The Shadow of What Was Lost Page 3

Talean let out a long breath. “I am sorry to hear that.”

  There was a grunt, evidently from someone dubious about the Administrator’s sincerity. “Tell me. What are your defenses like here?”

  “Three guards at the gate at all times. Usually an Elder and two senior students, or three students if need be. The castle walls are warded; if anyone tries to scale them, the Elders know immediately.” There was a pause. “You think there should be more?”

  “Perhaps,” came the first stranger’s voice, sounding unimpressed. “It should suffice for now.”

  “That’s good.” A pause. “So do you think it’s Hunters, then? I heard that—”

  There was a scuffling of feet too close for Davian’s comfort, right by the door. He darted away. Whatever that conversation had been about, it hadn’t been meant for his ears, and it sounded far too serious for him to simply interrupt.

  He walked around the hallways for a few minutes, uneasy as he puzzled over what he’d heard. Schools had been attacked? He knew it happened every so often—Hunters usually tracked and killed Gifted alone as they chased their illegal bounties, but would occasionally organize to try larger targets. Sometimes, too, these types of attacks were simply from common townsfolk deciding that they didn’t like living so close to anyone who could wield Essence. But Davian hadn’t heard of any major attacks in the last few months, and certainly none on the scale the strangers had been suggesting.

  Eventually he sighed, realizing that he hadn’t overheard enough to understand what was really going on. If it was something he and the other students needed to be worried about, he was sure the Elders would let them know.

  Soon he decided that enough time had passed to try again; sure enough, when he returned to the Administrator’s office the door was wide open. Talean was alone as he pored over some notes, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his blue Administrator’s cloak draped over the back of a nearby chair. He removed his reading glasses and stood as Davian came to a halt in front of the desk.

  “Ah, so Mistress Alita finally found you. I see you’re still in one piece,” he said with a hint of amusement.

  The corners of Davian’s mouth turned upward; he was relieved that Talean was not going to dwell on the events of last night with him. “I’ll wait until everyone finds out why there’s no midday meal before I celebrate,” he said drily.

  Talean grinned. “Probably wise.” He gestured for Davian to follow him over to a chest of drawers in the corner, the motion revealing the tattoo on his bare right forearm. Davian repressed a shudder, as he did every time he saw an Administrator’s Mark. It was the same as his own—a circle surrounding a man, woman and child—but while for the Gifted it was an unwanted inevitability that simply appeared the moment they first used Essence, Administrators actually chose to receive theirs. Administrators’ Marks were always colored red, too, not black. It made them look like burns, as if they had been seared into the flesh.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve had to put one of these on you,” Talean noted as he opened the top drawer.

  Davian shrugged. “I don’t get sent out as often as everyone else. I can’t imagine why,” he added, sarcasm thick in his tone.

  Talean paused, glancing over his shoulder at Davian. “It is out of a desire to protect you, Davian. In their shoes I might do the same. There’s no shame in it.” He scratched his beard. “Speaking of which—I know you don’t usually go out alone. I could ask Elder Olin to find you a companion, if you’d like.”

  Davian reddened, shaking his head. “It’s been three years. I don’t need special treatment any more. From anyone,” he added significantly.

  Talean sighed. “True. True enough.” His hand emerged from the drawer grasping a torc, the twisted bands of onyx-like metal polished so brightly that Davian could see his own distorted reflection in them. “Hold out your arm. You should sit down first, too.”

  Davian shrugged. “I’ve never found it has much effect on me.”

  Talean grunted. “Still. I’ve had too many students say exactly that, and then wonder why I can’t be bothered catching them when they fall. Not a few Elders, too, though don’t tell them I told you so.”

  Davian grinned. “Fair enough.” He sat compliantly in a nearby chair, stretching out his left arm so that the wrist was exposed, along with his own tattoo. He flinched as Talean pressed the two points of the open end of the torc against his Mark, shivering as he felt the device molding itself to his arm, the ice-cold metal slithering forward over his skin and finally joining, completely encasing the forearm. The entire process took only a few seconds.

