The Shadow Of What Was Lost

Chapter 10

Wirr flipped one of their few remaining coins from hand to hand.

“I think I have an idea about how we can make more of these,” he announced, gazing down through the trees at the township below.

Davian glanced sideways at his friend. "Safely?"

Wirr caught the coin and turned, giving Davian an injured stare. "Of course." He hesitated. "Relatively."

Davian sighed. “I suppose that’s the best we can hope for, right now. Let’s have it.”

Wirr explained his reasoning. Davian listened intently; when his friend was finished he sat back, considering for a few moments.

“That’s a terrible plan, Wirr,” he said eventually. “It’s going to take them two seconds to realise something’s amiss.”

Wirr raised an eyebrow, hearing the hesitation in Davian’s tone. “But?”

Davian made a face. “But you’re right. We’re out of supplies; we need the coin.” He stood, brushing bits of dead leaves from his clothing. “Let’s go and meet the locals.”

Davian tried to look inconspicuous.

The tavern, like much in Desriel so far, surprised him by how normal it seemed. It was well-lit and cheerful, full of men who were taking their ease after a long day of farming or selling their wares. The proprietor circulated through the room continuously, laughing with regulars and trying to ingratiate himself with new customers. A young man with a flute played a merry tune in the corner, and occasionally would get the crowd clapping along to a favourite verse. Davian and Wirr had been to a few Andarran taverns on their journey, and the atmosphere between those and here was almost indistinguishable.

There were differences, of course. The serving girls were more modestly clad than their Andarran counterparts; men flirted, but did not take the same liberties they might have done back home. The tables were made from white oak, an extremely hardy wood unique to northern Desriel and a commodity the Gil’shar refused to export.

Then there was the plate by the doorway, above which loomed the sigil of the god Talkanar. Wirr had insisted that they drop one of their few remaining coins into it; according to him, each tavern in Desriel was aligned with one of the nine Gods, and it was good form – if not law – to make an offering if you intended to partake of any of the tavern’s wares. He’d apparently been right, because the barkeep had given them an approving nod as they sat down.

Davian stared back at the offering plate in fascination. It was nearly overflowing with silver; in Andarra the entire thing would have vanished within minutes, gone in the hands of some enterprising thief. Here, however – despite many of the tavern’s occupants looking to be of the less reputable sort – nobody was giving it a second glance.

“There are a lot of coins on that plate,” he murmured to Wirr.

“The Gil’shar torture and execute people who steal from the gods,” Wirr whispered.

“Good to know,” Davian whispered back.

They fell silent for a few moments, observing everyone in the large room. Davian fiddled absently with the sleeve of his shirt. Its tight fit had made it uncomfortable to wear on the road, which meant that it was in a better state than most of the other clothes he’d bought after leaving Caladel. He’d taken the time to bathe in a nearby river before coming into town, too. He needed to look at least vaguely respectable for this.

Finally Wirr nodded towards a small group of men gathered around a table.

“Them,” he said, keeping his voice low.

Davian followed Wirr’s gaze to a booth in the corner of the room. The three heavily-muscled men sitting there were better dressed than most of the people in the tavern; there were empty seats around them, as if the other patrons were wary of getting too close. Each of the men held a fistful of cards and wore expressions of intense concentration.

“They look important. And much bigger than us,” said Davian doubtfully.

“They look wealthy,” Wirr corrected. “More likely to take it on the chin if they lose a few pieces of gold here and there.”

Davian shrugged. “If you say so.”

They stood. Wirr hesitated, biting a fingernail, then laid a hand on Davian’s shoulder. “Whatever happens, just stay calm. Okay?”

Davian frowned, a little irritated that Wirr thought he would crumble under the pressure, but nodded. They walked over to the table, which fell silent as they approached. One of the finely-dressed men glanced up from his cards, giving them a disdainful look. He had jet-black hair, and sported the same neatly trimmed beard as the other two.

“Can we help you?” he asked, his expression indicating he had no desire to do any such thing.

Wirr gestured to one of the empty seats. “Looks like you could use a fourth.”

The man raised an eyebrow, obviously taking note of Wirr’s age. “I don’t know who you think you are, boy, but this is a private game. So run along.”

Wirr sighed, turning. “Figures. You look to be the type who can’t take a little competition.”

