The Shadow of What Was Lost (The Licanius Trilogy, #1)

by James Islington

“You sent Torin to Caladel,” she said suddenly, feeling sick. Erran nodded. “It was right near the start, before I got full control. Elocien would have killed him, eventually. There was so much rage and fear when he looked at his son…sometimes I could barely manage it. So I had to send him away.”

“That’s Licanius, isn’t it?” he said. “Yes.” “Will my having it make a difference? Will I be able to help my friends?” “Of course,” said Garadis softly. The glowing man stared into Caeden’s eyes, then stepped to one side, allowing him a straight path to the sword. “For the first time in five hundred years, you have passed the Tests. As Guardian, I have read your mind and find no thoughts or memories that should cause me to deny you Licanius. She is yours.”

Licanius is a sword. Caedan is Tal’kamar

“Where to begin? You are Tal’kamar, though precious few know you as such. You destroyed Saran’geth for an ideal. You butchered the Arathi for revenge. You created the Plains of Decay for the love of a woman long dead.” He paused. “You saved Jala Terr knowing it would cost you a century alone. You hid Wereth from the Shadows because you believed a good man was worth more than a good name. You destroyed us—and then, when we hated you most, you saved us at the expense of everything you ever wanted.” There was sadness in those blue eyes as he said the last. Sadness, and bright pain. “You have lived for over four thousand years, and done so much evil and so much good. You are a legend here amongst the Lyth,

The blade drank in what little light was in the street, bending shadows so that they swirled around it, cloaking the steel from view. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as primal energies around him began to shift and flicker. The sha’teth faltered, then fled as screams filled the air. The first of the enemy troops began to fall.

A magic sword saves the day at the last second

“Those stories the Elders used to tell us about Shen…I’ve heard some of the same things here, and I’ve got no reason to doubt they’re true. Power really is all they care about, Dav. Once they have someone like you working for them, they’re going to do everything they can to keep you. You’ll be too valuable for them to just let you walk away.”

“So the king looks like a bigoted fool, everyone sees how valuable the Gifted truly are, and Shen takes the most difficult step back toward power. They gain the trust of the people again, while simultaneously undermining the Loyalists.”

Tol’shen gifted manipulated the king right before the battle

Tol Shen had used foreknowledge of the invasion, the deaths of thousands, to play politics? And Davian had left only hours earlier to work with them…

“And Taeris? It’s Laiman now. Always Laiman, even in here.”

“Dar’gaithin scales?” Laiman nodded grimly. “Melded together into plates somehow.” “So that’s our confirmation, then, if we needed any. Devaed was behind the invasion.”

“You have asked me to only restore specific memories—the ones that will help you fight in the coming war. No others.” He hesitated. “Against my advice.” Caeden frowned. “Only some? Why would I want that?” Asar sighed. “I think…I think you wanted to change who you were.” He leaned forward. “The problem, Tal’kamar, is that if you do not know who you were, you cannot know to change.”

They were soon inside, and the door shut. “Now,” said the boy, turning toward the simple hewn table. “If I can just—” Caeden’s long, thin blade caught him in the side of the throat, stabbing upward into his brain. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Caedan was a boy that the villain killed

“Caeden!” the woman shrieked. She was looking wildly between Caeden and the disfigured body on the floor. “What are you doing?” Caeden stood, his blade whipping out, slicing smoothly through the woman’s throat before she could say anything more.

Even though he wouldn’t remember them directly, their Imprints would remain with him; each one would eventually give him a new, untraceable identity, a body in which he could move freely outside Talan Gol. He’d not wanted it to come to this, but now that it had, there was no point wasting the opportunity.

That had been only a hundred years ago—not long before he’d finally rejected the name Aarkein Devaed, realized his mistakes, and started along the path that had ultimately led here. He knew he’d hated what he’d done, hated what he’d become as Devaed, but he couldn’t remember the details anymore.

“But it can’t be!” Caeden shook his head desperately, tears streaming down his face. The images of the people he’d killed flashed in a grisly parade before him. “No. I can’t be him. I can’t be Aarkein Devaed. No. I’m supposed to fight Devaed, to help save Andarra.” His voice broke. “I can’t be him.”

Without another word he turned and vanished back into the darkened passageway, leaving Caeden—Tal’kamar—alone to his grief.