The Shadow Of What Was Lost (45 page)

“Can we try again?” he asked,
elated.

Malshash shrugged. “I’ll have to
choose a different memory and isolate it, but yes, I think so.”

Davian gave an eager nod. “So is
that all there is to it?”

Malshash laughed. “It’s a start.
But learning to really understand memories... that's tricky." He paused.
"For example. You just said I ate all the 'good stuff'. Was that your
assessment, or mine?"

Davian opened his mouth... and
hesitated.

"I suppose... yours,"
he conceded eventually, brow furrowed. "I don't really care for
figs."

"And the weather
was...."

"Fair?" Davian replied,
a little uncertainly.

Malshash grinned. "Was it?
Were there no clouds, or was it just brighter than I'm accustomed to here in
the city? Or was I simply in a good mood?"

Davian shook his head. "I
don't think there were clouds. I can't picture any. But now that you mention
it.... I don't know," he admitted.

Malshash clapped him on the
shoulder. "And that's the hard part. Even though you relived that memory
far more clearly than I ever could have, it's not just a sensory record of what
happened. You're experiencing the memory as
my mind
remembers it. Everything
is always seen subjectively, coloured by emotion. Memories can even change over
time, be affected by new information. Reading a memory one day can be a
different experience from Reading that same memory the next."

"So you can't take what you
see for granted?"

"Exactly. That's not to say
it's completely unreliable; it just needs some experience to interpret what you
see. And... you have to be careful. Once you Read someone's memory, it becomes
yours, too. If you're not careful, that can change you."

He paused, watching Davian to
make sure the seriousness of that statement had sunk in before continuing.
"Once you've mastered memories, there's still learning how to Read what
someone's thinking at that exact moment.
That
is difficult. Even people
who haven’t been trained have natural barriers protecting their thoughts. You
need to learn to get around those, without harming them.”

Davian frowned. “They could get
hurt?”

“Yes.” Malshash's expression was
solemn. “All these powers are dangerous in some way, Davian. You can’t just go
forcing your way into someone’s mind, not without the mind pushing back. If you
do, it can have serious consequences. Their mind could be permanently damaged;
in some cases they may even die from the experience.”

Davian paled, thinking back to
what Taeris had told him about the smuggler Anaar. “Why didn’t you tell me this
before we started training?”

Malshash waved away his concern.
“I have everything else walled off. Don’t worry, Davian. You can’t hurt me.”

Davian nodded in relief. “Good.”

Malshash held up a finger in
warning, though he had a half-smile on his lips. “By the way - you should know
that I always shield my mind from being Read. It’s natural for me now; I do it
without thinking. So don’t imagine you can try it sometime when I’m not ready.”

Davian grinned; he hadn’t really
considered the possibility. Then his smile faded. “Have you Read me?”

“Oh yes.” Malshash chuckled as he
saw the horrified expression on Davian’s face. “Only a little, now and then. To
get myself... acquainted with what kind of man you are.” He waved his hands in
a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry. You're a good one, in case you were
wondering.”

Davian found himself caught
between a scowl and a smile; eventually he gave up and chose the latter. “You
will have to show me how to shield myself, then,” he said in a begrudging tone.

Malshash nodded. “It’s easy
enough. Visualize a box in your mind; anything you want to protect – memories,
thoughts, emotions – you lock away inside that box. Anything you don’t need to
protect, you leave outside.” He shrugged. “It’s a mental trick, not anything to
do with kan. The mind has its own natural defences; as I said, it already goes
to some lengths to protect our thoughts. For some reason though, this tricks it
into raising even stronger defences. Most of the time, that makes it
impenetrable.”

Davian looked at Malshash warily.
“It sounds a little easy. How do I know you’re not just telling me this so you
can continue to Read me whenever you want?”

Malshash sighed. “You told me
that your one ability up until now has been to see when people are trying to
deceive you,” he said. “Use it on me. I won’t take offense.”

“It doesn’t work on anyone who
can shield themselves,” Davian pointed out.

“Of course it does. Shielding can
mask it, but when you see that someone is lying, your mind is in some small way
connected to the other person’s. And believe me, people
know
when
they’re lying – it’s not something you can fully hide away, no matter how
skilled you are. The signs might be different - may be too subtle for most
other Augurs to pick up - but someone with your specific talent should still be
able to tell.”

