The Shadow Of What Was Lost (15 page)

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

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

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

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

Wirr frowned. “How so?”

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

“I suppose,” said Wirr, sounding
reluctant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“We can’t steal things.”

Wirr rolled his eyes.
“Seriously.”

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

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

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

Wirr shrugged. “The joys of
studying politics.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tossed the cube upward one
last time, laughing.

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

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

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

 
“You’re sure about this?” asked
Wirr, trying unsuccessfully to keep the doubt from his voice.

“I am.” Davian did his best to
sound confident, though inwardly the certainty of last night had faded a
little. They had walked all morning before reaching the crossroads at which
they now stood. If they continued along the road to the north, they would keep
heading towards Thrindar. If they accepted Davian’s theory, though, they would
turn east, heading into the Malacar forest and away from civilization.

The bronze box was actually a
Wayfinder. It had to be. Davian had read about them once, years ago – one object
attuned to another, a Vessel that acted as a sort of compass, always pointing
to its counterpart.

He rolled the cube in his hands.
Currently, no matter which way it was turned, it was the side facing east that
lit up with the wolf symbol. It made sense. Ilseth had said that it would guide
him to the sig'nari when the time came. It
had
to be the right
explanation.

The only problem was, as Wirr had
dubiously pointed out, that the art to making Wayfinders had been lost
centuries ago. That – combined with Wirr’s continuing inability to see the glow
at all – left Davian with more uncertainty than he was entirely comfortable
with.

There was a long pause as the two
boys contemplated the different roads. Then Wirr gave the slightest of shrugs.

“I trust you,” he said. There was
no mocking or query in his voice.

Davian shot him a grateful look,
and they set off eastward without another word.

***

The road leading to the Malacar
forest was much quieter than the one they had been travelling for the past few
days, and as a result the tension that had been sitting constantly between
Davian’s shoulders began to loosen. The weather was fine but not too warm, and
he and Wirr made good time as they travelled in comfortable, companionable
silence.

Idly, he wondered again how Asha
had reacted to their leaving. It was something that had been on his mind a lot
over the past few weeks; every time he tried to put himself in her shoes he
felt a stab of guilt, knowing that if their positions were reversed he would
feel concern, confusion, maybe even betrayal. He wondered what she was doing
that very moment – probably in a lesson, if everything had returned to normal
after the Athian Elders had left.

He sighed to himself. As much as
he missed her, it was better that she was at Caladel, safe from the dangers he
and Wirr were facing.

He looked around. They had
reached the edge of the Malacar; open fields were quickly being replaced by
tall, thick-trunked trees. Soon the road was canopied by foliage overhead, with
only a few stray rays of sunlight slipping through the cover and reaching the
road itself. Still, the forest had a cheerful, airy feel to it, unlike much of
the menacing jungle they had been forced to navigate so far on their journey.
The trees were spaced far enough apart that visibility was high, and
undergrowth was minimal.

Davian and Wirr were chatting
amiably, the sun finally threatening to slip below the horizon, when Davian
frowned and came to an abrupt stop.

Wirr took a few extra steps
before realising his friend had halted. “Tired already?”

Davian shook his head, reaching
into his pocket and almost jerking his hand back out again when he felt the
heat of the Vessel inside. Cautiously, he pulled the box out. It was like
touching a stone that had sat too long in the sun; it was possible to hold, but
only delicately, and even then he had to change his grip every couple of
seconds to avoid the heat becoming too much.

He held it away from his body,
trying to examine it. The glow was so bright now that the wolf symbol was
impossible to make out.

“I think we’re close,” he said.

Wirr stared at the box, his
expression troubled. “If you say so,” he said with a sigh. “Is it still
pointing east?”

Davian squinted for a moment,
then nodded.

“Then I suppose we keep going
that way until it says otherwise.”

They walked on for a few minutes,
the heat from the bronze Vessel becoming uncomfortable even through the rough
cloth of Davian's trousers. He was considering asking Wirr to hold it for him
when they rounded a curve in the road and came to an abrupt, jarring halt.

Ahead, in a clearing just off the
road itself, a group of soldiers in the livery of Desriel were setting up camp.
At first glance there looked to be about ten of them, each one with the
tell-tale glint of a Finder on their wrists. A couple of the soldiers looked
up, noticing them.

“Keep walking,” Wirr said softly.
“Worst thing we can do right now is look scared.”

Davian forced his legs to move,
mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. They had seen Desrielite
soldiers before, but not so close and certainly not such a large group of them.
Davian's mouth was dry, and he felt a strange combination of chills and sweat.
He knew the blood had drained from his face; he tried to keep his breathing
even, getting himself slowly back under control. The soldiers were looking at
them, but none had moved to stop them. It was okay. Just keep walking.

Wirr gave the soldiers a friendly
wave as they passed and a few nodded in polite response, apparently satisfied
they were simply travellers and posed no threat. Even in his terrified state,
Davian couldn’t help but be impressed by Wirr’s poise. His friend looked as
though nothing was amiss; he strolled, almost meandered, as if simply enjoying
the warmth of the afternoon.

Thankfully the next bend in the
road was only a hundred feet away. Within a minute, the soldiers were obscured
from view once again.

As soon as the boys were certain
they were out of sight, they stopped. Davian bent over with his hands on his
knees, releasing a long, slow breath, then almost laughing aloud as relief
washed over him. Wirr let out a similarly deep breath, holding out his hands
out for Davian to see. They were trembling.

“You did well back there, Dav,”
said Wirr seriously, façade dropping. He now looked as shaken as Davian felt.
“You looked almost happy to see them.”

