The Shadow of What Was Lost Page 2

  Wirr stiffened. “Dav, that’s hardly fair.”

  “Then you don’t think I will?” pressed Davian.

  Wirr scowled. “Fine.” He composed himself, leaning forward and looking Davian in the eye. “I think you’re going to pass the Trials.”

  His tone was full of conviction, but it didn’t stop Davian from seeing the dark, smoke-like tendrils escaping Wirr’s mouth.

  “Told you,” Davian said quietly.

  Wirr glared at him, then sighed. “Fates, I hate that ability of yours sometimes,” he said, shaking his head. “Look—I do believe there’s a chance. And while there’s a chance, you’d be foolish not to try everything you can. You know that.”

  Wirr wasn’t lying this time, and Davian felt a stab of guilt at having put his friend in such an awkward position. He rubbed his forehead, exhaling heavily.

  “Sorry. You’re right. That wasn’t fair,” he admitted, taking a deep breath and forcing his swirling emotions to settle a little. “I know you’re only trying to help. And I’m not giving up… I’m just running out of ideas. I’ve read every book on the Gift that we have, tried every mental technique. The Elders all say my academic understanding is flawless. I don’t know what else I can do.”

  Wirr inclined his head. “Nothing to be sorry for, Dav. We’ll think of something.”

  There was silence for a few moments, and Davian hesitated. “I know we’ve talked about this before… but maybe if I just told one of the Elders what I can see when someone’s lying, they could help.” He swallowed, unable to look Wirr in the eye. “Maybe we’re wrong about how they would react. Maybe they know something we don’t. It is different from being able to Read someone, you know.”

  Wirr considered the statement for a few seconds, then shook his head. “It’s not different enough. Not to the Elders, and certainly not to Administration if they ever found out.” He stared at his friend sympathetically. “Fates know I don’t want to see you become a Shadow, Dav, but that’s nothing compared to what would happen if anyone heard even a whisper of what you can do. If it even crosses their minds that you can Read someone, they’ll call you an Augur—and the Treaty’s pretty clear on what happens next. The Elders may love you, but in that scenario, they’d still turn you in to Administration in a heartbeat.”

  Davian scowled, but eventually nodded. They’d had this conversation many times, and it always ended the same way. Wirr was right, and they both knew it.

  “Back to studying, then, I suppose,” said Davian, glancing over at the jumble of books on his desk.

  Wirr frowned as he followed Davian’s gaze. “Did it ever occur to you that you’re just pushing yourself too hard, Dav? I know you’re worried, but exhaustion isn’t going to help.”

  “I need to make use of what time I have,” Davian observed, his tone dry.

  “But if you ever want to use Essence, you need to sleep more than an hour or two each night, too. It’s no wonder you can’t do so much as light a candle; you’re probably draining your Reserve just by staying awake for so long.”

  Davian gestured tiredly. He’d heard this theory from plenty of concerned people over the past few weeks, but it was the first time Wirr had brought it up. The trouble was, he knew it was true—when a Gifted pushed their body past its limits they instinctively drew Essence from their Reserve, using it to fuel their body in place of sleep. And if he was draining his Reserve to stay awake, his efforts to access the Essence contained within were doomed to failure.

  Still, three years of keeping sensible hours had done nothing to solve his problem. Whatever prevented him from using the Gift, it ran deeper than a lack of sleep.

  Wirr watched him for a few moments, then sighed, getting slowly to his feet. “Anyway—regardless of whether you plan to sleep, I certainly do. Elder Caen expects me to be able to identify the major motivations of at least half the Assembly, and I have a session with her tomorrow.” He glanced out the window. “In a few hours, actually.”

  “You don’t sleep during those extra lessons on politics? I just assumed that was why you took them.” Davian summoned a weary smile to show he was joking. “You’re right, though. Thanks for the company, Wirr. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  Davian waited until Wirr had left, then reluctantly considered the title of the next book he had laid aside for study. Principles of Draw and Regeneration. He’d read it a few weeks earlier, but maybe he’d missed something. There had to be some reason he couldn’t access Essence, something he hadn’t understood.

