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THE SHADOW OF WHAT WAS LOST

James Islington
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AS DESTINY CALLS, A JOURNEY BEGINS
It has been twenty years since the god-like Augurs were overthrown and killed.
Now, those who once served them - the Gifted - are spared only because they have
accepted the rebellion's Four Tenets, vastly limiting their own powers.
As a young Gifted, Davian suffers the consequences of a war lost before he was
even born. He and others like him are despised. But when Davian discovers he
wields the forbidden powers of the Augurs, he sets in motion a chain of events
that will change everything.
To the west, a young man whose fate is intertwined with Davian's wakes up in the
forest, covered in blood and with no memory of who he is . . .
And in the far north, an ancient enemy long thought defeated, begins to stir.
Categories:
Science Fiction
Volume:
1
Year:
2016
Publisher:
Orbit
Language:
english
Pages:
604
ISBN 10:
0316552747
ISBN 13:
9780316552745
Series:
The Licanius Trilogy
File:
EPUB, 2.28 MB
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english, 2016

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1


THE SHADOW OF WHAT WAS LOST

Islington James

Year:
2014
Language:
english
File:
EPUB, 814 KB
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2


DECEIVED (BEDLAM)

Isles Camilla

Year:
2016
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THE SHADOW OF WHAT WAS LOST



The Licanius Trilogy: Book One



James Islington





orbitbooks.net

orbitshortfiction.com





Begin Reading

Table of Contents

Orbit Newsletter

Copyright Page



Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.





For Sonja.

Without your enthusiasm, love, and support,

this would never have been possible.





Prologue


Lightning.

For a moment the waters of Eryth Mmorg were lit, roiling and churning as though a great knife had plunged deep into the pool’s murky heart. A dark wave shattered against a barely discernible outcrop of black rocks, hissing, spitting spray a hundred feet into the air before subsiding. The world flickered back into darkness, but the waves, if anything, increased their intensity. Another roared, hissed, sighed, even louder than the peals of thunder that followed. Another.

Tal watched impassively from his rocky perch, high above even the spray. Only his cloak moved as it flowed out behind him, billowing and snapping in the gusting wind. Old eyes set against youthful features stared unblinking into the night, fixed upon the point where he knew the gaping maw of Eryth Mmorg lay. Another flash illuminated the oval of jagged rocks; the waves licked at them hungrily, waiting to devour any who ventured close.

Behind him lay the flat, barren rock that was Taag’s Peak. No life grew there, not even the hard, poisonous foliage that survived elsewhere in the wilderness. The obsidian surface was worn smooth by the constant buffeting wind; twenty paces from Tal it ended in another precipice, almost as ; sheer as the one he currently overlooked. Few men could gain Taag’s Peak, and fewer still desired to.

To the north, on the horizon beyond the pool, the darkness was suddenly broken by a dull red glow. Tal’s eyes cleared after a moment, flicked toward the light. The beacon seemed about to fade before blossoming into a ball of brilliant orange flame, searing light across the wastelands and burning into Tal’s head. He gasped, shutting his eyes for a moment, steadying.

How long had he gazed into the depths? Too long; the alarm had been raised and his flight discovered. A cold, sharp pain clawed at his chest, something he had not felt in some time. Fear.

“Hold,” he murmured to himself, fixing his gaze once again upon the angry waters. “Hold.” It was very nearly done, despite his lapse in concentration.

“You are running, Tal’kamar. I warned you against running.” The sound rumbled around the peak, a presence rather than a voice.

Tal’s stomach twisted and he turned, searching for his pursuer.

“I know the truth,” he said quietly. He could see it now, at the far end of the peak but crawling toward him. A shadow, darker than the rest. A being not quite there. His master.

The creature chuckled, a sickening sound. “You do not know what truth is any more. He was one man, Tal’kamar. He lied; you said it yourself. You slew him for his falsehood. You took his head and set it on a pike. You placed it at the Door of Iladriel as a reminder, for all to see! Do you not remember?” The shadow stopped, watching Tal. Waiting.

Tal hesitated, staring for a long moment into the gloom.

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. His master’s presence was overpowering; for a moment Tal wanted only to grovel before his lord, beg that all be forgiven.

Then the moment passed, and he sensed a feeling of anticipation from the shadow—and something more, barely discernible. Something he had never felt before from his master.

Nervousness.

He continued, growing more confident with each word. “Yes,” he repeated slowly, “but I was mistaken. I followed the path he set me upon. I found proof.” He paused, his voice stronger now. “I went to Res Kartha. I asked the Lyth.” Stronger again. “I went to the Wells of Mor Aruil and spoke with the Keeper. I found Nethgalla at the Crossroads and tortured her until she told me all she knew.” Now he shouted, the rage of so many years finally released, a mighty roar that seemed to echo across all of Talan Gol and beyond. “I went deep beneath the mountains, beneath Ilin Tora itself. I found the Mirrors. I gazed into them and found one thing!” He stopped, panting, face twisted in grim triumph. “One truth above all others.”

The shadow crept closer, menacing now, the silver gone from its voice. “What did you find, Tal’kamar?” it hissed mockingly.

Tal drew a deep breath. “You are false.” He said it calmly, staring defiantly at the dark mass. “Completely, utterly false.”

He turned, gesturing downward toward the waters. A bright-blue circle began to glow just above the waves, spinning ever faster. When he turned back the shadow was at his face, filling his vision, its breath a foul stench on the air. It laughed, a filthy sound that contained only contempt.

“You cannot escape this place,” it snarled. “You cannot escape me.”

For the first time in years, Tal smiled.

