The Shadow Of What Was Lost

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 favourite part of the journey. The cliffside 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, having him seen at their 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 look 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 moustache 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 him, the bell hanging above the door rang as another customer entered. The butcher glanced up, and immediately his demeanour changed.

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

For a moment, Davian thought the order was directed at him; some shopkeepers were only willing to sell to the Gifted when there was nobody else present to see. In those situations, Davian knew to simply take Jeni around 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 apologise for that.”

“That’s… okay,” 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 rumours that filtered down from the capital - but it just sounded like the usual fear-mongering 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 their few reliable suppliers.

“Maybe they’re not all like that,” he pointed out, trying not to sound argumentative.

The butcher’s face darkened, as if he’d just realised who he was talking to. “Some people say the Tols use them when they want to get around the Tenets, too,” he said, as if defying Davian to challenge the statement.

Davian kept his mouth shut after that.

Before long he was heading outside again, the butcher having regained his usual cool composure and instructing 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 seemed… 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 ago, 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 onto 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 swivelling towards the alleyway. He was a younger man, perhaps thirty. His eyes absorbed the scene with cool disinterest.

Then he turned and kept walking. Within moments, he was lost from view.

The boys had hesitated when Davian had 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 in fear or anger he wasn’t sure. He did his best to sound deferential. “I apologise, but I really must be going.” He moved to step around one of the aggressors, but the boy side-stepped back into his path, staring at him with a smile that never touched his eyes.

“This is a violation of the Treaty,” Davian said desperately, stepping forward once again. This time the boy shoved him backwards, 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 seemed vaguely familiar, but the man was a stranger - middle-aged and with a thin, almost wiry build, probably in his mid to late forties. The small round glasses he now peered over gave him the appearance of a kindly, absent-minded scholar.

More importantly, he wore the crimson cloak of one of the Gifted, and his left arm was exposed to display his Shackle. Davian lowered his hands, finally taking the time to glance around. His assailants had vanished.

He took a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank-you,” he said, straightening and trying to brush the dust from his clothes.

The man inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Were you harmed at all?”

“Only my pride,” replied Davian, a flush of shame running to his cheeks.

The man gave him a sympathetic nod. “Something we can all relate to, these days.” He held out his hand. “I am Elder Ilseth Tenvar.”

Davian shook the outstretched hand as firmly as he could manage. “Davian.” The handshake felt off; glancing down, he noticed that the man’s forefinger was missing, only a scarred stump where it had once been.

Ilseth’s expression hardened as he gazed towards the street where the boys had vanished. “Do you know who they were?”

Davian shook his head. “I’ve never seen them before.”

Ilseth’s scowl deepened. “Opportunists, then. Cowards and fools. And here I was thinking that things might be different in the borderlands.” Sighing, he clapped Davian on the shoulder. “Do you have much more to do here in town?”

Davian gave Jeni a reassuring pat on the neck, though the gesture was more for himself than for the implacable mule. “I was just about to head back to the school.”

“Wonderful. I was there earlier today, but some directions back would not go astray. Would you terribly mind company?”

Davian glanced at Ilseth sideways, suddenly realising where he recognised his voice from. The man who had been talking with Talean.

He frowned. The question had been posed innocently enough, but he sensed there was something more to it. Elders visiting the school were not uncommon - yet for a moment, Davian felt an irrational suspicion.

Then he understood. Ilseth was offering Davian some support for the trip back, but tactfully enough not to make him feel ashamed for needing it. He felt a flicker of embarrassment at himself.

“It would be my pleasure, Elder Tenvar,” he said gratefully.

Ilseth smiled. “Please, call me Ilseth. At least until we reach the school.”

They made their way out of Caladel in silence, Davian lost in his own thoughts, still dazed from the attack. He began replaying events over in his mind, a bitter mix of anger and humiliation starting to burn in his stomach. He’d done nothing wrong. Nothing to deserve this.

As if reading his thoughts, Ilseth placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You’re not to blame, you know.”

