Concealed: The Taellaneth - Book 1

by Vanessa Nelson

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CONCEALED

  The Taellaneth - Book 1

  Vanessa Nelson

  CONCEALED

  The Taellaneth - Book 1

  Vanessa Nelson

  Copyright © 2018 Vanessa Nelson

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction.

  All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or in part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  Click or visit:

  http://www.taellaneth.com

  For Mum and Dad.

  For many things, but in particular for encouraging me to read, opening up whole new worlds.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A strangled cry of warning. She ducked. Too slow. The heavy tail slapped her face, spun her, and sent her sideways into bookshelves and a lungful of dust and ink. Coughing, she turned, the silver sheen of her defensive wards visible in the gloom, voice rasping as she spoke the words for a hold spell, power gathered in one palm before she flung the spell across the too-short distance. The drain of energy sent her a step back, against the shelves, wood pressing across her back. She did not relax, heart racing, grabbing on to the shelves with her free hand, using that for an anchor as she began another hold spell.

  The snake, several times longer than she was tall, fat with the scribes’ precious archives, writhed under the hold spell, green and gold scales speckled with silver from her magic and green sparks that were the creature’s own power. All Erith creatures possessed some magic, and this one was big enough to resist the hasty hold she had thrown. A full-grown adult, with fangs as long as her fingers. Shoving worry aside, she released her next spell, further loss of energy draining her defense, shimmer of silver dying, leaving her alone in the shadowed archive with the giant creature.

  A sibilant hiss and turn of its head, flat gold eyes showing nothing, was all the warning she had. Just time enough to fling a hand up, protecting her face. Venom sprayed, coating her arm and hand, face only partly protected, sticky stuff burrowing into her skin. Cloth along her arm smouldered, acid working through to skin, burning.

  Biting her lip against the pain she gathered the last of her power for a final spell. There were untouched shelves of records behind her that the Erith would want protected at all costs. The Erith loved their records.

  “Hold!”

  There was no power behind the word, but Arrow froze anyway. The White Guard had arrived. A sheet of amber power, the White Guard’s own wards, flooded the space, along with five tall Erith, the dark grey of their uniforms blending into the shadows.

  A coil of something dark and thin flew across the space, settling on the snake. Some kind of netting. It tightened around the wriggling coils with a flare of amber, Erith magic holding the creature. The snake writhed across the floor, trying to bite its way free of the net, hissing as the amber sparked. The net bit into the snake’s side as it fought its captivity, stripes of blood welling up then trailing onto the floor.

  The snake’s struggles scattered half-eaten fragments of parchment, and it twisted, a spew of venom aimed at the warriors. It missed. The warriors, far nimbler than Arrow, stepped aside, each moving with smooth grace despite the close confines between the head-high bookshelves. Satisfied the net was secure, a pair of White Guard, hands gloved against the venom, simply picked up the bound creature and shoved it into a large sack made of rough cloth held by the other three.

  Forgotten for the moment, Arrow drew a much-needed breath. Five warriors had accomplished the capture in mere seconds, without drawing a weapon, putting her own efforts to shame.

  “No!” The wail of despair announced the arrival of Chief Scribe and his first sight of the devastation in the archives, sharp features tightening and fair skin paling still further as he took in the full extent of the damage. Even in his distress he gathered his brocade robes close to avoid the damage, ornate clothing a stark contrast to the pared-down efficiency of the warriors’ uniforms.

  Glancing around as the scribe continued to lament, she felt a twinge of sympathy. The room which had until that morning been a large, ordered, collection of the Taellaneth scribes’ records and correspondence, was devastated. The snake had eaten through most of the parchments, and a few of the book cases, the air now thick with the sharp scent of ink, broken bookcases housing only ragged fragments of parchment, floor haphazardly covered with more fragments, sticky with blood and venom.