“You are wrong. This time I go where Aarkein Devaed cannot follow,” he said softly.

He stepped backward, over the edge. Fell.

The shadow slithered forward, watching as Tal passed through the Gate and beyond reach. The whirling ring of blue fire flickered white for but a moment; then it was gone, leaving no trace of its ever having existed.

The creature stared at where it had been. The waves below were quieter now, as if appeased.

Suddenly it understood.

“The Waters of Renewal,” it hissed.

Its screams filled the world.





Chapter 1


The blade traced a slow line of fire down his face.

He desperately tried to cry out, to jerk away, but the hand over his mouth prevented both. Steel filled his vision, gray and dirty. Warm blood trickled down the left side of his face, onto his neck, under his shirt.

There were only fragments after that.

Laughter. The hot stink of wine on his attacker’s breath.

A lessening of the pain, and screams—not his own.

Voices, high-pitched with fear, begging.

Then silence. Darkness.


Davian’s eyes snapped open.

The young man sat there for some time, heart pounding, breathing deeply to calm himself. Eventually he stirred from where he’d dozed off at his desk and rubbed at his face, absently tracing the raised scar that ran from the corner of his left eye down to his chin. It was pinkish white now, had healed years earlier. It still ached whenever the old memories threatened to surface, though.

He stood, stretching muscles stiff from disuse and grimacing as he looked outside. His small room high in the North Tower overlooked most of the school, and the windows below had all fallen dark. The courtyard torches flared and sputtered in their sockets, too, only barely clinging to life.

Another evening gone, then. He was running out of those much faster than he would like.

Davian sighed, then adjusted his lamp and began sifting through the myriad books that were scattered haphazardly in front of him. He’d read them all, of course, most several times. None had provided him with any answers—but even so he took a seat, selected a tome at random, and tiredly began to thumb through it.

It was some time later that a sharp knock cut through the heavy silence of the night.

Davian flinched, then brushed a stray strand of curly black hair from his eyes and crossed to the door, opening it a sliver.

“Wirr,” he said in vague surprise, swinging the door wide enough to let his blond-haired friend’s athletic frame through. “What are you doing here?”

Wirr didn’t move to enter, his usually cheerful expression uneasy, and Davian’s stomach churned as he suddenly understood why the other boy had come.

Wirr gave a rueful nod when he saw Davian’s reaction. “They found him, Dav. He’s downstairs. They’re waiting for us.”

Davian swallowed. “They want to do it now?”

Wirr just nodded again.

Davian hesitated, but he knew that there was no point delaying. He took a deep breath, then extinguished his lamp and trailed after Wirr down the spiral staircase.

He shivered in the cool night air as they exited the tower and began crossing the dimly lit cobblestone courtyard. The school was housed in an enormous Darecian-era castle, though the original grandeur of the structure had been lost somewhat to the various motley additions and repairs of the past two thousand years. Davian had lived here all his life and knew every inch of the grounds—from the servants’ quarters near the kitchen, to the squat keep where the Elders kept their rooms, to every well-worn step of the four distinctively hexagonal towers that jutted far into the sky.

Tonight that familiarity brought him little comfort. The high outer walls loomed ominously in the darkness.

“Do you know how they caught him?” he asked.

“He used Essence to light his campfire.” Wirr shook his head, the motion barely visible against the dying torches on the wall. “Probably wasn’t much more than a trickle, but there were Administrators on the road nearby. Their Finders went off, and…” He shrugged. “They turned him over to Talean a couple of hours ago, and Talean didn’t want this drawn out any longer than it had to be. For everyone’s sake.”

“Won’t make it any easier to watch,” muttered Davian.

Wirr slowed his stride for a moment, glancing across at his friend. “There’s still time to take Asha up on her offer to replace you,” he observed quietly. “I know it’s your turn, but… let’s be honest, Administration only forces students to do this because it’s a reminder that the same thing could happen to us. And it’s not as if anyone thinks that’s something you need right now. Nobody would blame you.”

“No.” Davian shook his head firmly. “I can handle it. And anyway, Leehim’s the same age as her—she knows him better than we do. She shouldn’t have to go through that.”

“None of us should,” murmured Wirr, but he nodded his acceptance and picked up the pace again.

They made their way through the eastern wing of the castle and finally came to Administrator Talean’s office; the door was already open, lamplight spilling out into the hallway. Davian gave a cautious knock on the door frame as he peered in, and he and Wirr were beckoned inside by a somber-looking Elder Olin.

“Shut the door, boys,” said the gray-haired man, forcing what he probably thought was a reassuring smile at them. “Everyone’s here now.”

Davian glanced around as Wirr closed the door behind them, examining the occupants of the small room. Elder Seandra was there, her diminutive form folded into a chair in the corner; the youngest of the school’s teachers was normally all smiles but tonight her expression was weary, resigned.

Administrator Talean was present, too, of course, his blue cloak drawn tightly around his shoulders against the cold. He nodded to the boys in silent acknowledgement, looking grim. Davian nodded back, even after three years still vaguely surprised to see that the Administrator was taking no pleasure in these proceedings. It was sometimes hard to remember that Talean truly didn’t hate the Gifted, unlike so many of his counterparts around Andarra.

Last of all, secured to a chair in the center of the room, was Leehim.

The boy was only one year behind Davian at fifteen, but the vulnerability of his position made him look much younger. Leehim’s dark-brown hair hung limply over his eyes, and his head was bowed and motionless. At first Davian thought he must be unconscious.

Then he noticed Leehim’s hands. Even tied firmly behind his back, they were trembling.