The whisper of steel being unsheathed seemed to fill the room, and suddenly conversation in the tavern stopped, every eye turning towards them. All three of the men were standing and had their blades drawn, though none – as yet – were actually pointing at Wirr.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned from the start. We’re playing Geshett. This game is for blooded Seekers only.” The man leaned closer, smiling to reveal a row of perfectly white teeth. “So. You ever faced an abomination, boy? Put it down so it can’t get back up?”

Davian used every ounce of his will to keep still, to not turn and flee. ‘Seeker’ was the word they used in Desriel. In Andarra, these men were known as Hunters.

Wirr, however, barely twitched. “I haven’t,” he said, “but my friend here has.”

Davian tried to look neither shocked nor terrified as the men turned to him as one, inspecting him sceptically. Finally the man who had first spoken gave a derisive laugh. “I don’t believe you. He looks like someone’s carved into him, rather than the other way around. He doesn’t even have a blade. He couldn’t kill a cockroach.” The others chuckled in agreement.

Wirr scowled, then reached into his bag, tossing something onto the table with a metallic clank. Davian started as he realised it was the two Shackles they had taken from the Hunters back in Talmiel. “That scar is not from a cockroach,” said Wirr.

The man’s smile faded as his gaze went from the Shackles, to Davian, then back again. Eventually he gave a slight nod, pushing the torcs back towards Wirr and turning to Davian. “Who taught you?”

“Breshada.” Davian regretted it as soon as it left his mouth, but it was too late; the question had caught him by surprise and it had been the only thing he could think to say. Still, it seemed to have an effect on those around the table, and a low murmur went around the tavern as the name was repeated to others who hadn’t been near enough to overhear. Everyone was still watching, Davian realised, fascinated by the exchange. He just hoped they wouldn’t be spectators to his and Wirr’s sudden and untimely deaths.

“The Breshada?” asked the man, more surprised than dubious now.

Davian inclined his head, trying to look confident. “I was in Talmiel with her just last week. We cut these off a couple of abominations that were stupid enough to come into town.”

The man just stared at Davian for a few seconds, then nodded, gesturing to the empty chair. “A student of Breshada the Red is welcome at our game anytime,” he said, only a little reluctantly.

Davian gave him a tight smile, hoping it made him look arrogant rather than relieved, and sat. Seeing that nothing else interesting was going to happen, the rest of the patrons went back to their conversations, though Davian could still see a few of them casting sidelong glances in his direction.

Inwardly, he cursed Wirr. His friend hadn’t batted an eyelid. He’d known they were Hunters, and had kept Davian in the dark for fear he wouldn’t go along with the plan.

He would kill him if they made it through this in one piece.

The man who had been doing the talking stuck out his hand. “I am Kelosh,” he said, all traces of surliness gone now that he had made the decision to believe them. “This is Altesh and Gorron.” The other two men nodded to him as Kelosh said their names.

“Shadat,” said Davian, a common name from Desriel that he’d decided upon earlier.

“Keth,” supplied Wirr, who was still standing.

Kelosh glanced up at him. “You want to play?”

Wirr shook his head as he took a seat to the side. “Rounds are too short with five. Besides, Shadat already took all my money,” he added with a grin.

Kelosh chuckled, though he and the others gave Davian an appraising look. “Very well,” he said, shuffling and starting the deal.

Davian took a deep breath, concentrating. Geshett was fairly simple; Wirr had taught him the game over the past few hours. How Wirr had known these men here were playing it, though, Davian had no idea.

“So you’ve come from Talmiel,” said Kelosh, his tone conversational. “You wouldn’t have heard about the trouble up north?” Davian shook his head and Kelosh paused, evidently excited to find someone new to tell. “A boy in one of the villages up there found out he had the sickness a couple of weeks ago. First abomination in Desriel in ten years.” Kelosh’s lip curled. “He went mad. Killed his entire family, half the rest of the villagers too.”

Davian didn’t have to fake his reaction. “That’s awful.” Then he frowned. “Wait. How?” The First Tenet should have stopped one of the Gifted from hurting anyone, regardless of where they were born.

Kelosh nodded solemnly, clearly having anticipated the question. “That’s what has everyone talking.”

“They say he doesn’t have the Mark,” interjected Altesh.

Kelosh shot him a look of irritation, then turned back to Davian. “I heard that too, but unlike my idiot friend here, I don’t believe every whisper in Squaremarket. The Gil’shar are taking him to Thrindar for a public execution - making an example of him and all that – so they have it under control. They’ll let us know if we need to start looking for something new.” He rubbed his hands together nervously. “Still, word’s out that he was from here; I had three people today ask me if we were thinking of setting up posts in Thrindar again. People are talking about another Outbreak.”

