Daven The Immortal

The first thing you understand, when you are truly immortal, is that understanding takes a very long time. Daven had been alive for four hundred and twelve years when the elders of the Night Council summoned him to answer for the death of Chancellor Mordecai Vein. He had not killed Mordecai Vein. This was, in the grand architecture of Daven's problems, a minor and almost irrelevant detail — because the Night Council had already decided, and in four hundred and twelve years, Daven had learned that decided things rarely un-decide themselves. He arrived at the Council chambers the way he always arrived anywhere: alone, precisely on time, and wearing the expression of a man who has heard worse news on better days. "You know why you are here," said Councilor Raith. "I've been summoned before," Daven said. "I've found it usually means someone has done something and requires a person to blame." "You were seen at Vein's estate the night of his death." "I was seen at a great many places that night. I don't sleep. I have nowhere to be. I walk." Raith's eyes, silver and flat as old coins, held his. "The Court of Bones requires a trial." "Naturally." "Your sentence, if convicted —" Raith paused for effect, and Daven had to admit, the man had a gift for it — "is the Sundering." The room went quiet. Even the immortal ones shifted. The Sundering was not death — that was, in theory, impossible for Daven. But it was a close and creative neighbor. A shattering of the continuous self. Four centuries of accumulated memory, fractured and scattered. The Daven who walked out the other side would have a body, would have a face, would still be unable to die — but would wake up with nothing. Not his name. Not his years. Not the eleven languages he'd learned, or the faces of the people he'd loved and lost and buried and mourned until mourning itself became a kind of companionship. He was silent for a moment. "I see," he said. "When is the trial?" "Dawn," said Raith. "Three days." Three days. He had three days to find whoever had actually killed Mordecai Vein — a man with enemies so numerous that Daven had occasionally considered listing them as a hobby — and prove it to a court that did not particularly want to be proven wrong. Daven straightened. He had survived a Plague that erased entire cities. He had navigated the political collapses of four separate empires. He had once spent thirty years in a monastery learning patience so perfect that he could wait out any room. Three days was practically generous. "I'll see you at dawn," he said, and walked out through the Council's great obsidian doors before they could call him back. The night outside was deep and cold and full of places where people kept secrets. Four hundred and twelve years of living had taught Daven one thing above all others: everyone was hiding something. The question was never whether a secret existed. The question was only how much pressure you needed to apply before it surfaced. He started walking. Somewhere in this city, the truth about Mordecai Vein was waiting. And Daven the Immortal had never yet failed to find what he was looking for — because unlike everyone else in this world, he had all the time he needed. Except, for the first time in four hundred and twelve years, he didn't.