  He looked up at the Administrator, who was watching him closely.

  “Take your time,” said Talean.

  Davian shook his head. “No need.” Most Gifted found putting on a Shackle a fairly traumatic experience—it could cause lethargy, dizziness, even nausea for some. All Davian felt, though, was slightly weaker and a little more weary, as if the cold metal had stolen away an hour or two of the previous night’s sleep. Even that much could have been his imagination, given how tired he was already.

  Before, he’d always considered that good fortune… but today he found himself wondering whether it was something else entirely.

  Still—Davian could sense a cold layer of something sitting just beneath his skin, encasing him, sapping at his strength. The device was definitely working.

  He stood, Talean still watching him intently. Davian rubbed at the Shackle with his finger, tracing the markings etched into the cold steel.

  “I’m not even sure why I need to wear this, sometimes,” he said, a hint of dejection in his tone. Talean raised an eyebrow at him, and Davian snorted at his expression. “Don’t worry, I’m not questioning the Treaty. I only meant that I can’t use the Gift anyway. This, the Tenets—none of it really seems relevant to me at the moment.”

  Talean winced, so briefly that Davian wondered if he’d imagined it. Then the Administrator gave him a sympathetic nod. “Of course. Even so.” He placed his hand on Davian’s shoulder. “By the Fourth Tenet, return to the school once you have finished.”

  Davian rolled his eyes, feeling the slight warmth on his left arm as the Tenet took effect. While the Treaty itself was quite complex—a series of alterations and addenda to Andarran law—the Tenets were the rules that truly bound the Gifted. Once the Mark had appeared on their skin, they became literally incapable of breaking the oaths that had been sworn to the Northwarden fifteen years earlier. Talean’s invocation of the Fourth Tenet meant that Davian would be compelled to do as he’d commanded.

  “Is that necessary?”

  Talean raised an eyebrow. “You want me to risk a troublemaker like you running away?”

  Davian gave a slight smile, shaking his head in wry amusement. “Fine. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  He felt a sudden stab of nervousness as he walked back out into the courtyard; he hadn’t had time to think about it since waking, but this would be the first time in months he’d been outside alone. Despite his bravado to Talean, he really would have felt more comfortable with a companion on the journey.

  It was always that way, though. He couldn’t let his past—his fears—inconvenience everyone else forever.

  He hitched Jeni, the school’s mule, to the rickety old cart they used for transporting supplies. She was a placid animal, and as always stood happily until the process was complete. He absently noted that there were three horses tethered in the courtyard, where there would usually be none. They belonged to the mysterious visitors he’d overheard talking to Talean, presumably.

  Soon enough he was ready. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he gave Jeni’s reins a gentle tug and set off for Caladel.

  Chapter 3

  The road was quiet.

  Davian led Jeni at a relaxed pace, kicking loose stones along in front of himself as he walked, enjoying the feel of the sun on his back. This—the solitude—was always his favorite part of the journey. The cliff-side road had been a
major highway before the war, but now it was all but abandoned; the cobblestones were cracked and crumbling where nature had taken its course, and weeds sprouted anywhere they could get a foothold. It was still easily the shortest route north for anyone living in town, but it also passed within a hundred feet of the school. Only the Gifted used it any more.

  Soon enough, though, he rounded a curve in the road and the picturesque township of Caladel came into view, nestled between the sparkling coastline and surrounding hills.

  He sighed.

  Davian was avoided as he made his way down into the streets, Jeni and cart in tow. A few hawkers and merchants were out selling their wares, but none called to him as he passed. They knew he would not have money for them—and, worse, his being seen at a stall or shop would keep other customers away.

  For his part Davian kept his eyes lowered, trying not to meet the gaze of the townspeople giving him a wide berth. He’d been to Caladel many times before, but the wary, sometimes disgusted looks in the eyes that followed him still stung. After a while he found himself hunching his shoulders, as if the stares were a physical pressure on his back. He hurried between his destinations as unobtrusively as possible.