  The Elders thought it was a block, that he was subconsciously resisting his power because of his first experience with it, the day he’d received his scar. Davian was doubtful, though; that pain had long since faded. And he knew that if he really was an Augur, that fact in itself could well be causing the issue… but information on Andarra’s former leaders was so hard to find, nowadays, that there was little point even thinking about the possibility.

  Besides—perhaps it was simply technique. Perhaps if he read enough about the nature of the Gift, he could still gain sufficient insight to overcome the problem.

  Despite his resolve, now that he was alone again he found the words on the cover blurring in front of him, and his jaws cracking open unbidden for a yawn. Perhaps Wirr was right about one thing. Exhaustion wasn’t going to help.

  Reluctantly he stood up, leaned over, and extinguished the lamp.

  He settled into his bed, staring up into the darkness. His mind still churned. Despite his tiredness, despite the late hour, it was some time before he slept.

  Chapter 2

  Davian awoke with a start.

  There was a moment of silence, then the sound that had woken him—an insistent knocking at the door—came again. He looked around blearily, the fog of sleep not yet departed. What time was it? The distant chatter of voices from the courtyard below indicated that lessons had already begun for the day. Motes of dust drifted lazily through the light that streamed in through the still-open window; from the angle he realized it must be at least midmorning, if not later.

  Muttering a curse under his breath, Davian flung himself to his feet. He usually woke at dawn and had trusted his body to keep to that schedule, but apparently he had deprived it of sleep for one too many nights in a row. The knocking came again; hurriedly throwing on some clothes, he stumbled over to the door and opened it.

  The girl waiting outside had blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders, and the recent good weather had left her with the faintest smattering of freckles high on her cheeks. She smiled at him, a guileless expression, and amusement danced in her sea-green eyes.

  “Hello, Ash,” Davian said awkwardly, suddenly aware of his disheveled appearance.

  “Morning, Dav. You look…”

  “I know.” He raked through his thick, unruly black hair with his fingers, but he knew it would make little difference. “Apparently I overslept.”

  “Apparently you did. Quite a bit,” said Asha, with a brief, meaningful glance toward the window. Then, after a careful examination of the hallway to make sure they were truly alone, she lowered her voice. “Mistress Alita’s been keeping me on the run this morning, but I came as soon as I had an excuse.” Her smile faded. “I heard about Leehim.”

  The memory of the previous night came crashing back into Davian; it must have shown in his expression because Asha stepped forward, eyes suddenly soft with sympathy and concern. “Are you all right?”

  “I am.” It was a lie; he actually felt a renewed flood of fear as he remembered Leehim’s convulsing form, the black veins crawling their way across the other boy’s face. Still, he wasn’t about to admit any of that to Asha. “It was nothing I hadn’t seen before. It just… reminded me how close the Trials are, I suppose.”

  Asha grimaced at that but nodded, saying nothing.

  Davian’s chest tightened a little as he watched her. As the last few months had flown by, he’d faced plenty of fears about becoming a Shadow. It had been only recently, though, that
he’d realized that never being able to see Asha again was far and away the worst of them. That their friendship of the past couple of years had developed into something more, at least for him.

  But he couldn’t say anything. Not now. It would only make the next few weeks harder on both of them, regardless of whether Asha felt the same way.

  There was silence for a few moments; Davian glanced at the angle of the sun, which was high enough now that it barely came through his east-facing window. “I’ll tell you the full story later,” he promised, suddenly remembering that he had other responsibilities. He forced a smile as he spoke, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m supposed to be getting supplies from Caladel today.”

  “You were supposed to be getting supplies from Caladel two or three hours ago,” corrected Asha. “Actually—I don’t want to make your day any worse, but that’s why I’m here. Mistress Alita’s realized that you haven’t been by to get the list of things she needs bought.”