Davian set his face into as grim a mask as he could muster. “Meldier send that day never comes,” he said, invoking the name of the Desrielite god of knowledge.

“I’ll drink to that,” replied Kelosh, and the others muttered their agreement.

Davian breathed a sigh of relief as the conversation died out, the others focusing on their cards. He mentally ran through the rules of Geshett again. Everyone started with ten cards. Players either passed – eliminating them from the round – or lay one, two, or three cards face-down on the table, called their value, and made a bet of any amount. The card value called had to be higher than any previously played.

Once a bet had been made, another player could claim ‘Gesh’ – becoming the Accuser - indicating that they thought the cards laid down were not of the value called. If Gesh was invoked, the cards were turned face-up. If the call had been honest, the Accuser paid the player double their bet. If it had been false, though, the player not only honoured their bet, but gave the same amount to the Accuser.

Whoever finished the round having played the highest cards – either honestly or without being caught – collected everything that had been bet during that round.

Davian settled in, focusing. It was meant to be a game of skill, where a person’s ability to bluff was key. He wasn’t sure how successful his own bluffing abilities would be, but as for the others, he knew they had no chance.

For a split second, he almost pitied them.

Kelosh slapped Davian on the back as Gorron continued to glare at the overturned cards.

“Do you ever bluff, my friend?” he asked as Gorron reluctantly slid two silver pieces in Davian’s direction.

Davian took them and added them to his pile, which had grown large in the last hour. “Only when I know you won’t call me on it,” he replied with a grin.

Kelosh roared with laughter. The drinks had been flowing, and the big man’s demeanour had loosened considerably since Davian had first sat down. Davian was grateful for that. He’d been careful in his play, as Wirr had advised – losing occasionally, letting the smaller bluffs go uncalled – but he had still won enough coin to last a couple of months, maybe more. And Wirr had been right. While the men had not enjoyed losing, Kelosh and Altesh had taken it in stride, almost seeming amused that they were being beaten by a boy.

Gorron had been less amiable. To be fair, his pile had dwindled the most of the three, and now consisted of little more than a few copper pieces. Once those disappeared, the game would likely finish for the evening. To that end, Davian intended to call Gesh the very next time he saw a puff of shadows coming from Gorron’s mouth. Despite feeling a little more comfortable than at the beginning, he still itched to be far, far away from these men.

“Breshada must be as good a teacher as she is a Seeker,” Gorron said with a growl as he watched his coins disappear into Davian’s pile.

“One eight. Three coppers,” said Altesh, laying a single card on the table. He looked across at Davian. “Tell us more about Breshada, Shadat. Is what they say about Whisper true?”

Davian tried not to panic. There had only been gentle banter around the table thus far; the game generally required too much concentration for small-talk. This was the first time he had been asked a question that he didn’t know the answer to. What was Whisper?

“I don’t know. What do they say?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He laid two cards face-down. “Two twos. One silver.” It was his standard bet, now he had the money. Small enough to not matter if he didn’t win the round, large enough to be worthwhile if someone called Gesh on him. Kelosh had been right – he always played it true, and folded if he couldn’t. He had a guaranteed way of making money. There was no point in gambling.

Kelosh snorted. “You know the stories. Whoever holds it cannot be touched, by abominations or the Gods themselves. One cut from Whisper steals your very soul and makes the blade stronger. That sort of thing.” He stared at his hand for a moment. “Two sevens. Six coppers.”

Davian hesitated. Kelosh was lying about his cards, but Davian ignored it, instead thinking back to that night in Talmiel when the young woman had rescued them. He thought about the way their captors had died. “I don’t know about stealing souls,” he said quietly, “but all it takes is a nick, and you’re dead. Instantly. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

There was an impressed silence for a few seconds, then Gorron snorted. “Likely story,” he said, shaking his head in derision. “Three eights.”

Davian prepared himself. Gorron had lied. It was finally over.

However Gorron paused before making his bid, then stood, unbuckling the silver-sheathed sword from around his waist. He drew it out, laying both sword and sheath on the table. The blade itself was beautiful, elegantly curved with delicately worked gold inlay on the hilt. It looked more than ornate though. Like the sword of a master craftsman.

