The Shadow Of What Was Lost (22 page)

Elocien looked displeased, but
seemed to acknowledge the truth of the statement. The Administrator paused for
a long few seconds, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“What if I were to reconsider my
stance on your having a Representative at court?”

Nashrel’s eyes seemed to light up
at the suggestion, and there was a ripple of excited murmurs from the other
Elders in the gallery. “What do you propose, Your Grace?”

“One Gifted Representative from
Tol Athian. Ashalia becomes their apprentice,” Elocien said. “Athian pays her
wages. Your Representative mentors her, and continues to monitor her for any
clues as to who attacked the schools, or how she survived.”

It took a few moments for Asha to
register what the duke was proposing; when she did she stared across at him in
shock, certain she must have misheard. Representatives were the Tol's
ambassadors to the palace; even as an apprentice to one, she would still be
considered an envoy of Tol Athian.

For one of the Gifted, it would
be an extraordinarily prestigious position. But for her....

Nashrel looked at Ashalia and
then back at Elocien, aghast, evidently thinking the same thing. “But... she’s
a Shadow!” he exclaimed. “Do you know how many Gifted would kill for that
position? How can she possibly represent the Tol? Surely you understand that we
need someone who -”

“It’s this or nothing, Nashrel,”
interrupted Elocien. “Such a role requires no ability to use the Gift. Her
situation may even be of use - once the Houses know she isn't with the
Shadraehin, there are plenty who will feel more comfortable talking to her than
one of the Gifted.” He paused. “At least, you’ll need to explain it to everyone
else that way, because you’re going to continue to pretend that there were no
survivors of Caladel. Her real reason for being at the palace cannot leave this
room. Ever. If it does, I’ll know it was one of you who released the
information, and I’ll expel your Representative. Again.”

“You seem certain we will accept
these terms, Your Grace,” said Nashrel roughly.

Elocien sighed. “If you refuse, I
will take Ashalia with me and you will continue to have no presence in the
palace. So this is a good deal, Nashrel. The best you’ll hear from me.”

Nashrel glared at Elocien, and
Asha imagined she could hear his teeth grinding even from this distance.
Eventually he turned to the other Council members. “Any oppose?” There was
silence from the gallery, and Nashrel grimaced, turning back to look down on
Elocien. “Accepted,” he said, bitterness thick in his voice. “We will select a
senior Representative before the end of the day.”

Elocien nodded. “Send them
directly to the palace; Ashalia will be staying with me.”

“But -”

Elocien cut off Nashrel with a
sharp gesture. “I’m informing, not asking.”

Nashrel gritted his teeth, but
nodded. “As you say, Your Grace.”

Elocien spun and headed for the
exit; after a moment a still-stunned Asha realised she was expected to follow
him, half-jogging to catch up.

They left. As quickly as that, it
was done.

***

Asha and Duke Andras walked
through the sun-drenched streets of Ilin Illan.

Wherever they went, people
stopped and stared; women bent down and pointed them out to their children, and
a small crowd even drifted after them as they moved along at an unhurried pace.
At first Asha thought they were gaping at her black-veined face, but before
long she overheard some of the whispers as they passed, and she knew that most
people weren’t even noticing her. They were all focused on Elocien. The
Northwarden, the king’s brother. The man who had created the Tenets.

She tried to talk only once.

“Do you really mean to make me a
Representative?” she asked the duke.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Elocien shook his head slightly,
not taking his eyes from the road. “All in good time,” he murmured.

They walked the rest of the way
in silence.

Davian struggled forward through
the throng, jostled constantly by the mass of people around him, trying to
follow Taeris as closely as possible as he snaked through the crowd.

The late afternoon sun beat down
on Thrindar’s main street, which was choked with travellers trying to gain
entrance to the Great Stadium in the town centre. Dust kicked up by hundreds of
feet drifted everywhere, combining with the sweat on people’s faces to make
them look more like coal miners than city folk. Merchants on the side of the
road yelled hoarsely at anyone foolish enough to glance their way, well aware
that this would be the largest crowd they would likely see for many years. The
entire scene was dirty, hot and chaotic. Davian didn’t like it at all.

“How long now?” he muttered to
Taeris, wiping beads of moisture from his brow and scowling as another stranger
shouldered past.

“I said fifteen minutes, and that
was ten minutes ago. How long do you think?” replied Taeris, irritation
creeping into his tone. Like Davian, he was visibly not enjoying battling
through the sweaty crush.

Davian gave a short nod in
response, glancing across at his other companions. Wirr wasn’t paying
attention, looking more excited than anything else, staring at every new sight
with genuine fascination. Caeden, on the other hand, ploughed forward with the
grim determination and characteristic silence he’d shown for most of their
journey.

“How are you holding up?” Davian
asked Caeden in a low voice as they were pushed together by the press of
bodies.

Caeden gave him a nervous smile.
“I’ll be glad to get indoors.”