  Arrow straightened before the Chief Scribe could notice that she had slumped, grimacing as the blisters on her hand burst, clear liquid dripping onto the floor to mix with the venom, parchment, and thin trails of snake blood. The skin along her arm was still burning. It had been a long day before the scribes’ summoning and she wanted nothing more than salve for her burns and a long stretch of unbroken sleep. Neither was possible.

  “That thing should be killed.” The scribe spat his words, and for a moment Arrow thought he was talking about her. He had expressed that view before, several times.

  “It needs to be taken to a place it can do no more harm,” the senior warrior answered, voice calm. Ruthless when they had to be, the Erith’s elite warriors did not kill without reason.

  She bit her lip to hold in a whimper, acid eating into her face, very close to her eyes. Ducking behind the bookshelf, out of the scribe’s line of sight, she gave a nod of acknowledgement to the junior scribe who had cried the warning. The juniors were huddled in the internal doorway, blocking the light, their plain, dark robes blending together, all wearing similar wide-eyed expressions, amber sparks in their eyes further betraying their unease. Setting their worries aside, she made her way outside to the garden in the middle of the scribes’ quadrangle, looking for the medicinal border.

  Even though it was the heart of winter, there was no snow or frost in the Taellaneth’s prized gardens and it did not take her long to find the necessary section of the scriptorium garden.

  Sighing in relief, she dropped to her knees on the carefully raked gravel, and awkwardly plucked a handful of thick leaves, the fingers of one hand too swollen to use. Breaking the leaves open to release the sap she coated her hand, then her face, in the greenish liquid, sighing again as the sting eased, faint, buttery scent coating her lungs, working some sap under her sleeve. Salve might have been an impossible dream. This was real.

  “You stupid creature.” The scribe’s voice was close behind her.

  She wobbled to her feet to face him and made the necessary bow.

  “The archives are ruined. Ruined.”

  There was no point in telling Eshan nuin Regersfel that she had only arrived a handful of moments before he did, when the damage had mostly been done. It did not matter that the only way a full-grown crea
ture like the snake could have got into the archives was because someone had failed to inspect and renew the scriptorium’s defensive wards, protective spells that were woven over all Erith buildings. It did not matter that maintenance of the wards was the duty of the scribes, including the Chief Scribe. It did not matter that the scribes on duty had failed to notice the enormous snake eating through their records for most of the day, reacting with outright panic when the discovery was made, trying to deal with it themselves, sending the snake into a frenzy, before sending the youngest of their number, wide-eyed and incoherent, for her and, apparently, also the White Guard.

  Eshan nuin Regersfel saw no reason where she was concerned. And little restraint. He could not permanently damage her, because his master found her useful. Over the years he had found many ways of inflicting punishment without damage, finding her defective no matter what she did. And if he was angry enough, there would be more direct punishment involved. He was angrier than she had ever seen him. She shivered.

  Glancing past Eshan’s shoulder she saw the scribes had now gathered at the archive’s doors, still huddled together for support, frozen expressions melted into worry, whispering furiously amongst themselves, doubtless wondering which of them would be sent away in disgrace. A position as scribe in the Taellaneth was the highest honour many of their families had achieved.

  In front of the near-frantic scribes the senior warrior approached Eshan, face grim as the Chief Scribe’s fury continued. The four other warriors, the remainder of the senior warrior’s third, gathered behind him, a pair of them carrying the wriggling sack between them, ignoring the snake’s fury.

  “The problem is resolved,” the warrior told Eshan’s back, voice cool. “The rooms are clear of any other snakes or eggs.”

  “Not before time.”

  Arrow’s brow lifted a fraction before she controlled it. Eshan enjoyed a very favoured position in the Taellaneth, courtesy of the House he had been adopted into, and the lord he owed allegiance to, but there were limits. Although Arrow did not recognise the warrior, from the braids on his sleeves he was too senior for Eshan to use that tone.

  “You need to renew the wards,” the warrior continued in that cool voice. The Erith rarely made an obvious statement without purpose.