“The gold alone is worth about ten times what any of you have in front of you,” he said. “But the blade? The killer of a thousand heretics and abominations? It is priceless.”

Kelosh gave Gorron a look of open surprise. “You’re betting Slayer? Why?” He scratched his head. “This is just a friendly game, Gorron.”

Gorron was silent for a moment, then scowled. “I’m not going to lose to him, Kelosh,” he said, jerking his head in Davian’s direction. “I don’t care who he’s trained with, how many abominations he’s killed. Look at him! He’s a child!” He glared at Davian. “I find it hard to believe he’s ever even seen a real sword except from the wrong end. Let’s see him try and win one.”

Kelosh shrugged. “It’s your decision, Gorron,” he said, shooting Davian an apologetic look. He looked around. “Anyone want to call him on it?”

Davian saw Wirr shaking his head from the corner of his eye. Gorron obviously loved the blade. The killer of a thousand heretics and abominations. The fear that had been with him all evening was suddenly gone, replaced with a burning anger. These men killed Gifted. They killed people like him, Asha, Wirr. And they were proud of it.

“Gesh,” he said softly.

Gorron stared at him in shock, a stricken look on his face. Davian had so much in front of him to lose, and only a fool would have assumed Gorron was bluffing with a bet that large. Kelosh saw the expression on his friend’s face and groaned.

“Perhaps we can figure out an alternate means of -”

Kelosh was cut short by a cry of anger from Gorron. Before Davian could react the Hunter had drawn a dagger from his belt and was lunging at him.

Time slowed.

From the rage on Gorron’s face, Davian had no doubt the man was going for a killing blow. Still seated, he snatched Slayer from the table, desperately putting it between himself and the leaping Gorron.

The tip of the sword caught Gorron in the chest.

It slid in smoothly, more easily than Davian had imagined a blade would go through flesh. Gorron froze, the dagger clattering from his hand to the floor, then stumbled back. He looked uncomprehendingly at Davian; he gave a wracking cough and blood sprayed from his mouth.

Then his eyes rolled upward and he collapsed. Altesh rushed to his side, but Davian knew what he would say before he got there.

“He’s dead,” said Altesh, stunned.

The entire tavern was silent, everyone looking alternately at the corpse on the floor and Davian, who was still holding the bloodstained sword. He lowered the blade.

Kelosh stared at him solemnly for a few moments.

“I have never seen anyone move that fast,” said the Hunter eventually, his voice soft with awe. “You do Breshada credit, Shadat.” He sighed, shaking his head as he looked at Gorron’s motionless body, then gestured to the table. “You and your friend should go. Take your winnings; I will deal with the Watch. I’ll tell them it was between Seekers, and it will be fine. If they see how young you are, though, it will only hold things up.”

Davian just nodded, too numb to respond otherwise. He and Wirr quickly swept the pile of coins into their satchel, and Davian snatched up the silver sheath.

Before anyone could move to block their exit, they were outside and hurrying into the night.

They ran for a quarter hour before Wirr held up his hand, breathing hard, and came to a gradual stop.

“I don’t think anyone is following us,” he said between gulps of air. “We can probably -”

He cut off with a cry of pain as Davian’s fist crashed into his nose.

“What in fates were you thinking?” Davian hissed, putting as much venom into the words as possible without making too much noise. “You knew! You knew they were Hunters, and you sent me right to them. Worse. You didn’t even tell me!” His friend had struggled back to his feet, but Davian stepped forward and drove his fist squarely into his nose again, eliciting another moan of pain. “This is not a game, Wirr! We could die out here!”

Wirr stayed on the ground this time, looking up at Davian with pure shock on his face. “Dav!” He scrambled backward in the dirt as Davian took a menacing step forward. “I’m sorry!”

Davian looked at his friend – stunned, upset, scared – and the anger drained from him, exposing the emotion it had tried to cover.

Shame.

He sunk to his knees next to his friend, suddenly realising his entire body was shaking.

“I killed him, Wirr,” he whispered after a few seconds. “I just picked up the sword, and….”

Wirr hesitated, but seeing his friend’s rage had subsided, shifted over to sit next to him. He tested his nose gently with a finger. “It wasn’t your fault, Dav,” he said. “He was going to kill you - just like he killed all those other Gifted. Remember what he was.”

Davian stared at the ground, unable to concentrate with all the emotions swirling in his head. “And that makes it right?”

