James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Malshash shook his head. “No. You’ve grasped the concept quickly enough; we don’t have time to waste mastering each ability. Tomorrow we move on.”

“So that’s it? That’s all you’re going to teach me on Reading?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Malshash, a little irritably. “If there is a chance, we will revisit it.”

Davian frowned. “You talk as if there may not be time to do that.”

“There may not be,” Malshash admitted after a pause. He glanced down at Davian’s right hand, on which he wore the ring. “I never meant you to be here for more than a few hours, a day at the very most. I used that ring to draw you here, but the natural laws of time will eventually try to reassert themselves. You need to be as rounded as possible when that happens.”

Davian shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“That ring is what binds you to this time,” explained Malshash. “But it’s a tenuous link. Remember what I said, about a shadow of a shadow of yourself being left in your own time? Your body has a specific place in the time stream, and every moment you’re here, you’re fighting against it. Every moment you’re here, the time stream works harder to correct what it perceives as a mistake. Eventually it will find you, try to draw you back.”

Davian scratched his head. “And we don’t want that.”

Malshash snorted. “Not if you want to stay alive.” He sighed, softening. “I know I’ve said it before, but this journey through the rift will be just as dangerous as your last, Davian. Perhaps moreso, because you won’t have anyone in your own time lighting a beacon to find your way home, as I did for you here.” He stopped, his expression deadly serious. “These skills, in and of themselves, will not help. But being able to see kan, to manipulate it at will, use it competently – that will be invaluable. It’s the only thing that can protect you on the trip back.” He gestured at nothing in particular. “Which is why we train, why I had you read as much theory as you could, and why we are not waiting to master everything. Because any day, at any moment, you could find yourself back in the rift.”

Davian paled as Malshash spoke. He was silent for several seconds. “Why didn’t you say something before?” he asked.

Malshash sighed. “Do you think you would have been able to concentrate on studying those books if you’d known?”

Davian thought about it. “No,” he admitted reluctantly. “I suppose not.”

Malshash nodded in a satisfied manner. “But now we’re training?”

“It will make me work harder, push myself further.”

Malshash grinned. “So there is your answer. It was for your own benefit.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” muttered Davian.

“No, it doesn’t,” agreed Malshash cheerfully.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Caeden stood in the courtyard. Sweating. Nervous.

The nine towers of Ilshan Tereth Kal rose high above him, surrounded him on all sides – improbably tall and impossibly beautiful, evoking calmness and strength in their design, just as the Builders had intended. The crystal walls glimmered and shone in the dawn, streaks of blue energy flowing through them, swirling and dancing, traversing the castle at random. They were the guardians of Tereth Kal, not quite sentient but not without intelligence. They, too, were beautiful to behold, though he had seen what they were capable of when the Velderan had attacked. A sight no man before him had seen. A sight no man was meant to witness, and live to tell of it.

Ordan glided into the courtyard. He had been around the Shalis enough now to recognise their moods, subtle though the signs usually were. Today, Ordan was determined.

The Shalis mage stopped in front of him, his sinuous red skin glistening in the light. He was at least nine feet tall at full extension, though out of politeness he tended to contort his body slightly, allowing him to speak to Caeden face-to-face. Despite the red serpentine body, and the complete lack of legs, there was a human aspect to Ordan that some of his brethren seemed to lack. But then, Ordan was the one who had spoken for him. Who had convinced the Cluster to let him train here, who had vouched for him despite his many struggles to learn what was needed. He was the most human of his kind.

“Is today the day, Tal’kamar?” Ordan asked, the hissing lisp of his voice barely noticeable now.

“May Dreth send it be so,” replied Caeden. The words were formal, but the sentiment was heartfelt.

“Then let us begin,” said the Shalis.

The energy crackled towards him, abruptly and so fast he barely had time to react. He connected to his Reserve and envisaged a shield, a pulsing barrier through which Ordan’s bolt could not pass. He threw up his hands to cast it just in time; it appeared and the bolt dissolved in a sputter of blue electrical fire.

“Good,” said Ordan. “But remember - no gestures, no words. These are the signs of a mind poor in discipline. A mind that needs trickery as a crutch to perform its tasks.”

Caeden grimaced, but bobbed his head in acknowledgement. He’d been here two years now, honing his focus, training himself mentally to do things other Gifted would consider impossible. And he could do them now – do wondrous feats that would make most men gasp in awe. Not the Shalis, though. They still looked at him as a child, or more accurately as an animal they were teaching to talk.

Ordan struck again, and this time Caeden forced his hands to his sides. His barrier still appeared but it was too weak; a small portion of the bolt sizzled through, striking him on the shoulder. He grunted in pain, gritting his teeth as he glanced down at the seared skin, which was already blistering. He knew the Shalis would not heal it for him, nor would they approve if he did it himself. It was only through trials, through pain, that mastery of Essence could be achieved.

He growled, mainly to himself. He was better than this. He circled Ordan warily, watching for the tell-tale glow – so small it was almost invisible – that indicated he was about to strike. When Caeden saw it, instead of raising a shield he dove to his left, going on the attack. He imagined Ordan’s chest bursting into flame, then let the power flow from his Reserve, as much as he could without risking Ordan’s life.

Ordan blocked the attack easily, then sighed. “You still hold back,” he said. To most people the words would have sounded angry – most of the Shalis’ speech sounded that way – but Caeden understood that this was a gentle reprimand, an almost fond rebuke. “When you fight for your life, will you do so then?”

Caeden shook his head. “Of course not. But I have no wish to injure you.”

Ordan just watched him, the sinuous lines of his body swaying gracefully. “You know my people will bring me back. You know you can defeat me. You could leave this place today, Tal’kamar. You could return to Silvithrin and fight the Shadowbreakers. Why do you hesitate?”

Caeden paused, searching his heart for the truth. “I fear that in returning to fight them, like this, I may become like them,” he said quietly. It was a hard thing to admit, but the Shalis did not believe in subtlety, false modesty, or lies. They were wise. Perhaps with this admission, Ordan could help him.

But the serpentine man only sighed. “We each have our temptations, Tal’kamar. We each have our own battles that must be fought.” He paused. “But you must fight them, my friend. You cannot hide from them. Otherwise, you will never be more than you are.”