The Shadow Of What Was Lost (67 page)

She gave Asha a final smile, then
crossed to the door and left.

As quickly as that, it was done.

Asha did as the Shadraehin had
suggested and found her own way out, not for the first time wondering exactly
what Davian's message had meant. It didn't play on her mind for long this time,
though; once back on the street she took a deep, steadying breath, then started
back towards the palace. She already had the key to the storeroom, and a Veil
would allow her to go to and from it several times without being detected.

She watched a patrol sweep
through the street ahead of her, the soldiers' every motion taut with
nervousness. She understood exactly how they felt.

Things were coming to a head, and
she had no idea how they were going to turn out.

It was almost time.

Davian stared ahead grimly as he
walked alongside Elder Eilinar down yet another flight of dimly-lit, rough
stone stairs, deeper into the heart of Tol Athian.

"You're angry," noted
Nashrel, giving him a sideways glance.

"Yes," Davian replied
bluntly, too frustrated to be polite. He gritted his teeth for a few seconds in
silence, then scowled, unable to contain his exasperation. "You and the
Council are making the wrong decision. Having Gifted available to heal the
wounded would save many lives."

Nashrel made a calming gesture.
"I'm on your side, Davian. If I had my way, we would be at the Shields as
we speak," he said calmly. "But the others did make some valid
points. The palace can hardly expect us to help, not if they're not willing to
change the Tenets so that we can at least defend ourselves."

"But you won't even talk to
them," said Davian in frustration.

"And as we told you, if
changing the Tenets is not a part of the discussion, there is little
point."

"But if you just -"

"It's not just the king's
stubbornness regarding the Tenets, Davian." Nashrel stopped and turned to
him, a serious look on his face. "This vitriol we've been hearing from him
- these open threats against the Gifted - isn't something we can just ignore.
You have to understand... all of us remember the Unseen War like it was yesterday,
and what we've heard coming from the palace has been stirring up old memories.
Old fears. "

"So the solution is to hide
in here and hope it all goes away?"

Nashrel frowned at that.
"Show a little respect," he said quietly, anger just beneath the
surface. Davian coloured, knowing he'd overstepped, but Nashrel started walking
again before Davian could respond. "I know you're frustrated, but the
Elders on the Council went through things during the war that you can only
imagine. Since then, being behind these walls is the only way many of them can
feel safe. Fates, I can name four Elders who haven't left the Tol in near
twenty years! These are deep-seated fears, Davian - not the kind that can be
easily overcome. Especially not when they are fed by the king like this."

Davian shook his head.
"Maybe you're right," he conceded. "But it doesn't excuse the
way they're abandoning everyone. It doesn't give them the right to bury their
heads in the sand while the Blind threaten their city. Even the Gifted from Tol
Shen have realised that."

Nashrel didn't respond for a
while. The stairwells and passageways seemed to narrow the further down they
travelled; here, Davian would have been able to touch both walls simultaneously
with his elbows if he'd tried. The rock of Ilin Tora itself had slowly
transformed from the carefully carved, light-brown texture of the upper levels
to a jagged, menacing black, rough-hewn and almost volcanic in its appearance.
The air was musty, and there was such a fierce chill to it that Davian shivered
despite his thick cloak.

Eventually the Elder sighed.
"There's some merit to what you're saying, Davian. And the news about Shen
surprised me. But the Council have made their decision; what's done is
done." He shook his head. "Just be glad they agreed to let you see
Tenvar. I wasn't sure they were going to do that much, to be honest, after
you... expressed your displeasure about our decision not to fight. And Tol
Athian is not in the habit of giving strangers free access to prisoners, either."

Davian grunted. "I can't say
I appreciated having to Read them like it was some kind of parlour trick,
though," he said in disgust.

"They needed proof that you
were really an Augur - some guarantee you weren't lying - before they could let
you down here. It was not unreasonable." Nashrel gave a slight smile.
"Anyway, Fethrin and Ielsa certainly regret making you do it."