Wirr bit his lip, silent for a few seconds. “It couldn’t be avoided, Dav. Same as Talmiel,” he noted eventually.

Davian screwed up his face. “Except I wasn’t holding the sword in Talmiel.”

“So it’s okay for someone else to save your life, but not if you do it yourself?”

Davian ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t know, Wirr,” he admitted. “I just feel… dirty. Sick to my very core. Like I just made the biggest mistake of my life, and there is no way I can ever take it back.”

Wirr just nodded, obviously not sure what to say. They sat in silence for a while, then Wirr cleared his throat. “I should have told you. But I knew you’d never go along with it.”

Davian took a deep breath. The silence had given him time to order his thoughts, push the shock of what he’d just done to the background. “How did you know who they were? And, fates - why, why did you choose them in the first place?”

Wirr grimaced. “Geshett is a Hunter’s game,” he admitted. “They say it helps hone their ability to tell when people are lying, and to conceal things themselves. It’s the only game they play, Dav, and no-one else is allowed to play it.” He shrugged. “Your ability doesn’t set off Finders and isn’t covered by the Tenets. It was the only way I could think of to get enough money.”

Davian gritted his teeth. It made sense, though they had been beyond fortunate that none of the Hunters had been suspicious enough to check them with Finders. “Just… tell me everything next time. It was all I could do not to run when I realised who they were.”

Wirr gave a slight smile and hefted the satchel, which made a jingling sound as he shook it. “All things considered, Dav, you did very well.”

Despite everything, Davian laughed softly. “All I could think of half the time was what Breshada’s face would look like, if she ever found out I was using her name to dupe her ‘brethren’.”

Wirr smirked. “Angry. Angry is how I picture her.”

Davian smiled, and a tiny part of the pain – the worst part – faded just a little. He stood, sticking out his hand. Wirr hesitated for a moment, then grasped it firmly, allowing Davian to pull him back to his feet.

“I think you broke my nose,” Wirr grumbled, pulling a kerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his nose and grimacing as the cloth came away soaked in blood.

“Nothing you didn’t deserve,” noted Davian.

Wirr grunted. “I suppose that’s true.” He looked at Davian, expression thoughtful. “Dav… I have to ask. How did you do it?”

Davian stared at his friend in confusion. “Do what?”

“How in all fates did you move so fast? One second you were sitting there, and the next, that sword was sticking clean through Gorron. I don’t doubt you have fast reactions, but that was….” He shook his head. “Something else.”

Davian looked at the sword, still in his hand. He unsheathed it, hefting it, admiring the sense of balance, the clean lines of the blade. “He called it Slayer,” he pointed out. “If it has a name….”

Wirr snorted. “A Hunter trying to sound important, nothing more. It’s not a Named sword, Dav. It would be easy to tell. Like Breshada’s.”

Davian nodded, acknowledging the truth of the statement. As soon as he’d seen Whisper, he’d known there was something different about it, even before seeing how effectively it killed. Most Named swords he’d heard of, the names themselves hadn’t made sense to him. Having seen Whisper in action, though, he knew it was the perfect word to describe it.

‘Slayer’, on the other hand, didn’t fit. It was a nice sword – a very nice sword – but Wirr was right. It had no unusual powers.

Gently, he tossed the sword into the long grass at the side of the road. Valuable or not, he wanted nothing more to do with it.

Wirr looked about to protest but then just sighed, nodding.

“If it wasn’t the sword, then I don’t know,” Davian finally admitted. “Everything seemed to move more slowly, I suppose. I grabbed the sword, and….” He trailed off, stomach churning as he remembered the moment. For an instant he thought he was going to vomit, but a few deep breaths settled him again. “I can’t explain it, Wirr.”

Wirr grunted. “Whatever it was, it saved your life.” He grimaced. “Probably both our lives. I was about to try and use Essence to hold him back.”

Davian gave a low whistle. “First Tenet or not, that would have made things interesting.”

“You have no idea,” muttered Wirr, almost to himself. He glanced around. The sky was clear tonight and though it was too early for much moonlight, the stars provided enough illumination to see the road. “We should keep moving. The further we are from here come dawn, the better.”

They walked for a while in silence, the quiet of the night calming Davian’s jangling nerves somewhat.

Abruptly, Wirr cleared his throat. “I meant it, you know,” he said hesitantly. “I really am sorry.”