Davian shook his head. “Not that
I’ve noticed.” Then he paused. “Tell me something false, then true, then false
again.”

Malshash crossed his arms. “I
have never met you before. It is seventy years before you were born. Traversing
the time rift back is not a risk.”

“And again?”

Malshash repeated what he had
said, and Davian sighed.

There it was. A slight pain, a
pressure on the temples that he automatically tried to massage away, on the
first and third sentences. It had been there all along, and he just hadn’t
known what to look for. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy – his confidence in
his ability had been badly hurt after Tenvar’s betrayal – or furious that he
hadn’t figured it out sooner.

He decided to choose the former.
“It works,” he said with a tight smile. Then he raised an eyebrow. “Though for
all I know, you could be messing around in my head about this, too.”

Malshash chuckled. “Sorry Davian,
but I'm not
that
interested in what you're thinking at any given
moment.” He grinned to soften any perceived insult.

Davian smiled. “Of course.
Sorry.”

Malshash shrugged. “I can’t blame
you, I suppose. Once you know what people with these abilities can actually do,
it becomes a lot harder to trust them.” He gave a small yawn, glancing around.
“That’s probably enough for today, anyway. Nightfall is coming.” He began
walking, back towards their house.

Davian squinted at the mists
surrounding them, but could detect no change in the light. That was the way it
always was in Deilannis: a constant dull grey, enough light to see by, but
never bright, never cheerful. Still, Malshash had seemingly been living here
long enough to know when day became night.

“So we continue working on
Reading tomorrow?” Davian asked, trotting to come up alongside Malshash. This
version of the shapeshifter was tall, and his long legs meant his stride was
hard to match.

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.”

Caeden nodded, though he had
hoped for more reassurance. Still, what his friend had said made a lot of
sense. He couldn’t hide from what was coming, just as his people could not.

“Again, then,” he said, tone
grim, taking the stance.

They circled, and this time he felt
oddly at peace, no longer nervous. When Ordan’s attack came he didn’t even
break stride; the barrier dissolved the bolt long before it reached him. He dug
inside himself, then pictured Ordan bursting into flame. Not just his skin, but
his insides, his entire body from head to tail. The Shalis were vulnerable to
fire, but he drew more from his Reserve, letting the power build up. More.
More.

He released.

Ordan was expecting the blast,
but his shield was nothing compared to the power of Caeden’s blow. The shield
shattered and Ordan screamed in pain as tongues of fire engulfed him; his scaly
skin began to shimmer and then melt as the intense heat devoured all. Caeden
made himself watch, though it tore him up inside to do so. His friend would be
reborn, as the Shalis always were. He knew it would be painful for Ordan, hated
himself for doing this. Yet, it was necessary. Ordan was right. He needed to
return home.

Another Shalis – Indral, he
thought, though they all looked very similar – came and busied himself next to
Ordan’s smoking body. Gently he picked it up, powerful arms having no trouble
lifting the corpse. He turned to Caeden.

“He will be proud of you,
Tal’kamar,” he said in his unusual, high-pitched voice. The words were blunt
but Caeden thought he detected a hint of respect in them. That was something,
coming from Indral, who had always been against his being allowed to train
here.

Caeden stared at the corpse
sadly. “Will I be able to speak to him before I leave?”

“No.” Indral was emphatic. “You
have completed your training, and Ordan will not return for months yet. Rebirth
in the Forges is a slow process. You will need to be gone before then.” Indral
was not being rude, Caeden decided, only practical. The Shalis were like that:
blunt, often difficult to read.

He felt a wave of regret as he
glanced around. He would never see this place again, of that he was certain.

“Tell him it was an honour,” he
said to Indral quietly.

“I will, Tal’kamar. Farewell.”
Indral slithered off with Ordan’s body.

Caeden flexed his burnt shoulder,
grimacing in pain, then moved off towards his quarters. He needed to pack.

He was going home.

Caeden woke, a light sheen of
sweat on his brow.

He rolled onto his side, gazing
up at the pre-dawn sky. Another dream. As with the others, this one was already
fading; even now he could only grasp the odd detail here and there. The
snake-like creature he’d been friends with – so similar to the dar’gaithin. The
strange fortress where he’d lived, if only for a time.

