The Shadow Of What Was Lost (18 page)

Asha shook her head. "It's a
huge risk," she observed. "And even if the Northwarden doesn't tell
Administration about me, it doesn't mean he won't try to torture information
from me himself."

The Shadraehin nodded. "I
know. And I won't force you to be a part of this," he said seriously.
"But from what you were saying earlier, the Council have no leads. So if
you really want to find out what happened at Caladel, this may be a chance
you're going to have to take." He paused. "I can give you time to
-"

"I'll do it," said
Asha.

There had never been a question,
really. She was useless sitting at the Tol, and each day that passed was
another day the trail of Davian's killer became colder. At least this way,
there was a possibility she could make a difference.

"Good." The Shadraehin
rose, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We will do everything we
can to make sure you're safe, Ashalia - there will always be someone keeping an
eye out for you, you have my word. And if everything goes according to plan,
I'll make sure we find a way to contact you discreetly once you're inside the
palace." He wandered over to the door, whispering something into one of
the guard's ears, then turned back to her.

"Shanin here will guide you
back to the Tol, and... organise an explanation for why Jin is missing,"
he said quietly. "Little enough time has passed since you left - your
absence shouldn't have been noticed." He gave her a polite nod in
farewell. "Fates guide you, Ashalia. I hope we meet again soon."

As abruptly as that the meeting
was over, and Asha was left to follow Shanin back into the Tol.

***

Soon she had found her way back
to the familiar confines of her room.

It was late, but after sleeping
earlier she wasn't tired. She paced around for a while, then sat pensively on
the bed. How long would it be before the Northwarden came to find her? Hours?
Days? She glanced at the Decay Clock. Most of the night had gone; it was only a
couple of hours until she had to be at the library.

She couldn't sleep, but there was
no point in wasting energy. No point in thinking about what was coming, either.
She couldn't stop it now, even if she'd wanted to.

Taking a deep, steadying breath,
she lay back on the bed and settled down to wait.

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.

Davian shifted uncomfortably.
“Are you going to untie me now?”

The stranger glanced at Wirr and
the young man on the floor, then shook his head. “No. I have the means to
verify at least some of your story, so I’ll do that first. I
do
believe
you… but then I’ve met some good liars before. Even ones as young as you.”

Davian scowled. “Do you at least
trust me enough to tell me your name?”

The man nodded. “Taeris Sarr,” he
said, watching Davian’s face for a reaction.

The name took a moment to
register. The same name as the man who had saved him three years ago, who had
supposedly broken the First Tenet to kill his attackers.

The man who had been executed by
Administration.

“No, you’re not,” said Davian,
his brow furrowing. “Taeris Sarr is dead.”

The man smiled. “Is that what
they’ve been saying? I wondered.” He shook his head in amusement. “But no.
Definitely not dead.”

“You’re lying.” Davian’s voice
was flat.

“Is that what your ability is
telling you?”

Davian went silent. No puffs of
black smoke had escaped the man’s mouth.

“How?” he asked after a few
seconds.

The stranger rubbed his
disfigured face absently. “I escaped. Presumably Administration decided to tell
everyone I’d been executed as planned, rather than face public embarrassment.”
He shrugged. "I fled here - one of the few places no-one would think to
look for me. Though it seems I cannot escape my past entirely," he added
in a dry tone.

Davian made to protest, then
subsided. Again, the man was telling the truth.

This
was
Taeris Sarr.

“It’s... it's an honour to meet
you, Elder Sarr,” said Davian when he’d recovered enough to speak. “I can’t
tell you how many times I’ve wished I could thank you for what you did.”

“Taeris will do just fine. Anyone
overhears you calling me ‘Elder’, and we’re all dead.” Taeris cleared his
throat, looking awkward. “And you don’t need to thank me. Three grown men
attacking a thirteen year old boy? I’d have been a poor excuse for a man to
not
intervene.”

“Still. I’m grateful.” Davian
shook his head, dazed. “I have so many questions.”

Taeris glanced out the window.
“There is time, I suppose. We cannot do anything until the other two wake,
anyway.” He gestured. “Ask away.”

Davian thought for a moment. “Did
you really break the First Tenet, when you saved me?”

Taeris chuckled, though the sound
held little humour. “Ah. So you still don’t remember, after all this time?” He
sighed. “No, lad. I had a couple of daggers, is all. I told them to stop, and
they attacked me. So I defended myself. They were drunk, and I’m faster than I
look... but after it was done, all Administration saw was three dead men, and
an old Gifted who couldn’t have possibly overpowered them.”

“And I was useless as a witness,”
realised Davian, horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

Taeris waved away the apology.
“You were unconscious for most of it, truth be told – and even if you hadn’t
been, your word wouldn’t have been enough. Administration were set on making an
example. I was a nice way to remind people how dangerous the Gifted could be
without the Tenets. Without
them
.”

“So how did you escape?” asked
Davian.

Taeris hesitated, then drew two
small stones from his pocket, one black and one white. “These are Travel Stones,”
he explained. “Vessels that create a portal between each other. They’ve come in
rather handy, over the years. That day was no exception. Nor was last night,
actually.”

“Ah.” Davian had wondered how
Taeris had managed to quietly transport three unconscious boys from the middle
of the forest to an inn. “So why are you in Desriel? Why were you after him?”
He jerked his head towards the young man on the floor. “Are you looking for the
sig'nari, too?”

Taeris grimaced. “I have some bad
news for you, lad. The man who sent you here - Tenvar - has misled you. There
are no sig'nari in Desriel.”

Davian scowled. “That’s not
possible. He wasn't lying.”

“And you’re sure about that? You
said you haven’t been able to learn anything about your ability.”

“I'm sure,” snapped Davian.

Taeris looked at him
appraisingly. “Does it work through a Shackle?” Davian nodded. “Then let me
show you something. I will tell you three things – two truths and one lie.
Let’s see if you can tell me which one is false.”

Davian shrugged. “Very well.”

Taeris closed his eyes for a
moment, concentrating. “It is midday. We are currently in a town called
Dan’mar. I am forty-five years old.”

Davian frowned, his head
throbbing a little as he tried to process what was happening. No puffs of
darkness had escaped from Taeris' mouth. “They were all true,” he said slowly.

Taeris shook his head. “It is
mid-afternoon, we are in a town called Anabir, and I am forty-eight.”

Davian stared in disbelief.
Again, nothing.