“I know, Wirr,” said Davian. “It’s okay.”

There was silence for a while longer, then Davian rubbed his hands together, keeping them warm against the chill of the night air. The motion caused his sleeve to pull upward a little, and he found himself staring at the carefully covered patch on his forearm.

“Strange, what Kelosh said,” he said idly. “Do you really think there’s a Gifted out there without a Mark? Maybe if we got far enough away from Andarra…”

Wirr shook his head. “No. I’ve read about Gifted as far away as the Eastern Empire having the Mark - when the Tenets were created, a lot of countries nearly went to war with us over it. They were all outraged that Andarra had unilaterally enforced laws that some of their citizens were bound to… but of course with the Gifted in their armies unable to fight, they were too weak to make an issue of it.” He kicked a stone along in front of him. “It’s interesting. The Gil’shar were supposedly amongst the most angry when the Treaty was signed; they thought the Loyalists should have pressed their advantage. But in the end, it helped them more than anyone else. Their army never relied on Gifted, so they were unaffected – and now they’re stronger than ever.”

Davian nodded, though he hadn’t really been paying attention after the first sentence. Politics was Wirr’s passion, not his.

“It’s a shame,” he noted. “Even with all the Finders around, being free of the Tenets would have been useful out here.”

Wirr frowned. “How so?”

Davian raised an eyebrow. “It would be easier to defend ourselves, for a start. And you could have used the Gift to steal some coin, rather than us having to risk our lives for it. It wouldn’t take much Essence to pickpocket a few people - not enough to set off Finders, anyway.”

“I suppose,” said Wirr, sounding reluctant.

Davian shot him a surprised look. “You disagree?”

Wirr shrugged. “I just don’t like the idea of using our powers to steal from people.”

Davian stared at his friend, not sure if Wirr was joking. “Isn’t that exactly what we just did?”

Wirr shook his head. “Those men chose to gamble their money. They wagered you couldn’t tell when they were lying, and they lost. It’s a fine line, I know, but it is different.” He sighed. “I’m not disagreeing, Dav, particularly about the part where we could actually protect ourselves. But we need to be careful what we wish for.”

Davian frowned. “They’re Desrielites,” he protested. “They’d string us up from the nearest tree, given the chance. Why should we feel badly about taking their coin? Weren’t you just saying my killing one of them was justified?”

“That wasn’t your fault,” pointed out Wirr. “He was a Hunter, a murderer, and it was self-defence. What you’re talking about is going out and using the Gift to steal from ordinary people. I know we’re in need, but… it would still be an abuse, Dav. Before the war, the Augurs let the Gifted use Essence to take advantage of others when they ‘needed’ to, too. They said it was to make Andarra a better place. Look at where that got us.”

Davian shook his head, surprised at the direction of the conversation. “So… you think the Treaty is justified?” he asked in confusion. Debating the Treaty was forbidden amongst students; with Talean always around, this was a topic that had never come up between them. It shouldn’t have needed to, though. Every Gifted wanted the Treaty, and particularly the Tenets, gone.

Wirr shook his head. “Of course not,” he said, a little defensively. “But if you had the chance to remove all the Tenets, or just some of them – what would you do?”

“Remove them all,” said Davian without hesitation. While the Treaty itself was quite complex – a series of alterations and addendums to Andarran law - the Tenets were the rules that bound the Gifted, the reason that anyone using Essence for the first time would suddenly find themselves with the Mark. Once that black tattoo appeared on their wrist, they became literally incapable of breaking the oaths that the Gifted had sworn to the Northwarden fifteen years ago.

Wirr sighed. “Really? You don’t think some restrictions on how the Gift is used are a good thing? ”

“Like what?”

Wirr shrugged. “There’s four Tenets. Let’s take the first: no use of the Gift with the intent to harm or hinder non-Gifted. Why is that so bad?”

“Because we can’t defend ourselves,” said Davian. “I know the argument is that it only reduces us to the level of normal people, but the Gifted are hated. We never get attacked by just one person; it’s always a mob.” He unconsciously touched the scar on his face.

“Right.” Wirr looked uncomfortable for a moment, realising how close to the mark he’d come. “So what if that Tenet were changed, allowing the Gifted to use Essence to defend themselves?”

Davian thought for a moment. He wanted to say it still wouldn’t be enough, but as he followed the argument through to its conclusion in his head, he knew he had no case. “I suppose that would be fine,” he said reluctantly.