Talean sighed as the door clicked shut. “It seems we’re ready, then,” he said quietly. He exchanged glances with Elder Olin, then stepped in front of Leehim so that the boy could see him.

Everyone silently turned their attention to Leehim; the boy’s gaze was now focused on Talean and though he was doing his best to hide it, Davian could see the abject fear in his eyes.

The Administrator took a deep breath.

“Leehim Perethar. Three nights ago you left the school without a Shackle and unbound by the Fourth Tenet. You violated the Treaty.” He said the words formally, but there was compassion in his tone. “As a result, before these witnesses here, you are to be lawfully stripped of your ability to use Essence. After tonight you will not be welcome amongst the Gifted in Andarra—here, or anywhere else—without special dispensation from one of the Tols. Do you understand?”

Leehim nodded, and for a split second Davian thought this might go more easily than it usually did.

Then Leehim spoke, as everyone in his position did eventually.

“Please,” he said, his gaze sweeping around the room, eyes pleading. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t make me a Shadow. I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

Elder Olin looked at him sadly as he stepped forward, a small black disk in his hand. “It’s too late, lad.”

Leehim stared at him for a moment as if not comprehending, then shook his head. “No. Wait. Just wait.” The tears began to trickle down his cheeks, and he bucked helplessly at his restraints. Davian looked away as he continued imploringly. “Please. Elder Olin. I won’t survive as a Shadow. Elder Seandra. Just wait. I—”

From the corner of his eye, Davian saw Elder Olin reach down and press the black disk against the skin on Leehim’s neck.

He forced himself to turn back and watch as the boy stopped in midsentence. Only Leehim’s eyes moved now; everything else was motionless. Paralyzed.

Elder Olin let go of the disc for a moment; it stuck to Leehim’s neck as if affixed with glue. The Elder straightened, then looked over to Talean, who reluctantly nodded his confirmation.

The Elder leaned down again, this time touching a single finger to the disc.

“I’m sorry, Leehim,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

A nimbus of light coalesced around Elder Olin’s hand; after a moment the glow started inching along his extended finger and draining into the disc.

Leehim’s entire body began to shake.

It was just a little at first, barely noticeable, but then suddenly became violent as his muscles started to spasm. Talean gently put his hand on Leehim’s shoulder, steadying the boy so his chair didn’t topple.

Elder Olin removed his finger from the disc after a few more seconds, but Leehim continued to convulse. Bile rose in Davian’s throat as dark lines began to creep outward from Leehim’s eyes, ugly black veins crawling across his face and leaching the color from his skin. A disfigurement that would be with Leehim for the rest of his life.

Then the boy went limp, and it was over.

Talean made sure Leehim was breathing, then helped Elder Olin untie him. “Poor lad probably won’t even remember getting caught,” he said softly. He hesitated, then glanced over at Elder Seandra, who was still staring hollowly at Leehim’s slumped form. “I’m sorry it came to this—I know you liked the lad. When he wakes up I’ll give him some food and a few coins before I send him on his way.”

Seandra was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you, Administrator,” she said quietly. “I appreciate that.”

Davian looked up as Elder Olin finished what he was doing and came to stand in front of the boys.

“Are you all right?” he asked, the question clearly aimed at Davian more than Wirr.

Davian swallowed, emotions churning, but nodded. “Yes,” he lied.

The Elder gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you for being here tonight. I know it can’t have been easy.” He nodded to the door. “Now. Both of you should go and get some rest.”

Davian and Wirr inclined their heads in assent, giving Leehim’s limp form one last glance before exiting the Administrator’s office.

Wirr rubbed his forehead tiredly as they walked. “Want some company for a few minutes? There’s no chance I’m going straight to sleep after that.”

Davian nodded. “You and me both.”

They made their way back to the North Tower in thoughtful, troubled silence.


* * *

Once back in Davian’s room both boys sat, neither speaking for a time.

Finally Wirr stirred, expression sympathetic as he looked across at his friend. “Are you really all right?”

Davian hesitated for a moment, still trying to sort through the maelstrom of emotions he’d been struggling with for the past several minutes. Eventually he just shrugged.

“At least I know what I have to look forward to,” he said wryly, doing his best not to let his voice shake.

Wirr grimaced, then gave him a hard look. “Don’t say that, Dav. There’s still time.”

“Still time?” Normally Davian would have forced a smile and taken the encouragement, but tonight it rang too false for him to let it go. “The Festival of Ravens is in three weeks, Wirr. Three weeks until the Trials, and if I can’t use Essence before then, I end up the same way as Leehim. A Shadow.” He shook his head, despair thick in his voice. “It’s been three years since I got the El-cursed Mark, and I haven’t been able to do so much as touch Essence since then. I’m not sure there’s even anything left for me to try.”

“That doesn’t mean you should just give up,” observed Wirr.

Davian hesitated, then looked at his friend in frustration. “Can you honestly tell me that you think I’m going to pass the Trials?”

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 courtyard 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.”

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 turned 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.

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 toward 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 actually on my way back there myself. Would you terribly mind company?”

Davian glanced at Ilseth sideways, suddenly placing his voice. The man who had been talking with Talean.

He nodded and relaxed a little, secretly relieved that he didn’t have to make the return journey alone. “It would be my pleasure, Elder Tenvar.”

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 traveled a lot after, so our paths never really crossed.”

Davian acknowledged the statement with another nod. Originally there had been five Tols—five different strongholds of the Gifted, each teaching different philosophies and skills in their various schools, filling specific roles for the Augur leadership. The sieges had marked the beginning of the war; three of the Tols, along with every school in Andarra, had been wiped out within months. Only Tol Athian, under whose governance his own school fell, and Tol Shen had endured until the end.