  Davian groaned. “What did she say?” Mistress Alita took students’ shirking of their responsibilities more seriously than any of the Elders. Worse, since she’d all but raised Davian, any sign of his avoiding his tasks was considered by the head cook to be a personal affront.

  Asha shrugged. “You know—the usual. Something about you, boiling water, and that large knife she keeps hanging by the bench. It was too detailed to remember all of it.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to repeat it for you, though.”

  “Wonderful.” Davian paused. “I don’t suppose you could… omit… that I overslept, when you speak to her?”

  “She’s going to ask.”

  “Lie.” Davian raised an eyebrow. “I meant lie.”

  Asha gave him a look of mock surprise. “You of all people…”

  Davian sighed, repressing a smile. “I’d owe you one.”

  “Another one,” Asha corrected him.

  Davian narrowed his eyes, but this time couldn’t help grinning. “Thanks, Ash.”

  Once Asha had vanished down the stairs he shut the door again, his mood improved. As little as he was looking forward to a tongue-lashing from Mistress Alita—and as heavily as the memory of last night was beginning to weigh on him again—waking up to a visit from Asha was far from a bad start to the day.

  He stood in front of the mirror, taking a few minutes to rub the sleep from his eyes, straighten his clothes, and rake his fingers through his hair until it sat in a vaguely respectable state. The Elders insisted upon anyone going outside the school walls appearing presentable. He was already late, so there was no point worsening his lecture by rushing off and looking disheveled into the bargain.

  Finally satisfied with his appearance, Davian hurried down the spiral staircase of the North Tower and into the inner courtyard of the castle. A group of younger students were gathered around Elder Jarras at the far wall, some of them giggling at a story he was telling them. Davian watched as the thick-bearded man made a deliberately overdramatic sweeping gesture with his deep red Gifted’s cloak, his eyes widening comically, sending the children into more peals of laughter. Davian smiled. Everyone liked Jarras.

  He moved on, hurrying through a narrow breezeway to the back entrance of the kitchen. Most of the students used the main door from the dining area, but he’d been a serving boy here long before becoming a student, and a lifetime of habit was hard to break.

  He slipped inside as quietly as possible, taking in the familiar sensations. The heat from the fireplace as a pot boiled busily above crackling flames. The smells of various spices mingling together. The cheerful chatter from Tori and Gunder, a cook and her apprentice, their backs facing him as they chopped away at some vegetables. Even after three years, this felt more like home than his room in the tower ever had.

  He hesitated; Mistress Alita was nowhere to be seen. Tori, a middle-aged, dowdy woman who had always spoiled him before he had discovered he was Gifted, finally noticed that someone had entered. She glanced away again when she realized who it was. Her conversation with Gunder died within seconds as the teenage boy saw, too.

  Davian flushed, as always feeling as if he were intruding. Gunder and Davian had been apprentices together, had shared a room until Davian’s abilities were uncovered. Now they were strangers. The servants here might work for the Gifted, but the war had left too many scars for them to look past what their employers were. What he was.

  Sometimes he caught the familiar faces looking at him, a kind of sad accusation in their eyes. As if he had betrayed them, chosen this path rather than been pushed down it.

  Davian forced himself to ignore the stares today, eyes darting around the room for the slip of paper that would tell him what was needed from town. If he could just find that list and leave before Mistress Alita returned…

  “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  The familiar voice came from behind him. His heart sank as he turned to see the head cook standing with a frown plastered across her face, waving the list at him.

  Davian winced. “Sorry,” he said, abashed.

  The portly woman shook her head in irritation. “Don’t apologize to me. The Elders are the ones whose plates will be empty at lunch. I’ll be sure to let them know who to speak to when they ask why.”

  Mistress Alita appeared set to launch into one of her tirades when she suddenly stopped, eyes narrowing as she examined his appearance. “You look tired.” She was clearly still displeased with him, but there was a question in her voice now. “I haven’t laid eyes on you in days.”