Davian nodded in understanding.
Word of Caeden’s escape had arrived in Thrindar well before them, and already
there were plenty of posters with his likeness nailed up around the city.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” he said,
trying to sound reassuring despite the churning of his own stomach. Taeris had
already made sure to alter Caeden's appearance as much as possible - cut his
hair short, made him wear several layers of clothes to give him a more portly
appearance – but all it took was one person to see through the changes.

Still, they’d made it this far
without incident. It had taken them almost a week to reach Desriel’s capital.
Travelling had been a tense affair, if uneventful; the constant threat of being
discovered by Gil’shar soldiers had only been surpassed by the fear of another
sha’teth finding them. Still, there had been no sign of pursuit and they had
made good time, arriving several days before Taeris expected the royal
entourage to leave.

Davian pushed on behind the
others. After a couple of minutes he shifted his gaze upward from the crowd,
catching his first glimpse of Thrindar’s Great Stadium as it began to loom
ahead. At least fifty feet high and made of solid stone, the tops of the walls
were draped with colourful banners, each one emblazoned with a different
symbol.

“The insignias of some of those
competing,” said Wirr, following Davian’s gaze.

“There must be a hundred banners
up there,” murmured Davian, wiping sweat from his brow. “Are all the fighters
lords and such?”

Wirr shook his head, face glowing
as he took in the atmosphere; despite his oft-mentioned reservations about
Taeris’ plan, he seemed more excited than worried. “Not all, but most. Noblemen
learn swordplay younger than most, and then have more time to practice as they
grow up. It tends to be an advantage.”

“No doubt being able to afford
entry is an advantage, too.” Davian turned sideways to avoid being run down by
a fat woman and the two bawling young children she was dragging behind her.

Wirr laughed. “
No-one
can
afford entry by themselves,” he assured Davian. “The costs are….” He gestured,
shaking his head to indicate that he had no words to describe their enormity.
“Some very few get invitations. Everyone else has backers – sponsors who share
the entry cost, and reap a percentage of any winnings.”

Davian raised an eyebrow. “And
the winnings are enough to share around, with everyone profiting?”

Wirr gave an emphatic nod. “With
gold to spare.”

Davian looked up at the banners
again as they became slowly larger. “I wonder who they are,” he said absently.
He vaguely recognised a couple of the designs, but couldn’t identify any of
them.

“There’s only a few Andarran.
Plenty of Desrielites and Narutians. A couple from Nesk. Even a few from the
Eastern Empire, I suspect.”

Davian shot his friend a sidelong
glance, partly amused and partly curious. Wirr was enjoying himself more than
he had since they had decided to come here. “You really recognise all these
banners?”

Wirr shrugged. “Most of them.
Jarras’ politically-minded lessons were fairly thorough.”

Davian grinned as he thought of
the Elder. “Jarras would have a heart attack if he knew where we were.”

Wirr smirked. “Most of the Elders
would, I imagine.”

The throng thinned a little as
they stepped into the shadow of the arena; soldiers and attendants lined the
entrance, studiously funnelling people into the appropriate sections of the
stadium. Taeris hung back, studying the crowd as the other three gathered
around him.

“What are you looking for?” asked
Wirr.

“We have no chance of getting
into the stadium itself. Not so that we could speak to the Andarran delegation,
anyway,” said Taeris, softly enough that no passers-by could overhear. “But
there must be Gifted coming and going. If I can make contact with one of them,
we might be able to gain an audience.”

Caeden frowned. “And if you are
refused?”

Taeris shrugged. “We will deal
with that problem should it arise.”

Davian fanned his face, the heat
of the day by now quite intense. “How will you recognise them? Even with their
cloaks, they’ll be hard to spot in this crowd.”

Taeris gave him a slight smile.
“You’ll see.”

They loitered for a while,
occasionally moving around and browsing through shops and stalls to avoid
looking suspicious. It wasn’t difficult to remain anonymous; the crowds were so
thick that they probably could have stood still the entire day without anyone
noticing.

Eventually Taeris tensed, nudging
Davian. “There,” he said with a slight nod of his head.

A man in a red cloak was emerging
from one of the stadium entrances, shadowed closely by a guard holding a Trap
prominently in front of him. The crowd parted wherever the cloaked man went;
several people spat on the ground as he passed. The noise of the crowd, which
had been a roar only moments ago, quietened to a low rumble as people stopped
their conversations to watch.

“You want to pass a note to
him
?”
Wirr said softly, his tone incredulous. He glanced at Taeris, then back at the
red-cloaked man again, who was still very obviously isolated and had every eye
trained on him. “You may as well ask the man with the Trap to pass it on for
you.”

Taeris gave a thoughtful nod,
scratching his beard. “I didn‘t think it would be this bad,” he admitted.

They watched as the Gifted man,
looking more amused than intimidated by the attention, purchased something from
a very displeased-looking vendor. Davian shifted to get a better view, and was
so intent on the red-cloaked man that he walked straight into someone before he
realised they were there, causing them to stumble to the ground.