He looked up, suddenly registering what Ilseth had said. “So… you weren’t at Tol Athian 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 just never met anyone who didn’t spend the war inside a Tol.”

Ilseth grunted. “That’s because there weren’t many of us left, by the end. If you weren’t lucky enough to be behind the walls of Athian or 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 realizing 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.”

He shook his head slightly at the memory, continuing, “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 realize 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. Loyalists—those who had supported the royal family during the rebellion, under the command of the famed general Vardin Shal—suddenly in every town, equipped with Finders and other weapons against the use of Essence. 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 leaped 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 realized 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 realized 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 rumor 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 says 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 realized 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? Give you the names of the five Traitors of Kereth? Let you know who the Builders were, how they constructed their wonders, and then explain where they disappeared to 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 that Traps even existed, not knowing that their Essence could be suppressed and dying where they stood as a result. 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 he 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 looked 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 felt like 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 winced, 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 toward the gates of the school in stunned, disbelieving silence.





Chapter 4


Davian was numb as he tethered Jeni.

Ilseth had already departed in the direction of the Elders’ quarters, murmuring something about finding his traveling companions. Davian finished his task and trudged toward Talean’s office, still light-headed, scar throbbing as it always did when stress got the better of him. The tiny hope he’d been clinging to for the last few months had finally faded. Disappeared.

The Administrator stood as Davian entered, grimacing as he saw the expression on the boy’s face. “You’ve heard.”

Davian nodded, his chest tight. “I met one of the Elders in Caladel.” He recounted the incident in town.

Talean shook his head, looking dismayed. “I am sorry, Davian.” He scowled to himself. “And embarrassed. I will speak to Administration in Caladel first thing tomorrow, you have my word.”

Davian inclined his head. He knew the Administrator who had ignored his plight would never be identified, but he appreciated the gesture. “Thank you.”

Talean was silent for a few moments as he placed his hand on the Shackle around Davian’s arm. “I’ve been thinking about your situation. I am happy to plead your case, if you wish me to,” he said suddenly as the cold force that had been sitting beneath Davian’s skin slithered back into the torc. Talean removed the device and placed it back in its cupboard, continuing, “For most people, the extra few weeks wouldn’t matter. But for you they may have made a difference. There is no reason the Gifted cannot take you along to Tol Athian, put you through the Trials at the proper time.”

Davian felt like a drowning man clutching at a piece of driftwood. “Do you think they would agree to that?”

“I don’t know,” said Talean honestly. “I don’t know what these Elders are like.” He hesitated. “I cannot use the Fourth Tenet to make them do it, though. I hope you understand that.”

Davian nodded; the thought had occurred to him, but Talean was right. “You can’t interfere with the affairs of the school. I know,” he said. “If you would speak to them on my behalf, though, I would be in your debt.” Talean wasn’t like the Administrators in Caladel—or anywhere else, if the stories were true. He believed in the Treaty, in protecting the Gifted just as much as protecting everyone else from them. He would do his best to help.

Talean gave him a slight smile, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just remember that we Administrators are not all bad, and that will be payment enough.”

Davian nodded, unable to summon a smile in return. “When can you talk to them?”

Talean glanced out the window. Davian followed his gaze to see three red-cloaked figures—one of them Ilseth—striding across the courtyard toward the Elders’ quarters.

“No time like the present,” noted Talean, pulling his blue cloak across his shoulders. “I’ll find you as soon as I have an answer.”

Davian swallowed, suddenly nervous again as he watched Talean hurry after the newcomers.

He made his way back to his room, avoiding eye contact with the other students he passed. Word had spread of tomorrow’s Trials, and everyone knew what that meant for Davian; with less than a hundred people living within the school walls, his inability to use the Gift was far from a secret.

Some people still stopped him as he passed and wished him luck for the morning, their expressions bidding him a pitying farewell. Those conversations always died out, the well-wishers trailing off awkwardly and eventually retreating. Others glanced away when they saw him, as if they feared that by acknowledging him, they would somehow share his fate.

He’d thought that reaching the relative safety of his quarters would help matters, but he had only to glance at the faces of Wirr and Asha—who were waiting for him—to know he was wrong. The rims of Asha’s eyes were red, and Wirr was more subdued than Davian had ever seen his friend. Davian opened the door to let them inside, then slumped onto his bed, the last of his energy leaving him.

Asha and Wirr sat on either side of him, silent for a time. Asha eventually put her arm around his shoulders and pressed him close to her. Her physical proximity would normally have made Davian awkward, but today it made him feel as if his heart were being wrenched from his chest.

Just like everyone else, this was her saying good-bye.

They sat there for what seemed like minutes, Davian letting Asha’s soft blond hair press against his cheek. Eventually he took a deep breath and straightened, forcing a smile.

“If you two could stand it one last time,” he began in a light tone, careful not to choke on his emotions, “perhaps you could keep me company this evening?”

They both nodded immediately. “Of course,” said Wirr. He hesitated. “Do you want to practice at all?”

Davian shook his head. “I just want to spend some time with my friends,” he said softly.

Wirr’s face twisted for a moment, revealing the depth of his pain. It was gone in an instant. “Then so it shall be,” he said with a smile.