  Davian glanced over toward Tori and Gunder, but they had both returned to their task and were talking between themselves. Students were not supposed to speak to non-Gifted about their training, but he and Mistress Alita regularly flouted that rule. She had looked after him for years after he’d been left to the school’s care as an infant. She had a right to know at least a little of what was going on in his life.

  “The Trials are soon,” he said quietly by way of explanation.

  The head cook’s brow furrowed, and she lowered her voice so that it would not carry to the others. “No progress?” Her frown deepened as she studied his face. “You’re still not sure if you can pass?”

  Davian bit his lip. He didn’t want to give Mistress Alita cause for concern. “It’s… still a risk,” he said, keeping his tone carefully neutral.

  “But you’re worried.” It was a statement rather than a question. She knew him too well.

  Davian hesitated. “Terrified,” he admitted softly.

  Mistress Alita gave him a sympathetic smile, placing a hand on his shoulder in a maternal manner and giving it a light squeeze. “El doesn’t give us burdens we can’t carry, Davian. Always remember that.”

  “I will.” Davian nodded, but the words didn’t make him feel any better. Mistress Alita had tried raising him as an adherent of the Old Religion, but everyone knew that all confidence in El and his Grand Design had died along with the Augurs twenty years earlier. Davian—like most people in Andarra now—couldn’t bring himself to believe in something that had been so clearly disproven. Still, Mistress Alita was devout, and he had always respected that.

  The head cook pressed the slip of paper and a few heavy coins into his palm, then gave him a light but firm cuff to the back of the head with her other hand, her usual grumpy exterior reasserting itself. “Now get moving; Administrator Talean is expecting you. And if this happens again, I’ll be thinking up a proper punishment, Trials or no.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “And it won’t involve Asha waking you up next time, either. I think you’d enjoy that a little too much.”

  She sent him on his way with a gentle push, leaving him blushing in surprise.

  He chewed his lip as he walked. Were his feelings becoming so obvious? Asha spent plenty of time around the kitchens; whatever Mistress Alita suspected, he just hoped she would be tactful enough not to say anything.

  He headed toward the Administrator’s office. The co
urtyard was quiet now; Jarras and his class had vanished. A couple of younger students were sparring to the side, overseen by a still-somber-looking Elder Seandra, but otherwise there was no sign of movement.

  Davian paused for a moment to watch the bout. Despite his best efforts, jealousy stabbed at him as whip-thin tongues of light periodically lashed out from the students’ hands, flicking toward the other before being met by bright, rippling shields of Essence, energy crackling as the two forces collided.

  He examined the contest analytically. The children—they could not have been older than twelve—seemed about equal in strength, but Davian could immediately see the smaller one’s shield was better formed, more complete. Even as he watched, a sliver of bright Essence pierced the taller one’s shield and touched him on the arm, making the boy yelp in surprised pain. The match would soon be over.

  Davian tore his eyes away and kept walking, pushing down the frustration he felt every time he saw the Gift being used. Move on. Get his chores done quickly, then try again. There was nothing more he could do.

  His stomach twisted as he approached the Administrator’s office, the memory of last night still fresh in his mind. The door to Talean’s office was ajar but as Davian moved to knock, he heard low voices coming from inside—one of which he didn’t recognize. That was unusual in the small, close-knit school, enough so that it made him pause.

  “So you understand our true purpose here?” the unfamiliar voice was asking.

  There was silence for a few moments, then, “You’ve come for the boy.” It was Talean.

  “We have. The Northwarden thought it was time.”

  Davian frowned. The Northwarden—the king’s brother and head of the Administrators? What were they talking about?

  Talean spoke again. “I would hope so. I heard about the school at Arris.”

  “Dasari was hit, too.” A different stranger’s voice this time, a woman’s, her tone grim. “A hundred or so dead, and no one saw anything.”