  His purchases went smoothly today. In the past some merchants had refused to sell to him or had demanded outrageous prices for their goods; whenever that happened he knew to return to the school empty-handed rather than cause a scene. This afternoon, though, much to his relief, the storekeepers were cold but willing to trade. Most people didn’t want to be seen dealing with the Gifted, but the school brought in a lot of business—and when earnings were counted at the end of the day, a coin from the Gifted was just as good as one from anyone else.

  Even so, it was with some relief that Davian hitched Jeni outside the small, dimly lit butcher’s shop that held the last items on his list. He’d dealt with the owner many times before, and didn’t anticipate any trouble.

  “Afternoon, Master Dael,” he said respectfully as he entered.

  The butcher was a thin man, no older than forty, with a bushy mustache that dwarfed his narrow face. “Morning, lad,” he replied, looking neither happy nor unhappy to see him. He never learned the names of his regular Gifted customers—none of the shopkeepers did—but Master Dael was unfailingly polite, which was an improvement on most.

  Davian handed him a slip of paper. “This is everything.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Master Dael said as he read the list.

  Behind Davian the bell hanging above the door rang as another customer entered. The butcher glanced up, and immediately his demeanor changed.

  “Get out,” he growled, looking twice the size he had a moment earlier. “We don’t serve the likes of you here.”

  For a moment Davian thought the order was directed at him; some shopkeepers were willing to sell to the Gifted only when there was nobody else present to see. In those situations, Davian knew to simply take Jeni around to the back of the shop and wait for the shopkeeper to come and find him.

  Master Dael’s gaze was focused past him, though. Davian turned to see an unfamiliar young man—no more than five years older than Davian himself—frozen in the doorway. Even in the dim light, Davian could see the black spiderweb of veins running jagged lines across his face, outward from his eyes.

  The butcher’s scowl deepened when the newcomer didn’t move. “You heard me,” he said angrily.

  “I just wanted—”

  Before Davian knew what was happening there was a stout oak club in Master Dael’s hands, and the thin man was advancing around the counter.

  The Shadow turned and fled, leaving only the clanging of the door’s bell in his wake.

  Immediately Master Dael’s expression reverted to its usual businesslike state, as if nothing had transpired. “I apologize for that.”

  “That’s… all right,” said Davian, trying not to sound shaken. He glanced again at the shop door, hesitating as he thought of Leehim. He knew he shouldn’t say anything more. “So you don’t serve Shadows?”

  The butcher gave him a withering look. “No self-respecting shopkeep would, and fates take me if I care what they do up in Ilin Illan. I may not like you Gifted, but this is a business and I’d be a poor man if I only traded with those I liked. Shadows, on the other hand…” He looked around as if trying to find somewhere to spit. “I’ve been hearing plenty about them and this Shadraehin fellow that everyone’s talking about. The types of things, the evil things that their kind get up to… well, some stories you just can’t ignore. A man has to draw the line somewhere.”

  Davian kept his expression carefully neutral. He’d never heard of this ‘Shadraehin’ before—not unusual, as the school was too isolated to get many of the rumors that filtered down from the capital—but this just sounded like the usual fearmongering Administration liked to spread.

  Still, he could hardly say that to Master Dael’s face. All that would earn him was a forceful ejection from the shop, and the distinction of losing the school one of its few reliable suppliers.

  “Maybe they’re not all like that,” he pointed out, trying not to sound argumentative. “Most are only Shadows because they weren’t strong enough to pass their Trials—they didn’t actually do anything wrong. It’s just that the Tols won’t let them stay on as Gifted, and the Treaty doesn’t allow them to go anywhere else until their ability is completely blocked. They’re just… unlucky.”

  The butcher’s face darkened, as if he’d just realized to whom he was talking. His glower was the only response he gave.

  Davian kept his mouth shut after that.