After a while longer they wandered back downstairs, taking their dinner and then finding their usual spot atop the tall west-facing wall of the school. The view over Caladel and the ocean beyond was spectacular as always; the setting sun bathed everything in a warm, almost otherworldly orange glow. A few of the returning fishing vessels were silhouetted against the glittering water, making their way tranquilly into harbor at the end of a long day. A great hawk circled above them; the three of them just watched the majestic creature soar for a while, mesmerized, silent but completely comfortable in each other’s company.

Davian closed his eyes for a second, capturing the image: sitting with his friends high above everything, his troubles for just a moment held at bay. It was perfect. A perfect farewell to his friends, his life. He would remember this and always think of better times.

They talked of small things. Davian decided not to tell them about Talean’s efforts to help; as more time passed, he became increasingly sure that a reprieve would not come. He would face his Trials tomorrow, the same as everyone else of age. And he would face the consequences of failure as stoically as he could.

Finally the sun dipped below the horizon, and the gentle sea breeze soon became unbearably cold. When they reached the bottom of the wall, Talean was waiting for them. One look at his face told Davian all he needed to know.

“It seems I am saying this a lot today, Davian,” said Talean, voice rough with emotion, “but I am sorry. They refused.”

Though Davian had been expecting it, the news still felt like a punch to the stomach. “Thank you for trying,” he said, doing his best to sound calm.

Talean inclined his head. “El be with you tomorrow,” he said, a hint of sadness in his tone. Davian blinked; he’d never heard an Administrator invoke the Old Religion before.

Talean looked as though he was going to say more, then spun on his heel and walked away.

Wirr and Asha both gave Davian a questioning look, but he just shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said heavily. His last sliver of hope gone, tiredness came crashing in. “I think perhaps I should get some sleep.” He forced a smile at the other two. “It’s a big day tomorrow.”

His friends smiled back, though he could see the pain in their eyes. Wirr nodded, and Asha gave him a lingering hug. “We will see you in the morning, Dav,” she said, looking close to tears.

He gave them one last tight smile, and headed back up to the North Tower. As soon as his door was shut he collapsed into bed, not even bothering to undress.

Oddly enough, now his fate was sealed, he had no trouble sleeping.


* * *

The soft, insistent tapping at the door pricked at Davian’s consciousness.

He lay there for a few seconds as the events of the day came flooding back, settling like a physical weight on his chest. He rolled onto his side, staring out the window into the darkness beyond. It was still pitch-black night—he wasn’t sure how late, exactly, but there was dead silence from the courtyard below, a sure indicator that it was at least past midnight.

The gentle knocking at the door came a second time, finally rousing him. He frowned as he sat up. It didn’t sound like Wirr’s usual confident rap, but perhaps his friend was just exercising some extra caution. Being caught out this late, the night before the Trials, would undoubtedly bring down the wrath of the Elders.

He crossed the room and opened the door, blinking in the sudden torchlight. Ilseth Tenvar stood in the hallway, looking nervous.

“Elder Tenvar!” Davian said bemusedly. There was an awkward pause. The Elders conducting the Trials normally stayed overnight in Caladel, making Ilseth’s presence doubly surprising. “How can I help you?”

Ilseth glanced around, clearly uneasy. “May I come in?” He clutched something small in his left hand, but it was covered in cloth, concealed from view.

Davian shrugged. “Very well,” he said, trying not to sound too reluctant.

Ilseth entered, shutting the door behind him. Noting the open window, he crossed the room and shut that, too. Looking around and apparently satisfied, he took the chair at Davian’s desk; Davian perched opposite him on the bed, still trying to deduce what was happening.

Ilseth paused for a moment, composing himself. Then he made a few gestures in the air; streams of energy flowed from his fingertips, settling into the walls around them.

Davian frowned; he’d seen this done before. Ilseth was Silencing the room.

Once he had finished, Ilseth stared at the cloth-covered bundle in his hands. “Before we begin,” he said, tone grave, “you need to know that I am sorry to put this burden on you.” He scratched his beard, then took a deep breath. “There is no easy way to say this. I know you’re an Augur, Davian.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in.

Davian felt the blood drain from his face; he leaned back, as if physical distance from Ilseth would somehow help. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ilseth held out his hands in a calming motion. “I am not going to turn you in,” he said quickly. “But I do need you to be honest with me. It’s true?”

Davian stared at the floor for several seconds, heart thudding as he struggled to sort through a wild tangle of emotions. Finally he took a deep, steadying breath, squaring his shoulders. There had been no black smoke from Ilseth’s mouth. The Elder was telling the truth—he wasn’t going to turn him in.

“It… might be,” he admitted reluctantly. “I’ve never had visions of the future, if that’s what you mean. But I’ve always been able to tell when someone is lying to me… it could be a form of Reading, I suppose. I’ve never really been sure.” He frowned. “How did you know?”

“We’ve been watching you. Your inability to use Essence is an indicator, and…” Ilseth shook his head. “The details are not important, Davian, and there isn’t enough time to explain everything. What is important is that you trust me. I need you to use your ability now. I need you to Read me, to believe what I’m about to tell you.” He looked Davian in the eye. “Will you do that?”

Davian nodded. He was concentrating on what Ilseth was saying; his ability would do the rest. “Go ahead. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Ilseth gave him a relieved smile, then began unwrapping the package in his hands. The white cloth fell away to reveal a small box made of bronze, with intricate details etched into each face. Ilseth held the box carefully, almost gingerly.

“Our meeting in town today was no accident. I came looking for you,” the Elder admitted. He hesitated. “What do you know of the Boundary?”

Davian frowned. “The barrier of Essence in the north? It’s… old. Impassable.” He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember. “It’s from the time of the Eternity War, I think. From the golden age of the Gifted. So it was created… a thousand years ago? Two?”

