The Shadow Of What Was Lost (80 page)

The Waters of Renewal had quickly
begun to take effect; his days as a youth in the Shining Lands were already
barely more than a fog. He’d estimated that it could take as little as an hour
for all the memories to go - but they should at least fade in sequence,
according to his experiments. That was fortunate. He only needed to remember
the last few years to know what he had to do, and why.

He found he was clutching the
hilt of his sword tightly, nervously; he took a deep breath, forcing the hand
to his side again and trying his utmost to appear casual. He had no wish to do
what came next, but he’d carefully considered the alternatives and had accepted
that this was the only way. The Venerate between them knew each of his faces.
If he were identified too soon, this would all be for naught.

A few people gave him a second
glance as he walked by, but travellers were not uncommon, even this far from a
major town. It didn’t really matter if they remembered what he looked like,
anyway. He’d thought about choosing a more isolated spot – a farm, perhaps –
but the risk had been too high. In that scenario, if no-one had been home, his
memories could have been gone before he found a replacement.

After a minute or two of aimless
wandering, he spotted a young man strolling up to a quaint, thatched-roof house
that was set a little apart from the other buildings. Caeden checked to see
that no-one was looking his way, then hurried up to the stranger. He was little
more than a boy, Caeden realised with a slight pang of regret - reddish-brown
hair, blue eyes and an easy smile. A farmer, probably. They almost all would be
around here.

“Excuse me,” Caeden said in a
polite tone. “I’m a little lost. I was wondering if you had a map of the area?”
He knew it was unlikely, but any excuse would do.

The young man shook his head,
then nodded to the door. “Sorry, friend,” he said. “No maps, but if you’d like
to come inside, I’ll see if I can help you out with some directions.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said
Caeden. He kept his face carefully neutral, even as his stomach twisted. The
poor lad was so trusting.

They were soon inside, and the
door shut. “Now,” said the boy, turning towards the simple hewn table. “If I
can just -”

Caeden’s long, thin blade caught
him in the side of the throat, stabbing upward into his brain. He was dead
before he hit the floor.

Caeden checked his memories.
Nothing before the Siege of Al’gast; that was worryingly recent, not too long
before he’d realised the Darecians had escaped. He got to work, taking note of
the boy’s features and then cutting into his face. It was horrible,
stomach-turning work, but the body had to be unrecognisable. Even as he went
about the grisly task, he concentrated, picturing the features of the young man
he had just killed. Pain abruptly snapped through him, his bones breaking and
reforming, muscles tearing, contorting and stretching. Caeden grimaced, but
kept working as best he could. He was well accustomed to these transformations.

It was over in the space of a
minute. Now, all he had to do was dispose of the body and –

“Caeden?” a cheerful female voice
called from the front door. “Where are you, son?”

Caeden’s heart sank. There was no
time, no way he could get the body out. He froze, keeping quiet, praying that
the woman would not walk into this room.

An ear-piercing scream shattered
that hope.

“Caeden!” the woman shrieked. She
was looking wildly between Caeden and the disfigured body on the floor. “What
are you doing?”

Caeden stood, his blade whipping
out, slicing smoothly through the woman’s throat before she could say anything
more. She gurgled as she stared at what she thought was her son,
uncomprehending horror in her eyes. Caeden looked away. She’d seen him in this
form, seen what he’d done. He couldn’t risk leaving her alive.

Before he could move, though,
shouts from outside were followed by the sound of the front door crashing open.
He closed his eyes for a second, breathing deeply.

Pretending it hadn’t gone so
wrong.

There were thirty-one dead by the
end – seventeen men, nine women and five children who had been drawn by the
screams. Most of the village, he suspected.

He stared at the bodies morosely.
It had all happened so fast, and it was getting harder to focus as more and
more memories drained away. Could he have avoided this? Using Control hadn’t
been an option - Alaris would have located him within minutes. Fleeing would
have meant leaving witnesses, leading to his inevitable capture, a quick trial
and a failed execution. Though the flow of information from Desriel to Talan
Gol was still limited, word of something like that would have doubtless found
its way back across the ilshara.

No. This way he’d probably be
detained, suspected of what had happened here, but they wouldn’t have the
evidence to execute him. It was still a risk, but it left him hidden from the
people that mattered. He hardened his heart against the guilt, as he’d done so
many times before. It had been the best course of action in a bad situation.
The practical, necessary choice.

He put his hand against the
still-warm skin of each corpse in turn, then carefully disfigured them. Their
deaths would not be for nothing. Even though he wouldn’t remember them directly,
their Imprints would remain with him; each one would eventually give him a new,
untraceable identity, a body in which he could move freely outside of Talan
Gol. He’d not wanted it to come to this, but now that it had, there was no
point wasting the opportunity.

He checked his memories, startled
to find that his oldest one was of speaking to the Ath. That was only a hundred
years ago - not long before he’d finally rejected the name Aarkein Devaed,
realised his mistakes and started along the path that had ultimately led here.
He knew he’d hated what he’d done, hated what he’d become as Devaed, but he
couldn’t remember the details any more. Odd, but he supposed it didn’t really
matter now. He would be free of it all for good soon enough.

He finally turned away from the
corpses, knowing he had only minutes left – nowhere near enough time to hide
the bodies. He needed to flee, to get as far from here as he possibly could.

He ran.

He dashed into the forest
heedlessly, ignoring how the twigs and branches scraped at his arms and legs,
tugged and tore at his bloodied clothing. He only had to survive a few weeks,
just until Davian arrived with the Portal Box. He had to get far enough away to
give the Gil’shar reason to doubt his guilt. If they tried to execute him, the
Venerate would get word. It would jeopardize everything. It would jeopardize….

He frowned in confusion. Why was
he running? Where was he? He glanced down, horrified to see blood all over his
hands. He quickly checked himself, but aside from minor cuts, he did not seem
to be wounded.

He took a deep breath, tried to
concentrate. Why was he here? Panic began to set in. Where was he from? What
was his
name
?
He stood for a long few minutes, heart pounding, trying to recall something.
Anything
.
But it was of no use.

He started forward. Evening was
coming, and whatever had happened to him, he needed help.

Caeden gasped as he came awake
again.

He was on his knees, he realised
numbly. Vomit spattered on the cold stone before him; his hands shook, and his
entire body spasmed with heaving sobs.

“It’s not true,” he choked,
staring up at Asar, who was watching him impassively.

“It is,” he replied.

“But it can’t be!” Caeden shook
his head desperately, tears streaming down his face. The images of the people
he’d killed flashed in a grisly parade before him. “No. I can’t be him. I can’t
be Aarkein Devaed.
No
. I’m supposed to
fight
Devaed, to help
save
Andarra.” His voice broke. “I
can’t
be him.”

Asar just stared at him. For a
moment, his expression was… pitying.

“You are who you are, Tal’kamar,”
he said softly. “When you’re ready to know more, come and find me.”

Without another word he turned
and vanished back into the darkened passageway, leaving Caeden – Tal’kamar –
alone to his grief.

ABOUT THE
AUTHOR

James Islington was
born and raised in southern Victoria, Australia. His influences growing up were
the stories of Raymond E. Feist and Robert Jordan, but it wasn't until later,
when he read Brandon Sanderson's
Mistborn
series - followed soon after
by Patrick Rothfuss'
Name of the Wind
- that he was finally inspired to
sit down and write something of his own. He now lives with his wife, Sonja, on
the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria.