained us some respite, but they won’t have given up. And you saw how powerful those creatures are. We need every advantage we can get.”

Aelric scowled. “You still can’t let him free,” he said grimly. He turned to Caeden. “I’m sorry. I’m not saying I think you’re a threat to us, but after what you were accused of in Desriel….”

Taeris scowled back. “He’s been with me for many weeks now, Aelric. He saved us in Deilannis, and I’m risking my life to bring him before the Council. I feel warranted in making this decision.”

Caeden frowned. Taeris' voice seemed… small. Far off. He tried to focus on what else was being said, but the sounds all blurred together.

He stood on a hilltop, a breathtaking vista below him – green fields and rolling hills for a short distance, and beyond that the ocean, glittering like diamonds in the afternoon sunlight. A pleasant warm breeze ruffled his hair gently. He was suddenly aware he was holding hands with someone; he looked to his side, heart leaping to his throat.

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen was standing next to him. Her alabaster skin was flawless. Her long black hair was loose, cascading down her back almost to her waist, shining in the sunlight. She had a perfectly oval face, with full, red lips and cheeks rosy from the climb up the hill. Her eyes were blue, not like the ocean or the sky, but something deeper, stronger, more indefinable. She turned to him, smiling, and those eyes shone as they gazed upon him. So focused. Like he was the only thing in the world, or at least the only thing of importance.

The image faded, the colour draining away from the scene. He was standing outside a massive city. Even from a distance away the walls loomed ominously; at a glance he thought they were at least a hundred feet high, probably more. They were made from a black, rocky stone, jagged edges everywhere.

Above the walls rose the city itself. It seemed to be built atop a peak; Caeden couldn’t see any buildings near the wall, but could easily make out roads and structures further towards the city centre. Nothing moved within, though. There were no guards, nor any gates he could see. Massive fires burned at various points around the top of the wall, the red-orange of the flames the only colour in an otherwise drab landscape.

It was night, the moonlight casting a strange silver pallor over everything. He was in a field, though most of the grass seemed dead, or at least struggling to survive. He looked over his shoulder. There were no trees in sight, with the flat, barren fields stretching on as far as the eye could see in all directions. All was silent here. No wind, no animals.

Then he was somewhere else. It was day again, he thought, but the sky was blacked out by billowing smoke from burning homes. Around him he could hear the screams of people as they died, not quite drowning out the quieter cries of panic and confusion. The smoke shifted and twisted around him; suddenly two dark silhouettes were visible through it. They were humanoid in nature, but too tall, too thin.