“Closer to two.” Ilseth didn’t take his eyes from the box in his hands, its burnished surface seeming to glow in the dim light. “And do you know why it was built? How it came into being?”

“Only what the stories from the Old Religion say.” Davian scratched his head, trying to recall what little he’d been taught of the Eternity War, drowsiness still slowing his mental processes a little. “It was to seal off Aarkein Devaed and his creatures… to trap him before he completed his invasion. Before he wiped out everyone in Andarra, if you believe that sort of thing.”

“That’s right.” Ilseth’s tone was serious. “It’s not a myth, though. Devaed was very much real—not the embodiment of evil the Old Religion would have you think, perhaps, but he was certainly a very powerful, very dangerous man. And the creatures he commanded were real, too. Truly terrible things that even the Darecians, at the height of their powers, couldn’t kill.”

Davian frowned. “How can you be sure?”

“There were once entire books devoted to that period of history. Accounts from people living during the Eternity War.” Ilseth gave a rueful shake of his head. “Like everything else, though, we kept them at the library at Tol Thane. I’m one of maybe five or six people still alive who once took an interest in that era.”

Davian nodded slowly. He’d often heard the Elders lamenting just how much had been lost the day Tol Thane had burned to the ground.

“I believe you,” he said eventually. “But what does all this have to do with me?”

Ilseth gazed at Davian for a long moment, assessing him. He took a deep breath. “The Boundary is weakening, Davian. Failing. We know how to fix it, but it was created by the Augurs… and without the Augurs’ powers, we can’t do anything about it.” He rubbed his hands together, a nervous motion. “Devaed is long dead, of course, but there have been… incidents in the north. People disappearing, or dying in the most violent ways imaginable. Sightings of creatures that match the description of dar’gaithin, eletai, shar’kath—horrors that haven’t been seen since the Eternity War.” He shook his head. “We think some have already made it through—things that no one alive today is equipped to deal with. There’s no telling what else is waiting beyond if that barrier fails completely.”

Davian looked at Ilseth in disbelief. Dar’gaithin? Eletai? They were supposed to have been among the most terrifying of Devaed’s monsters, twisted fusions of men and animals that left only death in their wake. “And you want me to help? But… I have no training. No idea how to—”

“That’s fine.” Ilseth made a calming gesture. “Have you heard of the sig’nari?”

“Of course. The Prefects—the Gifted who served directly under the Augurs.”

Ilseth nodded. “I was one, before the Unseen War. A few of us survived, and we’ve been watching for the return of the Augurs. For you, and others like you.” He held out the cube toward Davian. “We’re gathering the Augurs again, Davian. Trying to fix this before a terrible evil is unleashed upon Andarra, and hopefully help the new generation of Augurs in the process. If you are willing, this will lead you to somewhere you can be trained. To people who can help you understand and use your abilities.”

Davian rubbed his temples; his head had begun to ache. He sat in stunned silence for a few seconds. “Do the other Elders from the Tol know about this? About… me?”

“No.” Ilseth grimaced. “The truth is, Davian, very few of the Gifted can be trusted with your secret. The Tol has been split for years on what to do should an Augur ever be found. Regardless of what is happening at the Boundary, people like me see the Augurs as our way back to restoring balance in Andarra, to stopping the oppression of the Gifted.”

Davian gave a slow nod. “And the others?”

“Would see everyone with those abilities dead.” Ilseth said the words flatly. “And they are in the majority. You said it yourself—many Gifted still hate the Augurs for what happened, for what they seemingly threw away. And like it or not, people will think of you as one of them, no matter how you differ from what they eventually became.”

Davian was silent for several seconds. Ilseth hadn’t lied.

He leaned forward, taking the bronze box from the Elder.

“You said this will guide me, somehow? How does it work?” Davian turned the box over in his hands. It emitted a slight warmth, more than it should have from simply retaining Ilseth’s body heat. It was covered in minute, strange symbols—writing, perhaps, though it was no language that Davian had ever seen.

“I’m… not sure,” admitted Ilseth. “I think it’s a Vessel, though it’s older than most I’ve seen before. But I don’t know how to use it.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m only told what I need to know. That way, if I’m ever discovered, I can’t give away anything important.”

Davian frowned. Vessels were devices that stored and used Essence for a particular purpose, usually something that one of the Gifted would be unable to achieve alone. Only the Augurs had known how to make them. They were highly illegal.

“Then what am I supposed to do with it?”

“Just take it north. Do that, and I promise it will take you where you need to go.” Ilseth leaned forward. “You see now why I needed you to Read me, Davian? You’re going to have to take a lot on faith. You need to leave tonight. Now. If you stay, by sunset tomorrow you’ll be a Shadow, and all of this will have been for nothing.”

Davian gazed at Ilseth for a moment longer, massaging his temples again to ease his aching head. No puffs of black smoke had escaped Ilseth’s mouth while he’d been speaking. He was telling the truth. Davian felt a little dizzy, trying to take it all in. “I need to talk with Elder Olin.”

“No.” The force of Ilseth’s response surprised Davian. The older man hesitated, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Davian, but if the Elders here find out, they will tell your Administrator. And you may have a good relationship with Talean, but if he finds out you’re an Augur, he is bound by the Treaty to turn you in. You know that.”

Davian opened his mouth to respond, but Ilseth held up a hand, forestalling his protest. “Even if I’m wrong, and you can trust the Elders not to say anything—do you really think Elder Olin would just let you go? Leave the school without a Shackle, unbound by the Fourth Tenet, with no explanation, on your word? Even on mine? You can trust me because you know I’m not lying. No one else has that advantage.”

