The Shadow Of What Was Lost by James Islington

away from his left forearm. The makeup they had bought a few days ago hid
their tattoos from all but the closest inspection, but it itched constantly. At
the time it had seemed unnecessary – the vials of thick paint-like substance
had cost more than Davian would have credited, and taken hours to mix to the
right skin tones – but the last half-hour had proven otherwise. The fashion in
Talmiel, it appeared, was to keep the forearms bare. A way for people to show
that they were not Gifted.
    “My nerves cannot take much more
of this,” he said.
    Wirr snorted. “’We need to go north ,
Wirr. Talmiel can’t be that dangerous, Wirr. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Wirr.’”
    Davian grunted. “I know, I know.
You warned me.” He checked in both directions as they emerged into a new
street, but there was no sign of any blue cloaks here, only the general bustle
of people hanging decorations. “I just didn’t think there would be so many,
even with the festival tonight.”
    Wirr sighed. “This is the only
border crossing into Desriel, Dav. Desriel . The one country that hates
the Gifted more than Andarra.” He shook his head. “The Administrators do
a lot of their recruiting here. The only reason we haven’t been caught so far
is because people like us aren’t stupid enough to come here any more, so
nobody’s really looking.” He glanced around, unable to hide his apprehension.
“Our luck will run out sooner or later, though. Are you sure we need to be
here?”
    Davian hesitated, unconsciously
touching the pocket where he kept the Vessel. It had been nearly three weeks
since they had left Caladel, and the further they travelled north, the more he
had expected it to do… something. Something to show him what came next. But
though he examined it at least once each day, the bronze box never changed.
    “Ilseth said to travel north
until I knew where to go next,” he said eventually. He gave his friend an
apologetic look. “I just don’t know what else to do.”
    Wirr nodded ruefully. “I know.”
He shook his head. “I cannot believe I thought that sounded like a plan back at
Caladel.”
    “Thinking you should have stayed
behind?”
    “Thinking I should have tried
harder to stop you from leaving.” Wirr shot him a crooked smile, then nodded
towards an inn a little further down the street. “We should at least get
inside. As many Administrators as there are now, there will be twice as many
out tonight. It will be safer indoors, and it’s late anyway.”
    Davian nodded his agreement.
Talmiel was bustling with activity as it prepared for the Festival of Ravens;
people hurried about everywhere in brightly-coloured clothing, and officials
had begun lighting the traditional blue lanterns that lined each street of the
city. Natural light was fading fast, and Davian had even seen a few children in
ill-fitting Loyalist uniforms, the costume of choice for the feast that
celebrated the overthrow of the Augurs. Davian had always found it odd that Tol
Athian normally held its Trials to coincide with the festival. He could only
assume that it must have held a nice sense of irony for someone.
    They made their way over to the
inn, which the sign out front proclaimed to be the King’s Repose. If a king had
ever stayed there it must have been generations ago; the façade was dirty and
cracked, and the picture on the sign had faded almost entirely. Exchanging
dubious looks, Davian and Wirr headed inside.
    The interior of the King’s Repose
was as uninviting as the outside; the common room smelled of stale beer, and
the tables and chairs looked rickety at best. Still, there were already plenty
of people laughing and drinking, and the rotund innkeeper was friendly enough
once he saw their coin. Before long, he was showing them to a small but clean
room upstairs.
    Once the innkeeper had left,
Davian locked the door behind him and collapsed onto one of the beds with a
deep sigh.
    Wirr sat on the bed