Davian laughed. “Me? I would have
turned tail and run if you hadn’t kept your head,” he said, a little giddily.
“Every fibre of my being was telling me to turn around, and you just strolled
on past like you owned the El-cursed forest.” He rubbed his face, repressing
what probably would have come out as a maniacal giggle.

Wirr clapped him on the back.
“Well we’re past, at any rate.”

After taking sufficient time to
recover their wits, they kept moving. Before a minute had gone by, though,
Davian stopped again. Something was wrong; the warmth of the Vessel had begun
to fade.

Alarmed, he dug into his pocket
and pulled it out, examining the bronzed surface with narrowed eyes. Then he
groaned, twisting the box in his hand a few times, vainly hoping he was
mistaken.

“What is it?” Wirr asked.

Davian bit his lip. “It’s
pointing back the other way.”

“Towards the soldiers?”

Davian hesitated, then nodded.
“Towards the soldiers.”

Wirr let out a low string of
violent curses that Davian had never heard him use before. Then he took a few
deep breaths to compose himself.

“Of course it is,” he said
calmly. 

***

By the time the two boys had made
their way back to within view of the soldiers’ camp – using the surrounding
brush as cover – the sun had vanished below the horizon, leaving only a dull
pink glow in its wake.

They were no more than a hundred
feet away, but the deepening shadows made for easy concealment so long as they
made no sudden movements. From Davian’s prone position he could see the entire
camp, which appeared neat and orderly. Most of the soldiers sat chatting and
laughing around a small fire; a pair of sentries sat halfway between the fire
and the road, their backs to the flames.

Closer to the others but still
set apart, another man reclined against what seemed to be a small, covered
wagon. As Davian watched, the man peered through a narrow window at the front
of the wagon, saying something in a low voice and then spitting inside. A soldier
by the fire who was watching him just laughed.

From the men’s demeanour, no-one
thought an attack was likely. The pair of sentries were dicing, only
intermittently glancing towards the road to look for signs of movement. The man
by the wagon seemed half-asleep as he listened to his companions' conversation,
stirring only to call out an occasional comment to them.

Still, it looked like someone
would be awake the entire night. Whatever the Wayfinder was leading Davian to,
it would be difficult to retrieve.

Wirr shifted beside him. “So what
exactly are we looking for?” he whispered. “I can’t imagine the sig'nari would
be keeping company with this lot.”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Davian.
He frowned, scanning the camp. There was little doubt that the Wayfinder was
pointing to something here – the heat emanating from his pocket had become
uncomfortable again as they had drawn closer. Could one of the sig'nari really
be hiding amongst a group of Desrielite soldiers? Or had the Wayfinder’s
counterpart object somehow been found, or stolen, by these men? He tried not to
think about the implications of the latter.

Wirr shifted position again,
peering through the brush. “Perhaps in the wagon?” he suggested.

Davian squinted, trying to better
see the wagon. It was solidly built, moreso than normal; it forsook the
traditional canvas roof for one of sturdy wood, making it look like a large box
on wheels. The only window seemed to be a small slit at the front, crisscrossed
with thick steel bars that glinted in the firelight.

After a moment, Davian realised
that a heavy wooden beam lay across the door, clearly to prevent anyone on the
inside from getting out.

“You’re right,” he said, biting
his lip. “Whoever we’re looking for must be locked in there.”

“Wonderful.” Wirr sighed but
didn’t dispute Davian’s statement, evidently having come to the same conclusion
himself. “We’ve come this far. I suppose we’re going to try and get them out?”

Davian stared at the armed
soldiers for a few seconds.

“I suppose we are,” he said
reluctantly. 

***

They spent the next few hours
waiting, whispering to each other only when necessary.

Eventually the soldiers around
the campfire began drifting one by one to their tents, soon followed by the
pair of men who had been keeping watch on the road. The fire died down to
little more than glowing embers, then was doused entirely by the last soldier
to retire. A heavy silence fell over the camp, broken only by the occasional
sound of the lone sentry by the wagon muttering to himself.

“They don’t seem too worried
about being attacked,” said Davian, keeping his voice low.

Wirr nodded. “They’re Desrielite
soldiers. I’d doubt even the bandits around here would be desperate enough to
get on the wrong side of the Gil’shar,” he whispered back.

Davian rubbed his hands together
nervously. “So how do we go about this?”

Wirr bit a fingernail. “I suppose
we sneak up on the guard, knock him out, and try and get into that wagon before
anyone else wakes up,” he said, sounding more uncertain than Davian would have
liked. “Then we disappear back into the forest.”

Davian grimaced. “There’s nothing
you can do with the Gift to make it a little less… risky?”

Wirr shook his head. “I thought
about that, but there isn't. The First and Second Tenets will stop me from
hurting them, or binding them, or putting them all to sleep, or anything useful
at all really. Best I can probably do is open that wagon door in a hurry, if we
need to.”

Davian grunted. “We're in trouble
if it comes to that. We’re going to need as much of a head start as we can
get.”

“Malacar’s a big forest, and I
know how to cover a trail,” Wirr reassured him. “Unless they’re right on our
heels, we should be fine.”

Davian acknowledged the statement
with a terse nod, though he felt anything but fine as he gazed at the darkened
camp. Still, they had come this far. If they could just make contact with the
sig'nari, there would surely be a way out.

Without any further discussion,
Davian and Wirr made their way around the edge of the clearing, Davian wincing
each time his foot found a dry twig. Soon they were positioned as near as they
dared to the wagon, fifty or so feet away. The camp was cloaked in darkness;
there was only a sliver of moon tonight, and clouds moved sporadically across
even that. In the dim light, the wagon, tents and sentry were little more than
vague shapes against the darker backdrop of the forest beyond.