Davian hesitated. Ilseth was right; none of the Elders would just let him leave, no matter how much trust there was between them.

He acknowledged the statement with a terse nod. He was trapped, underwater with nowhere to surface. The entire conversation felt surreal.

Ilseth watched him closely. “I know this is a lot to take in,” he said, “but I have to know. Will you go?”

Davian shook his head, not wanting to have to make the decision. “What of the people here? What will you tell them?”

“Nothing.” Ilseth’s tone was firm. “They will think you’ve simply run away for fear of becoming a Shadow—we both know it’s common enough. They’ll send people to look for you, but Tol Athian doesn’t have the resources to waste on runaways for long. At worst they will tell Administration… but you’d need to be avoiding run-ins with them anyway.”

Davian’s stomach twisted. Asha. Wirr. What would they think? He couldn’t go and explain what was happening now; even if there was time, he had no doubt that they would try to stop him.

He hesitated, then looked Ilseth in the eye. “If I go, you need to promise me you will tell my friends why I left. They can keep a secret.”

“The two I saw you with earlier, I assume.” Ilseth sighed. “They know of your ability?”

“Yes.”

There was silence as Ilseth thought for a moment, adjusting his glasses absently as he did so. “Very well. I’d advise against it, but if it will make your decision easier, I will speak to them after the Trials tomorrow. You have my word.”

Davian nodded. It did make the decision easier—not palatable, not comfortable, but it did help.

And, he realized with surprise, he’d made that decision. Ilseth hadn’t lied once. The chance to finally confront this strange ability he had, the chance to be around people who could tell him something about the Augurs—he had longed for it for some time. And compared to what would happen if he stayed…

“So. North,” he said quietly, hefting the cube in his hand.

“Yes,” said Ilseth with a visible flash of relief. He obviously hadn’t been certain that Davian would go. “I was told only that you need to head northward for as long as it takes, and that you will know exactly where to go when the time comes.” He spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I hate to be so cryptic, but that is all the information I have.”

Davian just nodded. He was accepting so much else on faith, the vagueness of the directions felt hardly surprising. He looked around his room, mind clearer now that he knew his course. “It will take me a few minutes to gather my things.” He paused. “Someone will be on duty at the gate.”

“Leave that to me.” Ilseth drew a small pouch from beneath his robe. It clinked as he tossed it to Davian. “For your journey. Stay away from towns where you can, but you’ll need to buy food, and there will be some nights where it’s too cold or wet to sleep out in the open.”

Davian peered inside. A number of gold coins glittered in the heavy pouch—enough to feed him indefinitely, and more. A small fortune.

“Fates,” he breathed, a little stunned. “Thank you.”

Ilseth stood, laying a hand on Davian’s shoulder. “If you can learn to become a true Augur, lad, then it’s worth it a hundred times over.” He headed for the door. “Give me a quarter hour to take care of the guards, then leave. No later, mind you. I won’t be able to distract them for long.” He paused. “And be very careful over the next few weeks, Davian. Stay out of sight where you can. People will be looking for you.”

He opened the door and slipped through, shutting it again behind him.

Davian sat for a few minutes, just holding the bronze box Ilseth had given him, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. Was this really happening? Dazedly he recalled what he’d overheard earlier that day. Could he be “the boy” Talean and Ilseth had been talking about, that the Northwarden himself was so interested in? He dismissed the idea immediately. If the other Elders had no knowledge of his ability, there was no way the Northwarden would.

He stood mechanically, fetching a bag from beneath his bed and throwing his scant belongings into it. A couple of plain woolen tunics, a pair of trousers, the cloak Mistress Alita had given him for his last birthday. He had not bothered to undress for bed; he tucked the pouch of coins safely into his belt, hidden from view. Bandits would be an issue on the road anyway, but there was no benefit to tempting them.

The box Ilseth had given him he wrapped in its cloth and then slipped into a pocket. It was bulky, but if it was as important as Ilseth said, the discomfort was worth having it on his person.

Just as he finished, another soft knock from the hallway—this one familiar—made him curse silently. Wirr’s timing couldn’t have been worse.

He hesitated, considering just waiting until his friend left. The room was unlocked, though, and locking it would give away that he was there; Wirr was just as likely to come in uninvited as he was to give up.

Moving quietly, Davian stuffed the bag beneath his bed.

Wirr looked up as the door swung open, a solemn expression in place of his usual grin. Davian gestured for him to enter, mind racing. There were only minutes before he had to leave, and Wirr would want to stay for longer than that.

He came to a decision before the door was shut. Ilseth had warned him not to talk to anyone, but this was Wirr. Besides, he needed to tell someone.

“I’m leaving, Wirr. Tonight.” He said the words softly but firmly.

Wirr blinked. “What?” He had begun to sit, but now stood again, shaking his head. “Dav, no! That’s a bad idea. I know becoming a Shadow is a terrifying thought, but—”

“I’m not running away,” Davian interrupted. “Elder Tenvar, from Tol Athian, was just here. He asked me to go.” He hurriedly related the conversation, finishing by reaching into his pocket and pulling out the bronze Vessel. He unwrapped the cloth cover and held it up for Wirr’s inspection. “The Elder doesn’t know what this is, only that it will guide me to where I need to go—somewhere to the north. Once I get there, I’ll start my training. Learn how to become an Augur. Hopefully help seal up the Boundary again, before it’s too late.”

Wirr, who had listened to the entire story in silence, frowned. “You’re sure he was telling the truth?”

“Yes. Completely. I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise.”

