The Shadow Of What Was Lost (52 page)

Davian nodded. He closed his
eyes, pushing through the kan until he was inside Malshash’s mind. He still
hadn’t quite grown used to the feeling: he knew who he was, knew all his own
thoughts, but if he tried to think of something – anything, really – it would
be Malshash’s mind to respond, not his own. And Davian could then examine that
response with his own mind.

He composed himself for a second,
then began searching through Malshash’s thoughts and memories.

Most were still hidden within the
locked box, he soon discovered. The ones that were not were fairly dull, and
all recent. What Malshash had had for his meals the last few days. How amazed
he was at how quickly Davian had picked up kan. His sense of urgency to get
Davian back to his own time, to keep him alive. There were other feelings
associated with that – sorrow, pain – that Davian did not understand, could not
access the exact memories to explain. When you knew what to look for, emotions
were much harder to hide than specific recollections of events.

He thought to find out where
Malshash had lived, before he came to Deilannis. He was confronted with the
locked box again. He wondered where Malshash had received his Augur training.
The locked box. He wondered why Malshash had been so upset to discover Davian
could shapeshift. The locked box. Davian felt his frustration turn to anger.
What was the point of this ability if people could just hide things so easily?

He wondered why Malshash had
given up his ability to See. The locked box.

Rather than move on, Davian
imagined himself directly in front of the box. He concentrated, gripping the
lid with his hands and
pulling
.

The lid came open, and he heard a
gasp of horror from Malshash.

He was in a large, long room,
filled with table upon table of people talking and laughing, all dressed in
fine suits and elegant gowns. He felt his heart swelling as he gazed out across
the crowd from his position, his own table slightly raised above everyone
else’s. So many people. His friends and family, come to celebrate with him. A
feeling of pleasant warmth flooded through him, not just the fine wine they had
been drinking.

 This was happiness.

Detached, Davian forced himself
to stay alert. He knew this feeling. He was reliving the memory, unable to
alter it in any way, but experiencing it exactly as Malshash had. He knew he’d
somehow broken into Malshash’s locked box, knew this memory was supposed to be
personal, but had no idea how to stop it now.

He glanced to his left, and his
breath caught in his throat. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen sat
alongside him. Her long black hair was straight and gleamed in the light of the
lanterns. She was slim, with an oval face, large blue eyes and a delicate
mouth. Her full lips curled upward slightly as she saw him watching her, and
she leaned towards him.

“See anything you like?”

Davian felt himself grin in
return. “I think you know the answer to that.” He looked around. “Is it wrong
to wish your own wedding were over?” he whispered conspiratorially.

The woman – Elliavia was her
name, Davian suddenly knew – leaned forward and gave him a long, passionate
kiss. In the background, he could hear a few people starting to hoot and
whistle. “Not at all… husband,” she whispered back.

Davian sat back, trying to drink
it all in. This was the moment. It was perfect, better than he could have
imagined, than he could have hoped for. He looked again at Elliavia. She was
amazing. He knew, perhaps more deeply than he’d known anything before, that he
didn’t deserve her. No-one deserved her. Perhaps that was where he’d been so
lucky. He’d been the closest thing she’d found to a good match.

A servant came and touched Ell
lightly on the shoulder, whispering something in her ear. She nodded, then
leaned towards him again, her lips tickling his ear she was so close. “I will
be back in a moment, my love,” she said, her eyes shining as she looked at him.

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll be
waiting."

He watched her slip away after
the servant, so beautiful in her white wedding dress. Once she was through the
door he returned his attention to the festivities, nodding politely as people
came past his table, offering their congratulations. His face hurt – it
actually hurt! – from the effort of smiling so much, but he didn’t mind in the
slightest. He was not by nature a man who found happiness easily, but tonight
most certainly qualified.

A half-hour passed. He found
himself glancing towards the door his wife had disappeared through, expecting
to see her reappear at any moment. It remained closed, though. He scanned the
crowd, but the servant who had come to fetch her was nowhere to be seen either.

Finally he called over another
weary-looking young man who was serving drinks. “Excuse me,” he said, “ but
have you seen my wife?”

The boy stared at him for a
moment to see whether he was joking, then glanced around the room as if
expecting to see Elliavia standing somewhere obvious. Finally he shook his
head. “I’m sorry, Lord Deshrel. I haven't.”

Davian felt himself frowning, and
sighed in vague exasperation. It seemed he would need to find her himself. He
rose, navigating through the jumble of chairs that had been abandoned
mid-aisle, then slipped through the door Ell had gone through.

There was a short passage, lit by
a single torch, and then another door that opened into the castle courtyard. He
felt his frown deepen. He didn’t know Caer Lyordas well, hadn’t realised this
door led outside. Why would Ell have needed to come out here?

The courtyard was lit, but it was
a gusty night and some of the torches had guttered out – this area was
unattended, as most of the guardsmen tonight were focused around the feast.
Davian found himself meandering aimlessly, a little light-headed from the wine,
around the side of the castle.

Then he spotted it. It was just a
flash, a glimpse of white against the dirty black of a ditch. Uncomprehending,
he wandered over, peering into the gloom.

The cry was out of his throat
before he realised what was happening. He was in the dirt, the cold mud,
screaming for help, cradling Ell’s bloodied head in his lap. Her eyes stared
sightlessly up at him, the jagged gash along her throat still leaking dark red
fluid. Her dress was muddied everywhere, and torn in such a way that he did not
want to think about what else may have happened to her. Even as he wept, he
carefully, tenderly made her private again.