He hadn’t told the others about
the dreams. Alaris’ warning still echoed in his head, and like tonight,
sometimes he saw things… if he told them the truth they’d think he was crazy,
or worse, a threat. Taeris removing his Shackle had meant a lot. Caeden didn’t
want to force him to put it back on.

Soon enough the others were
awake, and they were travelling once again. The roads had been heavy with
traffic over the past few days – and many of the travellers had borne ominous
news. There was trouble in the north, an invasion of some kind. Details were
scarce, but Caeden could see how Taeris was beginning to look more worried with
each mention of it.

He rubbed the tattoo on his arm
absently. The fact that this invasion was from the north - where the Boundary
lay - had not been lost on him. That glowing wolf's head, always in the corner
of his vision, was a constant, unsettling reminder that he was likely connected
somehow.

They proceeded for a while in
companionable silence; at about midday the road forked, and the steady stream
of people coming the other way suddenly stopped. For several hours after that,
they walked without seeing anyone, and the silence of the group gradually
became an anxious one.

Late in the afternoon, Taeris
held up his hand, signalling they should halt.

“Do you smell that?” he asked. He
turned to the others, seeing the answer to his question in their wrinkled
noses, and Dezia holding a kerchief to her face. 

There was a stench on the breeze
that had just sprung up, the sickening smell of rotting meat. Not just a whiff,
though, as would happen if an animal had died nearby. This was strong and
constant.

“What is it?” asked Wirr, almost
gagging.

Taeris shook his head. “I’m not
sure,” he said in a worried tone, “ but I think we’re going to find out soon
enough.”

They kept moving along the road,
which was still deserted. As Caeden crested the next rise, he let out an
involuntary gasp, freezing in his tracks as he took in the scene before him.
Behind him, he could hear equally horrified sounds from his companions as they saw
what he was seeing.

The bodies were everywhere.

They lined the road for hundreds
of feet ahead, draped over piles of grey stone rubble. Many of the corpses were
sliced open and already rotting under the hot sun; black carrion birds flocked
wherever he looked, pecking at eyes and entrails with ecstatic fervour, barely
bothered by the arrival of living humans.

To Caeden’s horror, he realised
some of the bodies had been carefully arranged in lewd embraces. In some
places, men’s heads had been removed and sewn onto the bodies of women. He
forced himself to look even closer. Some of the men’s heads were on children’s
bodies, too.

He turned and retched, vaguely
relieved to hear he was not the only one doing so.

His stomach emptied, he forced
himself to turn back to the scene. With a chill, Caeden realised that the piles
of stones he could see were all that remained of a large township.

“Gahille,” said Taeris, dismay in
his voice. “I’ve been here before. This was a big town. It had its own wall,
and a garrison to protect it.”

The wall was gone, now, only a
few stones jutting up from the grass a reminder of it. There were no buildings
left standing. Just a flat expanse that stretched out ahead, broken by the
small hills of stone that indicated something had once stood there.

“Who could have done this?”
whispered Caeden. He felt another wave of nausea.

“The sha’teth?” asked Aelric. He
was doing better than the others. Still, he looked a little unsteady as he
surveyed the carnage.

Taeris took a deep breath, trying
not to breathe through his nose. “No,” he said after a moment. “The sha’teth
would not bother to do this. They haven’t changed that much. Whoever, or
whatever, was here revelled in what they were doing.”

“We should see if there are any
survivors,” said Wirr.

Taeris shook his head. “I’m not
sure if that’s a good idea. It could still be dangerous.”

“I’ll not feel right if we leave
without at least looking,” pressed Wirr.

Aelric stepped forward, nodding.
“I agree. We need to look.”

Taeris sighed. “As you wish,” he
said, though his tone was heavy with reluctance.

They walked forward slowly,
checking for any sign of life, each of them now breathing through kerchiefs to
lessen the chance of sickness. Some of the corpses were entirely rotten, while
others looked almost fresh; the stench of death was overpowering at times,
making Caeden’s eyes water.

Ahead of him, Taeris sent out a
thin stream of Essence - nothing strong enough to be detected by any nearby
Finders, presumably, but sufficient to clear most of the smell. It wasn’t
enough to make the air entirely breathable, but it was an improvement.

From the line of trees up ahead,
there was suddenly movement. Taeris held up a warning hand to the others.

Two people hurried towards them;
they stopped in the middle of what would have been the town square, clearly
unwilling to run the gauntlet of the dead. Taeris urged his companions towards
them.