He looked down in horror,
reddening, and quickly bent to help his victim to her feet. She was about his
age, pretty, with long black hair and green eyes that sparkled as they looked
up at him with amusement. Her hands were soft and smooth as he pulled her up,
stammering his apologies.

A shift in the crowd distracted
him for a moment. The Gifted was meandering back into the stadium, still
pursued by the vigilant-looking guard; as soon as he had disappeared the crowd
resumed their conversations, and the scene returned to normal as if nothing had
happened.

Davian glanced around to see if
the girl was uninjured, but she was already gone.

Wirr was watching him with an
amused smile.

“Say nothing,” Davian warned. “It
was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” said Wirr.
"Girls that look like that are easy to miss. Practically invisible,
really."

Davian glared at his friend. He’d
usually play along, but this time Wirr’s jibe only reminded him of Asha, back
at Caladel and probably wondering why they had abandoned her. As always, the
accompanying stab of guilt – and fear that she would not forgive him, if he
ever saw her again – put him in a bad mood.

Wirr sighed, still smiling, but
wisely deciding to let the matter go. He turned to Taeris, who had been
ignoring the exchange and was still staring thoughtfully towards the stadium.
“So it looks like we should find another way across the border."

Taeris shook his head. “No.
There’s another chance. A little more direct than I’d like, but it should
work.”

Without adding anything further,
he gestured for them to follow and then set off down the road.

They wound their way through a
series of narrow streets until they came to a stop outside a large building.
Its façade was ornate, with finely carved designs inscribed onto every
available surface; unlike the houses and stores around it, its architecture
gave it gentle curves. It wasn’t circular, but the entire structure had the
impression of having no corners, and as a result was somewhat dizzying to the
eye. After a few moments of consideration, Davian decided he didn’t like it.

“Where are we?” he asked Taeris.

“The Temple of Marut Jha
Talkanar, God of Balance.” It was Caeden, his expression fascinated as he
stared up at the structure.

Taeris gave the young man a
sidelong glance, then nodded confirmation to Davian.

Wirr gave Taeris a disbelieving
look. “You’re hoping to get help from
here
?” He looked around to make
sure no-one was close enough to overhear. “Isn’t it a little dangerous? What
with the sacredness of Essence, and those who use it being abominations, and
all that?”

Taeris started up the stairs.
“Just say nothing, do as I tell you, and we will be fine.” He vanished inside
without waiting to see if his companions were following.

The other three exchanged
glances. “We’ve trusted him this far,” noted Caeden.

Davian nodded, and Wirr gave a
reluctant shrug of agreement.

They entered the temple
cautiously. Once the doors had closed behind them, the bustling sounds from
outside vanished and they were left with only a peaceful hush. Somewhere a
fountain burbled, and somehow a fresh breeze from one of the high windows was
cunningly directed downward by the odd shape of the walls, sighing in the
enclosed space. Skylights meant the large room was well-lit, but scented
candles burned in the corners too. Aside from the three of them, the room was
unoccupied.

Just as Davian had finished
taking stock of their surroundings, a side door swung open and Taeris strode
through, followed by what appeared to be a very drunk priest. The man staggered
over one of the steps, then tripped completely, sliding along the polished
marble floor with an odd grace. Taeris snorted, then hurried over to help him
up and check he was uninjured.

“I present to you the high priest
of Talkanar, God of Balance,” whispered Wirr to the others.

Davian stifled a giggle which
would have echoed quite embarrassingly around the open room, and even Caeden,
usually more reserved, hid a smile.

Eventually the priest managed to
make his way over to where they stood without falling, though that was mainly
due to the assistance of Taeris. Taeris propped him up as they came to a halt,
making sure he wasn’t going to collapse again before letting him go.

“Boys, this is Nihim Sethi,
someone we can trust. Nihim - this is Wirr, Davian and Caeden.”

The man called Nihim looked at
them through bleary eyes. “Pleased to meet you,” he slurred.

Taeris grimaced. “Don’t blame
him. It’s the month of debauchery,” he explained with a roll of the eyes. “Of
all the choices, getting drunk is about the most moral thing you can do and
still look pious.”

“Seems like it should be more
popular,” said Wirr, gesturing to the empty space around them.

Nihim snorted. “Popular? No. In
fact, these days we only survive through the decree of the Gil’shar.” He shook
his head groggily. “This month may be all well and good, but there’s a month of
abstinence, too. A month of gluttony and one of starvation. A month of pleasure
and a month of pain.”

“So you’d be devout half the
year,” said Wirr with a grin.

Nihim winced. “I take it you’re
not from around here. Don’t let anyone else hear you talking like that,” he
slurred. “Here, you choose one of the nine gods, and that’s your path. Set in
stone, no changing, no slacking off. If you don’t follow the precepts, and then
get caught….” He made a slicing motion with his finger across his throat.