There were shouts behind him as
people ran to answer his screams. He heard gasps of horror as the first to
arrive took in the scene, but he didn’t turn, couldn’t take his eyes from Ell.
He rocked her back and forth gently, sobs ripping from his throat, tears
spilling onto her beautiful, cold face.

No. It couldn’t be this way. He
would not let it be this way.

He delved into his Reserve,
drawing deeply, more deeply than he ever had before. All of it, in fact. He
closed his eyes, putting his hands against Ell’s clammy skin and letting his
Essence flow into her. He could feel the wound on her neck close, the bruises
she had sustained all over her body fade away. He pushed more, willing her
heart to begin beating again, willing her life to return. He drained himself,
past the levels he knew to be dangerous. He could take it. 

But when he opened his eyes, Ell
still lay there, staring up at the murky sky. Her chest was still, her skin
cold.

He didn’t know how much time had
passed when he felt the hand on his shoulder. It was Ilrin, his teacher from
the Academy.

“Who did this?” Ilrin asked, his
voice shaking. His eyes held horror, anger, pain, sorrow. Ell had been his
student, too.

Davian found himself looking
around. His gaze fell on a young man; it took him a moment to place him, but
when he did his grief flashed into white-hot fury. It was the servant who had
led her out here. Led her to her death.

He was on his feet in an instant;
moving faster than he would have believed possible he slipped through the
steadily growing crowd until he had both hands around the young man’s throat.
“Tell me what happened,” he growled. He barely recognised his own voice. It was
animal, feral.

The blood had drained from the
boy’s face. “It was the priest,” he managed to choke out. “The one who married
you. He asked me to fetch your wife out here.”

Davian looked at the young man
and felt only rage. He had drawn Ell out to her death. He was a part of it.

His Reserve was already
refilling. He let Essence infuse his arm, giving it the strength of ten men,
and then twisted.

The servant’s neck snapped like a
twig. A low moan went up from the stunned onlookers.

Davian felt himself whirl, scanning
the crowd. The priest. A holy man, supposedly. He had done this. People leapt
from his path; a few of his friends called out to him, pleaded with him to
stop, but none moved to get in his way. They knew better. They could all try to
stop him, and it would be meaningless, nothing to him. He would brush them
aside like flies. He would find the priest and kill him, slowly and painfully.

It didn’t take him long. He sent
his vision high above the castle, scanning the surrounding lands; almost
immediately he spotted the lone figure scrambling along the north road,
slipping on loose shale as it hurried down the steep hillside. The plain brown
robe was obvious, even from this distance, even in the gloom.

He moved, faster than he had ever
moved before, and yet somehow with a cold deliberateness, a calm that belied
the raging fire inside him. He walked, but those around him stood like statues.
The wind seemed to slow so that he could barely feel it, and even the fire of
the torches moved sluggishly. He took one off its bracket as he passed, leaving
the castle and streaking northward. Somehow he knew that anyone watching would
see only a blur of orange light, nothing more.

He walked in front of the priest,
setting his feet firmly in the portly man’s path. Davian wanted to see his
face. He wanted to see his expression when he realised he was going to die.

The priest skidded to a stop when
he saw Davian in front of him. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, but the
rest of his skin was pale as a ghost. His expression was one of pure terror.

“Mercy,” he muttered, falling
over as he moved backward as quickly as he could. Even sitting down he tried to
scramble away, his eyes wild. “Mercy. It was not me. I swear it by El. It was
not me.”

Davian took in the priest’s muddied
clothes. His arms were bare, and he could see long scratches on them. Any
semblance of calm evaporated.

He reached out with Essence,
holding the terrified man down. Then he concentrated on the man’s hands. The
priest screamed as the little finger on his left hand snapped backward with a
sharp crack. Davian released it and moved on to the next finger. Crack. The
middle, the forefinger, the thumb. Then the other hand. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Davian barely knew what he was doing. All he wanted was for this man to feel
the pain he was feeling now. To feel worse.

He moved on. He broke every toe,
the priest’s screams intensifying until finally they died to almost a whimper.

Davian frowned. That wouldn’t do.
The man had felt nothing yet.

He concentrated. He fed Essence
into the priest, allowing the broken bones to mend themselves. He hadn’t
bothered to straighten them; most healed at ghastly angles, deformed and likely
still agonizing. Even so, the worst of the pain would be gone.

He changed the flow of Essence,
pointed it at the man’s blood. Heated it. A little at first, then more, until
he could feel it boiling. The priest screamed properly this time. Prolonged
cries of pain, gut-wrenching screams of agony. Davian watched impassively,
feeling nothing. Not satisfaction. Not sorrow. This was not revenge. This was
justice, plain and simple.

Ensuring he still fed enough
Essence into the man to keep him conscious, he turned another sliver of energy
into a razor, thin and sharp. With one flick of the wrist, he castrated him.

The priest made no noise now -
just lay there, back arched, spasming. His mind was trying desperately to shut
down, but Davian concentrated, made sure it was aware of every moment of what
was happening. Boiling blood spilled out into the dirt, hissing as it hit the
cold ground. This was how he would die. Bleeding out in slow agony.

Davian made sure the man had
absorbed enough Essence to keep him conscious to the end, then leaned forward
until the priest was focused on his face.

“For Ell,” he said softly.

He turned and walked back up
towards the castle.

He’d come further than he’d
realised; it was a good mile back to Caer Lyordas from where he was. How had he
come here so quickly? He tried to remember. Everything was a blur….