Wirr’s expression didn’t change; if anything his frown deepened as he thought. “‘North’ is a little vague, don’t you think?”

Davian shrugged, turning the box over in his hands. “Apparently this will lead me the rest of the way.”

“Perhaps.” Wirr still did not sound convinced. “And you can’t mention this to anyone here?”

“I know how it sounds, but it does make sense. There’s a reason we haven’t told the Elders what I can do.” Davian glanced at the door. “I have to go in a couple of minutes, Wirr. Ilseth is distracting the guards; it’s my only opportunity. I’m sorry to leave you like this. Truly.”

Wirr considered his friend, looking conflicted. Then he straightened. “I’m going with you.”

Davian shook his head fiercely. “No. I appreciate the offer, but I have nothing to lose. You do. You’ll do well at Tol Athian, probably end up an Elder in ten years or so. You can do something meaningful with your life. I can’t let you give that up.”

“I know exactly what I’m giving up, and it’s my decision to make.” Wirr’s voice was calm, his words measured. “You’re my friend, Dav, and this thing that you’ve been asked to do—it sounds dangerous. Fates, if the Boundary is really about to collapse, it is dangerous. I’d regret it forever if I let you go without someone there to watch out for you.” Gone was the customary lightness to Wirr’s tone.

“You can’t come,” Davian said, lacing the sentence with as much authoritative finality as he could muster.

“Then I’ll have to go and wake Elder Olin,” responded Wirr.

Davian ran his hands through his hair in frustration. Wirr had the upper hand, and both of them knew it. “There’s no time. You don’t even have any clothing.”

“I have about as many things as you do, Dav. It will take me all of two minutes.” Wirr stood, heading toward the door. Davian instinctively stepped into his path, but Wirr just raised an eyebrow in amusement at him, looming over his much smaller friend. “Really?”

Davian flushed, then stepped aside. “I’m not happy about this, Wirr.”

“Strangely enough, I’m fine with that.” Wirr paused as he opened the door. “I’ll meet you in the courtyard. And Dav”—he held up a finger in warning—“if you leave without me, I’ll raise the entire school to come after you.”

Davian rolled his eyes but nodded a grudging acknowledgement, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as Wirr vanished down the hallway. Beneath his reluctance he felt a flood of relief. Davian truly hadn’t wanted his friend to make such a sacrifice for him… but he hadn’t wanted to do this alone, either.

He waited for a few more minutes, each seeming an eternity in the silence of the evening. Eventually he snatched up his bag and slipped outside as quietly as possible. There was little chance of running into anyone at this hour, but he nonetheless kept to the shadows where he could, heart pounding. The night was cloudy, with only a few stars providing any natural light. That was good—it meant that once they were outside, there was little chance of being spotted on the road.

Wirr was already waiting when he reached the courtyard, clutching a bag similar to Davian’s. “No sign of Jarras and the others,” he whispered as Davian approached. “Your Elder seems to have kept his word.”

Davian nodded, a jolt of anxiety running through him. This was it, then. “We shouldn’t waste any time,” he whispered.

Without speaking further they crept toward the gate. Every muscle in Davian’s body was taut, and he expected someone to shout out a warning at any moment. Nothing stirred, though. Within seconds they were beneath the portcullis, and then past the edges of the torchlight and into the night.

They jogged silently along the road until they were at the tree line, then stopped as if at some unspoken signal, turning and looking back at the school. There were no cries of discovery; the looming structure was quiet. Peaceful.

“So. This is the last time we’ll be here,” Wirr said softly.

Davian nodded; he felt it, too. Regardless of how their journey went, he did not expect to see the school again.

“It’s not too late for you to turn back,” he observed.

The corners of Wirr’s mouth curled upward. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

Davian just inclined his head in response. Tearing their gazes from the familiar lines of the castle, they continued along the derelict road and into the shadowy forest.

Neither looked back.





Chapter 5


Asha stared dully at the ceiling.

She’d been doing that for the past few minutes now, ever since she’d woken and remembered what was happening today. She knew she should be leaping from her bed and finding Davian before the Trials began, even if it was only to spend just a few extra seconds with him. Her body, though, refused to move. Today would be the last she would see of him for a long time—probably ever. Getting out of bed felt as if it would just bring his leaving a little bit closer.

Finally she gritted her teeth and found the energy to throw back the blanket; she rose, shivering in the morning chill, and quickly dressed. The first true rays of dawn were brightening the horizon outside her window, and Asha grimaced at the sight. The Athian Elders would have already departed their inn in Caladel. When they arrived, the Trials would officially begin.

Suddenly she paused, puzzled.

She’d seen several Trials during her time at the school; from her experience there should be a cacophony of sound from the courtyard outside—certainly something to indicate students and Elders were preparing for such a big event. The silence was decidedly odd.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that the entire feel of the morning was… off. From the corner of her eye she could see that her roommate, Quira, was still fast asleep in her bed. That wasn’t unusual, though; the younger girl tended to sleep well past dawn. Asha turned and was about to slip outside when something made her hesitate.

The room was quiet. More so than normal. Now that Asha thought about it, Quira hadn’t stirred once. The girl was a restless sleeper at best, as well as a terrible snorer.

Asha crept over to the bed, frowning. Quira was lying on her side, facing the wall. Gently Asha placed a hand on her shoulder. The slight pressure caused Quira to roll onto her back.

Asha’s breath caught in her throat. She just stared for a moment, paralyzed.

There was blood everywhere. So much blood. It was pooled mainly around Quira’s head and chest, staining the mattress a dark, violent red where it had 

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