  Before long he was heading outside again, the butcher having regained his usual cool composure and instructed him to load up his cart around back. Davian looked briefly for the Shadow before leading Jeni into the alleyway beside the shop, but the young man had fled. He felt a brief pang of regret, wondering if he should have said something more in support. It would have been pointless, even foolish to bring down Master Dael’s inevitable wrath on himself. Still.

  Before long Master Dael had helped him secure the last of his purchases and had disappeared back inside the shop. Davian took Jeni’s reins.

  A small object flew over his shoulder from behind, missing his face by inches.

  He spun, startled, to see a group of boys lounging at the mouth of the alleyway. They looked younger than him by a couple of years—they were perhaps fourteen—and all wore wide smiles as they observed his discomfort. One of the boys was standing, tossing another small rock from hand to hand, eyeing him in the same way Davian had seen cats eye mice.

  “Sorry, bleeder. Must have slipped,” said the boy, affecting innocence. The others laughed.

  Davian gritted his teeth, biting back a retort. Bleeder. A common enough slur against the Gifted, he knew, though he’d rarely heard it directed at him.

  “What do you want?” he asked uneasily. He was accustomed to hostility and even outright verbal abuse, but there was something about this situation that was… off.

  The boy who had called out—clearly the leader of the pack—smiled at him, hefting the stone in his hand.

  Davian’s anxiety hardened into a sliver of panic; for a moment all he could think about was waking up three years earlier, barely able to move from his myriad injuries. He tensed himself to run, to abandon his purchases in the event of an attack. The boys were all smaller than he, but the Shackle would rob him of some of his strength, and it would be five on one in a straight fight.

  Besides, he couldn’t risk an altercation. Administration would never listen to his side of the story. He’d be accused of provoking the attack, no matter the facts.

  Suddenly there was a flash of blue on the main street.

  “Administrator!” yelled Davian, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.

  The Administrator paused at the shout, head swiveling toward the alleyway. He was a younger man, perhaps thirty. His eyes absorbed the scene with cool disinterest.

  Then he tur
ned and kept walking. Within moments he was lost from view.

  The boys had hesitated when Davian cried out, but now their swagger returned.

  “Nice try,” called one mockingly.

  Their leader sauntered closer. “How did you get to be so ugly, bleeder?” The boy grinned, tracing a finger down his cheek to indicate Davian’s scar.

  Davian turned to run… and the blood drained from his face as he discovered more of the group had cut around the buildings, blocking off the other end of the alley.

  The boy continued, “It looks like you got it in a fight. Bleeders aren’t supposed to be able to fight, you know.” The other boys muttered their agreement.

  Davian’s mouth went dry. “It was an accident, from a long time ago,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. His hands were shaking, though whether it was from fear or anger he wasn’t sure. He did his best to sound deferential. “I apologize, but I really must be going.” He moved to step around one of the aggressors, but the boy sidestepped back into his path, staring at him with a smile that never touched his eyes.

  “You’ll be violating the Treaty if you attack me,” Davian said desperately, stepping forward once again. This time the boy shoved him backward, hard enough that Davian landed flat on his back, breath exploding from his lungs. Then the youths’ leader was leaning over him, face close to his.

  “Do I look like an Administrator?” he whispered, a cold hunger in his eyes.

  Davian tensed, expecting to feel the first blow at any moment.

  Instead an angry male voice yelled something from the main street; suddenly the boys were scattering, leaving him lying alone, dazed, on the sun-warmed stone.

  He sensed rather than saw the approaching figure. Heart still pounding, he stumbled to his feet, hands held out in a defensive posture.

  “Easy, lad. I’m not going to hurt you.” The man standing before him gestured in a calming manner, his voice gentle with concern. Davian squinted. The voice was vaguely familiar, but the man was a stranger—middle-aged and with a thin, wiry build, probably in his mid- to late forties. The small round glasses he now peered over gave him the appearance of a kindly, absentminded scholar.