“I just don’t understand why people are like that.” Frustration lent an edge to Davian’s tone. “Administrators and townsfolk both. Why do they hate us so much? The war ended fifteen years ago; I had nothing to do with it. Those boys – I doubt they were even born back then!” He took a deep breath. “I know, we have to accept the Treaty, live with the Tenets. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

Ilseth paused, considering Davian for a moment. “It’s not,” he said quietly, his tone matter-of-fact. “Not to any of us.” He shrugged. “As to the other… well, they hate us so much because they fear us. And they fear us because they know they can never control us. Not completely. Even though the Tenets make them our masters for now, we’ll always be stronger than them. Better than them. That’s a hard thing for people to accept, and it’s what drives them to push us down at every opportunity. They broke us once, and now they worry that if they don’t keep at it, we will rise up again and exact vengeance.” There was no heat to his words, only resignation.

They walked on for a while, the only sounds the gentle breeze in the trees and the creaking of the cart. Davian absently rubbed at his scar as he thought about what Ilseth had said.

“This wasn’t the first time, was it.”

Davian turned to see Ilseth watching him. “No,” he admitted after a moment.

“What happened?”

Davian hesitated, then gave an awkward shrug. “It was a few years ago. I was just a servant at the school, back then – I’ve lived there all my life. Mistress Alita had sent me into town, and some of the men there must have known I was working for the Gifted. They were drunk… I don’t remember much of it, to be honest.” Only the fragments he dreamed about, in fact. Nothing else between leaving the school and waking up – every nerve on fire, his face slashed open and the Mark emblazoned on his forearm.

He stopped. It had been a long time since he’d had to tell this story to anyone. He took a deep breath of the fresh sea air, continuing, “They attacked me, were going to kill me, but there was another Gifted – an Elder – who was passing by, and he… protected me. When he saw what they were doing to me, he killed them.” He fell silent.

“Ah,” said Ilseth, his expression changing to one of recognition. “You’re him. The boy Taeris Sarr saved.”

“You’ve heard about it?” Davian couldn’t keep the surprise from his tone.

Ilseth gave a short laugh, though there was no amusement in it. “I doubt there are many Gifted in Ilin Illan who haven’t. Administration claimed Sarr found a way to break the Tenets in order to kill those men. He denied it, of course, but it made little difference to the Northwarden. Sarr was executed before Tol Athian could even formally protest.”

Davian nodded, a little sadly. He’d never been able to thank the man who had saved him. Sarr’s execution had troubled Davian more than his injuries, in some ways. It had shown him exactly how little saving his life had been worth.

“Did you know him?” Davian asked.

Ilseth shook his head. “Not personally. He was at the Tol when the sieges began, and travelled a lot after, so our paths never really crossed.”

Davian looked up. “So… you didn’t live at the Tol during the war? You fought?”

Ilseth chuckled. “’Fought’ would perhaps be overstating things.” He saw Davian’s blank expression and grimaced. “’Hid’ may be a better term,” he elaborated, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh - of course. Sorry,” said Davian, abashed. Everyone called it ‘the war’, but everyone equally knew that the bloodshed had been mostly one-sided. He gave Ilseth a curious glance. “I’ve never met an Outsider before.”

Ilseth grunted. “That’s because there weren’t many of us left, by the end. If you weren’t lucky enough to be inside the walls of Tol Athian or Tol Shen when it all began, your chances of survival were… slim. Believe me.”

“What was it like? If you don’t mind me asking,” Davian added hurriedly, suddenly realising he was prying.

Ilseth gave a slight shrug, looking distant. “I don’t mind, lad. It was a long time ago.” He scratched his beard. “It was… lonely. Most people will tell you the worst thing was the pressure of being hunted, the constant fear, how you always had to be on your guard. They’re not wrong, exactly – you slept light and felt lucky if you got to the end of the day. But for me, it’s the loneliness I remember the most.”

Davian wiped a bead of sweat from his brow; being mostly uphill, the return walk from Caladel always required a little more exertion, and the sun was now beating down with intensity as well. “You didn’t try and get back to Tol Athian?”

Ilseth smiled wryly, as if at a poor joke. “Only those of us who couldn’t take it any more did that. It was suicide to be anywhere near the capital, let alone try and get to Athian. The same went for Tol Shen down south – and the other three Tols had all been destroyed by that point.”