Davian snorted. "They
brought that on themselves."

"That they did," said
Nashrel in amusement.

They turned down another
passageway; here Essence orbs had been replaced with traditional torches, so
sparsely placed along the hallways that it was almost pitch-black when walking
in between them. The only sound was the constant echoing of the two men’s boots
on the hard stone, and even that faint noise was quickly swallowed by the
darkness.

They emerged into a long hallway,
wider and better-lit than those preceding. Rather than blank black rock, iron
doorways with small barred windows lined the passage, and from the occasional
cough, Davian could tell that the dungeon had at least a few occupants.

Finally they came to a stop in
front of a cell, one of the last in the hallway. Dark though it was, Davian
could make out the crouched human form within. He waited until Nashrel unlocked
the steel-barred door, then turned to the Elder.

“I'd prefer not to go in there
unarmed.”

Nashrel hesitated, then drew a
short dagger from his belt. "Use this for anything but self-defence, and
Augur or not, I'll have you thrown out of the Tol. Immediately."

Davian nodded. "Of
course."

“Davian!” came a familiar voice
from inside the cell. “I see the Gifted know what you are, now. And haven't
turned you in yet. Good for you.” Tenvar walked forward so that his face was
pressed up against the bars of the tiny window. He looked like he hadn't washed
in days, and his beard was growing out to give him an entirely unkempt look.

Davian glared at him, fury
burning in his stomach. “Stand back,” he growled.

Tenvar did as he was told.

Davian opened the door with one
hand, gripping the knife in the other. He doubted Tenvar could overpower him in
his evidently weakened state, but there was no point taking the chance.

Davian entered the cell warily,
but Tenvar had taken a seat on the opposite side of the small room. Despite his
condition he looked relaxed, even a little smug, his legs crossed and reclining
as if the stone bench was the most comfortable chair in the world.

Davian felt another flash of
anger. “I’ve come to find out who you’re working for. And how to stop the
Blind,” he said, keeping his tone as calm as he could manage.

Tenvar smiled. “Ah, so that’s
what they decided to call them. How unoriginal. And they’re here already, are
they? Faster than I expected,” he said cheerfully. “Thank-you for that
information. Nobody had told me I would be rescued quite so soon.”

“Rescued?” Davian gave a bitter
laugh. “You're not going anywhere, Tenvar. I'll see you dead before I see you
free.”

“Threatening my life?” Ilseth
sighed. “Davian, you forget that I know you a little. Not well, perhaps, I’ll
grant you that. But enough to know that you’re no murderer. You don’t have a
violent bone in your body.”

Davian said nothing for a moment,
then took a deep breath. He wasn’t here to argue with Tenvar or rise to his
taunts. He was here to Read him, plain and simple.

He concentrated, reaching out
until he could feel Tenvar’s mind. He was immediately, unsurprisingly presented
with a locked box.

Davian examined the box in
silence. There were other memories outside it but Davian didn’t bother to look
at them; if Tenvar didn’t feel the need to hide them, they were unimportant. He
tried to remember how he’d broken into Malshash’s box, but the longer he stared
at Tenvar’s, the more impregnable it seemed to become.

“I’m shielded, Davian,” said
Ilseth, his tone relaxed, even slightly amused. “I’ve kept my thoughts private
for forty years. From before the
real
Augurs fell. You’re not breaking
in.”

Davian didn’t reply, but allowed
his focus to wane for a few moments. Ilseth was putting all his concentration
into maintaining that shield; even if Davian tried forcing the box open he
would probably fail. He needed Ilseth’s attention elsewhere.

His stomach churned a little, but
it needed to be done.

He leaned over and as coldly as
possible, plunged his knife into Tenvar’s thigh.

Tenvar screamed in surprised
pain; even as Davian pulled the knife out again, he slammed into Tenvar’s
mental box with everything he had. It disintegrated, and Davian moaned as
Tenvar’s agony flooded through to his own mind. He ignored the pain, clenching
his fists.

