The Shadow Of What Was Lost (38 page)

Asha shook her head in confusion
at the sudden switch. Was this some kind of elaborate trick? "A man called
Scyner," she said slowly. "Why?"

Davian grimaced again, still
staring at her. "She's telling the truth. She doesn't know." He gave
a moan of pain as the black chains tightened around him. "You have my
word, Rethgar," he added through gritted teeth.

"Dav?" Asha took a
hesitant half-step forward in concern before remembering Davian's warning.
"What's going on?"

"We know you have met with
the Shadraehin. You helped her." Davian spoke in monotone, and he stared
at her intently, trying to communicate... something. A warning.

"Her?" Asha shook her
head. "Scyner is a man."

"Scyner is just the
Shadraehin's lieutenant. A pre-war, though. Don't trust him." The black
chains flexed; though Davian didn't cry out this time, she could see from his
expression how much it hurt.

"Dav -" Asha made to
move forward.

"
Stay back
."
Davian's words were like a whip, stopping her in place. "Ashalia Chaedris,
for your part in assisting the Shadows, you have been found guilty." He
hesitated, clearly reluctant to say the next part. "The sentence is
death."

A chill ran through Asha at the
words. "
I'm
a Shadow, Dav," she said softly, holding the lamp
higher in case he hadn't been able to see her face.

Davian gave her a tight smile.
"You won't always be, though."

The black chains seemed to
shiver, and Davian let out an involuntary groan, sinking to his knees.
"She doesn't know anything. And this is the furthest we can go before
Tal'kamar -"

The chains tightened again, and
this time Davian's expression turned to one of grim anger. He closed his eyes.

The chains froze, turned grey as
steel.

Davian kept his eyes closed.
"They can't hear us now, but I can't do this for long, either," he
said calmly, his voice finally gaining a hint of the warmth she remembered.
"I know this must be confusing, but there's no time to explain so you are
going to have to trust me. You'll be making a deal with the Shadraehin soon -
the real one. When you do, I need you to tell her that Tal'kamar is taking Licanius
to the Wells, and that the information is a gift from me. Can you do
that?"

Asha swallowed the myriad
questions she wanted to ask, instead giving a bemused nod and repeating the
message.

"Good. Thank-you, Ash."
Davian took a deep breath. "Now, this is equally important. When you find
out that I'm at Ilshan Gathdel Teth, don't come after me. I'm fine. The
Venerate can't kill me, but they will kill you - you are the one they want. I'm
just the bait. Remember that."

He opened his eyes, and the
chains began slowly moving again, starting to bleed back to their original oily
black. A shiver ran through Davian's body, and he looked as though he'd been
drained of blood, of life. "Don't tell anyone else that you saw me.
Especially not me. They've Read... they've Read so many of us, now. There's no
telling whose mind is safe, these days." He grimaced as he saw her baffled
expression. "I'm so sorry. You'll understand when the time comes."

The chains tightened, jerked
backwards. Davian silently locked eyes with her as he was pulled into the
shadows.

Then he was gone.

Davian frowned.

He was atop a low hill, which
afforded a good view over the entire moonlit valley below. All around him were
tents, some with lights still burning inside, but most dark. The moon was at
its zenith and almost full; the night was clear, allowing the silvery light to
illuminate his surroundings almost as if it were daytime. The air was cold and
crisp, and he shivered, rubbing his hands together for warmth - even though he
suspected he was not truly there. Just like before.

At the edges of the camp, quite
some distance away, he could see sentries patrolling. In other areas campfires
burned, and a few men still gathered around them, laughing bawdily at jokes or
stories being told by their comrades. Davian spotted the banner of King Andras
flying at the camp’s centre. This was the king’s army, then - perhaps sent out
to meet the invading force he had foreseen last time? Why was he here, Seeing
this? All seemed well.

Then he saw it. A shadow, silent,
flitting from one tent to another. He stared, squinting, wondering for a second
if he were imagining the whole thing. Then it came again, the slightest of
movements, black against black. It moved into the next tent, noiseless, unnoticed
by any of the men still awake.

Davian walked over to the tent,
hesitant despite knowing that nothing here could see or harm him. He slipped
inside, restraining a gasp as his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

The tent housed ten men, all
lying motionless on their camp beds. Even in the dim light he could see the
dark gashes running along each of their throats, and the slow, muted sound of
dripping echoed dully around the tent. Blood onto the dirt, Davian realised
sickly. He stumbled outside again, straining for another glimpse of the shadow.
He had a suspicion, but he needed to find out exactly what it was before the
vision ended.

Another flicker of movement
caught his eye, and he dashed over to where he’d seen it. This time, as he
entered the tent, he knew it was still there. The sounds of men breathing as
they slept indicated it had not yet finished its grisly work.

He took an involuntary step back
as he finally saw what was responsible for the killings. A figure stood above
one of the beds, swathed in black, a dagger in its hand. Yet the dagger seemed
not to be made of metal, but rather shifted and swirled, forged from shadow
itself. The blade caressed another man’s neck, and blood fountained forth. The
creature silently moved onto the next camp bed, its unsettling, flowing gait
all too familiar.

A sha’teth.

Then it froze. It turned slowly
until it was facing Davian.

Davian stood stock-still. It
could not see him; it must have been startled by something else. These were
events yet to come. He was not actually here.

A wet, snuffling sound came from
beneath the creature’s hood; it bowed its head and began moving towards him,
not directly, but testing the air like a dog closing in on a scent. Much like
the Orkoth had.

“I can smell you, Shalician,” it
whispered. The voice was harsh and low, rasping.

Davian clenched his fists,
terrified. It couldn’t know he was there. The creature crept closer and closer,
Davian still too afraid to move, until it stopped in front of him.

It looked up, into his eyes, and
Davian saw the hideous face beneath its hood. Pale skin was crisscrossed with
unmentionable scars; its eyes were disturbingly human, its gaze unseeing and
yet focused. Its ruined lips curled in contempt.

“You should not be here,” it
hissed into his face.

Davian awoke with a shout.

He thrashed on his bed for a few
seconds, pain arcing through his head. Malshash was above him, wide-eyed,
holding him down by the shoulders. Davian forced a hand up to his face; when he
took it away again it was covered with blood.

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.”

 “The entire city?”

Malshash nodded. “Possibly the
greatest weapon ever made, though in some ways even the Darecians didn’t
understand that at the time. Every building here, every street, every stone, is
made to capture Essence – and it all leads to the Jha’vett. That ‘altar’, as
you called it, is the focus of immense energies. The High Darecians, at the
height of their knowledge and power, spent a hundred and fifty years making
it.”

Davian felt his eyebrows raise. Every
story of the Darecians spoke at length of their powers, their abilities with
Essence. “What does it do?”

“It tears a rift,” replied
Malshash seriously. “It allows someone to leave time itself, to step outside
the stream of time and shift themselves elsewhere along it. Forwards.
Backwards. Whenever they wish.” He shook his head. “They built it so that they
could go back, to before the Shining Lands were destroyed. They wanted to warn
their people of what was coming. To perhaps kill the man who destroyed them,
before he could do it.”

Davian gaped. “Is that possible?”

“No-one really knows, but… I am
beginning to think not.” Malshash sighed, deeply and with regret.