Davian nodded; though the Elders were usually close-mouthed about the war, he’d already gleaned that much. Once, there had been five Tols – five different groups of Gifted, each teaching different philosophies and skills in their various schools, filling specific roles for the Augur leadership. Now, only two survived – Tol Athian, under whose governance his own school fell, and Tol Shen.

Ilseth continued, “No – I just went from town to town, trying to stay quiet, always on the lookout for Hunters and Loyalists. And always alone. During those days, if you spotted someone else who was Gifted, you went in the opposite direction. Most of us who survived were like me – smart enough to realise that aside from direct skin contact, the Finders could only detect you while you were using Essence. And if you could sense another Gifted, it was because they were doing exactly that… which usually also meant that the Hunters were on their way.”

Davian stayed silent, trying to imagine it. Three entire Tols wiped out, the other two besieged. Every school in the country overrun, everyone who had lived there butchered. A time when things were worse for the Gifted, when they had leapt at the chance to sign the Treaty, submit themselves to the Tenets.

He watched Ilseth from the corner of his eye. The Elders at the school were always reticent when it came to the Unseen War, but Ilseth seemed perfectly willing to talk about it.

“Did you ever meet the Augurs? Before it all started, I mean?”

Ilseth shook his head. “I worked at the palace, so they were around, but I never met any personally. I wasn’t much past a student myself, back then.”

“But you saw them use their powers?” Davian tried to keep his tone casual.

Ilseth raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “The Augurs? I suppose I did – a few times, whenever I went to watch them Read petitioners. Though honestly, there was nothing to actually see. Someone would come in with a claim. The Augurs on duty that day would stare at them for a few seconds, discuss, and then pass judgment. It was about as exciting as watching the king and the Assembly do it now, I imagine.”

Davian frowned. “So… they didn’t use Essence to Read people?”

“No. Of course not.”

“You’re sure?” Davian held his breath. He’d long suspected this, but had never been able to get a straight answer from either the Elders or any of the school’s few Administration-approved texts.

Ilseth snorted. “Lad, what have they been teaching you at that school? Think about it. Essence can only affect things physically - pick things up or break them apart. Pull, push. Harm or heal. How could it possibly be used to read someone’s mind?”

Davian nodded, too fascinated to feel embarrassed. “But the Augurs could use Essence too? Like the Gifted?”

Ilseth adjusted his glasses. “Well… yes. I remember one man who tried to lie to them – there were a few who thought it was possible, believe it or not - ran when he realised he’d been caught. The Augurs had him wrapped up in Essence before the guards could even move.”

Davian digested this information in silence, a flicker of relief in his chest. His other ability wasn’t the problem, then. It didn’t solve anything, but it was one less factor he had to worry about.

“So they could Read people, and See the future. What else?” he asked eventually.

Ilseth shook his head, smiling. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

Davian flushed. “Sorry. I’ve always wondered about what it was like before the Unseen War, but the Elders won’t talk about it.”

Ilseth scowled, and for a moment Davian thought he was angry at him. “They’re fools, then,” said the older man, and Davian realised he was talking about the Elders. “I don’t care what the Treaty says. The Loyalists burned half our knowledge when they destroyed Tol Thane. We can’t let the other half just evaporate through cowardice.”

There was silence for a few seconds, then Ilseth sighed, calming. “In answer to your question – nobody really knew what the Augurs could do, except the Augurs. They were nothing if not secretive, and there were only maybe a dozen of them at any one time. The only abilities we know they had for certain are the ones mentioned in the Treaty.”

“So Reading and Seeing.” Davian knew that part of the Treaty all too well.

Ilseth nodded. “Beyond those, lad, you’re into the realm of rumour and speculation. And we have enough of that going around from Administration without me adding to it.”

Davian nodded, trying to conceal his disappointment. He kicked a stone along the road idly. “Do you hate them?”

Ilseth frowned, puzzled. “The Augurs? Why would you ask that?”

“The Elders won’t talk about it, but I can tell that they blame them for the way things are.” Davian shrugged, trying to hide his discomfort. "Administration say the Augurs were tyrants, and I’ve never really heard anyone claim otherwise."