Behind him, he could hear Nashrel
yelling something, rushing into the cell. If Davian was going to get
information, he had to be quick.

He searched for a way to stop the
Blind, but to his frustration he discovered that Tenvar knew very little of the
invasion. It made sense, he supposed; if he’d had something so vital in his
memories then Devaed would surely have found a way to have him killed, tucked
away in a Tol Athian dungeon or not.

Davian moved on to the question
that had been burning inside him for so long now. Why had Tenvar given him the
Vessel, sent him away before the slaughter of everyone else in the school?

He located the memory he was
after, then took a deep breath.

Davian waited.

The small room was dark, dank, and
had a musty smell which made him sporadically wrinkle his nose in disgust. A
jumble of discarded boxes were heaped in the corner, where the damp had already
contrived to rot through some of them. Otherwise, the room was empty. There
were no windows this far beneath the surface of course, but his lamp, set down
in the middle of the room, lit the black stone walls well enough.

He hoped this meeting would not
take long. Being discovered in this section of Tol Athian, so deep beneath the
ancient foundations, would result in questions he may not easily be able to
answer.

He began to pace, tracking an
imaginary path along the cold stone floor. He had received this summons so
abruptly, so directly, that he did not know what to expect. For the thousandth
time he pondered the possibility that it was a trap. The message had been
written in an ancient Darecian dialect; there were only four or five people in
Andarra who still knew that language, so a ruse seemed unlikely. Why he was
being called upon at this vital moment, though – now, when he was so close to
succeeding – he simply could not imagine.

He ran his fingers through his
hair as he marched back and forth, mentally categorizing the possibilities.
None of them were good.

Behind him, the lamp went out,
plunging the room into darkness.

He froze mid-step, a shiver
running up his spine as he heard the door to the stairwell creak shut. The hair
at the base of his neck began to prickle.

“You have come,” a deep voice
rumbled in approval.

Davian turned. The room seemed
lit again, but it was a cold, pale luminescence, as if he were seeing through
the darkness rather than by a natural light. In front of the closed door stood
the faint outline of a lone man, cloaked and hooded, face shrouded in shadow.
The stranger made no move to enter the room further.

“I would not refuse a summons
from the master we serve,” said Davian. The man had to be using kan to
manipulate Essence, illuminating the room but keeping himself in darkness. Not
a trap, then – something more terrifying by far, in fact, though Davian could
not fathom how one of them could be on this side of the Boundary.

They weren’t a myth, then. This
was one of the Venerate.

The hooded man nodded, oblivious
to Davian’s train of thought. “That is good,” he growled. “Then you would not
refuse a task from him, either.” Davian thought he must be altering his voice
somehow; certainly no-one could naturally sound so gravelly. Distracted by the
thought, the stranger’s words took a few moments to sink in.

“It would be an honour to serve
Lord Devaed in any task,” he said, almost tripping over the words in his haste
to respond. The Venerate were not to be trifled with, but the question burned
within him - he hesitated a second longer, swallowing hard, working up the
courage to continue. “Before we proceed… if I may ask… why now? I mean no
disrespect, but what could be worth risking my place here, so close to the
end?” He had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, not to know.

There was a long silence; though
Davian could not see beneath the other man’s hood, he could feel his gaze
burrowing into his skull.

“Do you know why I chose this
place to meet?” The words were spoken so softly that Davian barely heard them.

He shifted, his sense of unease
growing. “No.”

“I chose it because the walls
here have no Remembering.” The man raised his hand, brushing the stone with his
fingertips. “In this room, Tenvar, I can do whatever I please.”

There was no warning.

Davian gasped as the index finger
of his right hand began to burn; a second later a shriek ripped from his throat
as agony coursed through him, nerves screaming as they were sliced open. He
grasped the finger tightly but to no avail; he collapsed on the floor as it
began to tear open from the tip downward, slowly splitting fingernail and then
flesh in a shower of blood and pain, the bare bone itself splintering as
impossibly fine strands of Essence pulled it carefully, inexorably, in opposite
directions.