Wirr nodded in satisfaction. “The Second Tenet: no use of the Gift to deceive, intimidate, or otherwise work to the detriment of non-Gifted. Problem?”

“We can’t steal things.”

Wirr rolled his eyes. “Seriously.”

Davian sighed, thinking for a moment. “It’s the same as the first,” he said. “It’s too general. I can’t use the Gift to hide myself as a thief, and that’s fine. But I’d like the ability to hide myself if there are people chasing after me, trying to kill me, just because I’m Gifted.”

Wirr nodded in approval. “A problem that would mostly be solved by the exception to the First Tenet.”

Davian smiled. “Thought about this a lot, have we?”

Wirr shrugged. “The joys of studying politics.”

Davian gazed up at the starlit sky as they walked. “So let’s say the Third Tenet stays, for our own protection if nothing else – that Administrators and Gifted can do no harm to one another, physical or otherwise. What would you change about the Fourth Tenet?”

“I think the Fourth could probably be removed,” admitted Wirr. “As long as the other three are in place, I see no reason why we should be forced to do what the Administrators tell us all the time. We don’t need keepers.”

Davian nodded, relieved that his friend mimicked his thoughts on at least that much. “And the Treaty itself? The changes to all the Andarran laws?”

Wirr shrugged. “Some of those would have to be revised too, of course. But there are some reasonable checks and balances in there.”

“You don’t think we should rule again?”

Wirr looked at Davian levelly. “I’m stronger and faster than a regular person. I can do the work of several men each day, then tap my Reserve at night to do other things rather than sleeping. All being well, I’ll live twenty years longer than most people, maybe more.” He paused. “But does that make me wiser? Fairer? Do those qualities automatically make me a good ruler, or even just a better one than someone who doesn’t have the Gift?”

Davian remained silent. He knew Wirr had a point but it irked him nonetheless; for some reason he’d never really thought it through before. It had always simply been accepted within the school that the Treaty was wrong, that the Gifted had been usurped from their rightful place.

Eventually he sighed. “You’re right. The thought of you in charge of anything is terrifying.” He exchanged a brief grin with Wirr, then shrugged. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. From what I understand, the Vessel that created the Tenets can only be used to change them if King Andras and one of the Gifted work together. And everyone knows that King Andras won’t trust any of the Gifted enough to do that.”

Wirr nodded. “True. Still an interesting exercise, though.”

Davian inclined his head, suddenly realising that the conversation had – finally – taken his thoughts away from earlier events.

“That box of yours still glowing?” asked Wirr, changing the subject.

Davian had almost forgotten about the Vessel after the events of the evening. He took it out of his pocket, half-blinded by the sudden light in the darkness. He’d seen the iridescent symbol several times over the past few days, but its appearance had always been inconsistent, often fading even as he examined it. It had only been this morning that the glowing lines had become stronger, more constant, though still emanating from just a single face of the cube.

He turned the box slowly. A different face lit up with the wolf’s image. He turned it again, this time back to how he was originally holding it. The first side lit up once more.

“You still can’t see it?” he asked Wirr.

“No,” said Wirr, sounding worried. Davian couldn’t blame him. The symbol was undoubtedly being generated by Essence; for it to be visible only to Davian should have been impossible.

Davian twisted the box vertically; again the face that had been lit faded, and a new face became illuminated. He ran his fingers over the engravings. Was it a puzzle? An indication of how to open the box, or something else? He shook it gently, but as with every time before, nothing shifted. It was either empty, completely solid, or whatever was inside was securely packed in.

He tapped the side with the symbol. It was warm to the touch; when his finger made contact with the metal, the tip seemed to disappear into a nimbus of white light. Aside from the heat, though, there were no other sensations. Certainly nothing to help him figure out its purpose.

Frustrated, he tossed the box in the air, spinning it as he did so that the edges blurred together.

He frowned as he caught it. Had he just seen?…

He tossed it again, this time higher, spinning the box so viciously that it seemed almost more of a cylinder than a cube. He snatched it out of the air with an excited grin, then repeated the action. A thought began to form, small at first but quickly growing until he became certain.

He tossed the cube upward one last time, laughing.

Wirr squinted, watching him with a worried expression. “Are you… okay, Dav?”

Davian came to a stop, then held up the cube in front of Wirr’s confused face.

“I’m better than okay,” he said triumphantly. “I know where we’re supposed to be going.”