Ilseth considered for a moment. "Administration will also tell you that we were their willing accomplices - that back then, every single one of us used the Gift to take advantage of those less fortunate," he pointed out. "For the most part it’s just rhetoric, taking the exception and presenting it as the rule. The Augurs were far from loved - feared, mostly, to be honest - and sometimes they did things that were unpopular. But until just before the war, people accepted them. Understood the value of having them in charge."

Davian frowned. "So they didn’t oppress anyone?"

Ilseth hesitated. "I don’t think they ever meant to… but at the end, when they realised their visions were no longer accurate, they panicked. Didn’t tell anyone what was happening at first, not even the Gifted. Covered up the worst of their mistakes. Refused to cede any authority once people found out, and instead tried to create stricter laws and harsher penalties for any who opposed them - which they then tasked the Gifted with enforcing." He shrugged. "They were just trying to buy time to find out what had gone wrong with their visions, I think, but… things got messy after that. Fast."

He sighed. "So yes - with the way they acted just before the Unseen War, they are at fault. Undoubtedly. But do I hate them? No. I suppose I understand why others might, but I don’t.”

Davian nodded in fascination. “So what do you think happened to their visions?” Another matter on which the Elders were always tight-lipped.

Ilseth raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I can tell you the location of Sandin’s Emerald, or give you the names of the five Traitors of Keth while I’m at it?” He laughed. “It’s the greatest mystery of my generation, lad. I don’t know. Nobody does. There are a lot of theories, but none with enough evidence to give them any merit. They just… stopped getting things right.” He sighed. “I was there that night, you know. I was in the palace the night that Vardin Shal and his men attacked. The night the Augurs died.”

Davian felt his eyes widen. “What was it like?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“Chaotic,” replied Ilseth grimly, apparently not offended by the question. “People running everywhere screaming. The Gifted not knowing about Traps, not understanding that they couldn’t use Essence, dying where they stood. It wasn’t the glorious battle the Loyalists would have it be, that’s for certain.” He shook his head. “I’d been studying late that night, and it saved my life. Those asleep in the Gifted quarters had their throats slit where they lay. Even the children.”

Davian blanched. He’d never heard details like that before. “That’s awful.”

Ilseth shook his head. “That was tragic, despicable even. Walking into the meeting chambers and seeing every Augur in Andarra dead – that was awful.” His face twisted at the memory. “It’s difficult for your generation to understand, but they were more than just our leaders. Their passing meant the end of a way of life.” He fell silent, remembering.

Davian burned with other questions – the Elders he’d met were never this open about the Unseen War, and certainly not about the Augurs – but he bit his tongue. He’d learned more in the last few minutes than he had in a year of quietly searching, and he was a little concerned that Ilseth would become suspicious if continued to press right now. Visiting Elders rarely stayed at the school for less than a week, anyway. There would be time for some more carefully-worded questions later.

They walked on. Ilseth seemed lost in thought, and the distraction of conversation had already done much to calm Davian after what had happened in Caladel, so he remained quiet.

Eventually Ilseth stirred again. “Speaking of changes,” he said with what seemed to be forced cheerfulness, “are you prepared for tomorrow?”

Davian frowned. “Tomorrow?”

“The Trials,” said Ilseth, raising an eyebrow.

Davian barked a nervous laugh. “The Trials are not for three weeks – at the Festival of Ravens,” he assured Ilseth.

Ilseth grimaced, saying nothing for a few seconds. “Ah. They haven’t told you yet.” He laid a sympathetic hand on Davian’s shoulder. “Sorry, lad. For various reasons, we had to move the Trials up this year. That’s why I’m here - I’ve been sent by Tol Athian to oversee them.” He bit his lip as he watched Davian’s reaction. “I’m truly sorry, Davian. I thought you already knew.”

Davian felt the blood drain from his face as he processed the information, and for a moment he thought his knees might buckle. “Tomorrow?” he repeated dazedly.

Ilseth nodded. “At first light.”

Davian was too light-headed to respond.

He walked on towards the gates of the school in stunned, disbelieving silence.