  Apparently Eshan did not realise he had been criticised, pinched expression remaining.

  “Go.” The scribe waved a hand at the warriors. The warriors did not react, simply left in stony silence, a calculated insult.

  Hand and arm prickling as the sap worked its way through the wounds, eyes watering from the sting, Arrow waited for the inevitable round of questioning and blame, wondering what else Eshan would hold her responsible for. He had reason to be furious at the devastation of the archive, but a thank you to the warriors taking the problem away would be the least they were due, not his rudeness. Something else was bothering him.

  Despite the whispering from the other scribes, he paid them no attention, apparently deep in thought for long moments before casting a narrow-eyed glance in her direction, tight smile crossing his face. He looked like he had found a solution to a difficult issue. Arrow’s stomach twisted. Whatever it was, she was quite certain she was not going to like it.

  “We will discuss this later,” he snapped to his scribes, prompting another round of dismayed whispers.

  “Come,” he ordered and stalked away, back towards the main building.

  Careful to keep out of reach of his robes, Arrow followed the scribe along the immaculately maintained pathway that led to the main building of the Taellaneth, the specially constructed heart of Erith government. The building was vast, a one storey single block crafted of stone the colour of pale sand, with a giant dome of brilliant blue stone rising in its centre, the cover for the Receiving Hall, the remainder of the building devoted to less formal gathering rooms, meeting rooms and offices for the Taellan, the governing council for the Erith, an array of servants’ quarters concealed below ground.

  The scribe strode past the monumental sculpture that had pride of place on the close-cropped grass in front of the main building, and continued through the main entrance, the carved double doors standing open in Erith tradition to signal welcome. Arrow was rarely permitted through the main entrance, closely following Eshan as he continued along several corridors wide enough for five warriors to walk shoulder to shoulder, the scribe ignoring the handmade runners he stalked over, and the exquisite carvings or paintings that lined the walls, not pausing until he reached a set of closed double doors that led to one of the main meeting chambers.

  “Wait.”

  Eshan spoke the necessary password for the door and slipped inside, a roar of noise spilling out along with the scent of Erith tea, curling into Arrow’s stomach, a reminder that she had not eaten since early morning. Through the slit of the open door, Arrow could see what appeared to be the entire Taellan, all ten of them. No one was sitting around the oval meeting table, instead they were clustered together, talking over each other, a few gesturing wildly, light catching their rings, sparking off the mirrorglass panels on the walls, several pairs of eyes reflecting amber, betraying how unsettled they were. It was an extraordinary display of agitation from a race that took pride in their civilised manners.

  Before she had time to work out what they were discussing, the door closed behind Eshan and she was left facing her own reflection in one of the mirrored panels in the door. A cruel contrast. The Erith were a beautiful people to look at, tall, slow to age, with precisely cut features and flawless skin which shaded from alabaster to midnight dark. The Taellan, among the most influential Erith alive, were dressed according to their station in silks and brocades, gleaming with health, individually stunning and collectively breathtaking, no matter how long she had had to get used to them.

  The mirrored panel showed her a very ordinary face with pale, freckled skin tinted green from the sap and unevenly scorched from venom, unruly dirty blond hair in its usual tangled mess, escaping the pins she had shoved in that morning, gray eyes dull with pain, the silver sparks that denoted her power invisible. Apart from the silver in her eyes and the curve of her ears, hidden under hair, she looked human. Definitely not Erith. And exhausted. It had been a long, hard day before she had been summoned to the archives and she had almost no power left and no immediate means to renew her energy. Her personal wards were slowly rebuilding, the use of magic pulling energy from her body that she could ill afford. It was a trade-off. She could be defenceless and heal more quickly or gather some defence. She would always choose defence. The Taellaneth was no place to be vulnerable.

  Blinking, lashes catching on sap, she looked away, familiar with her plainness, eyes skipping over the wall panels, each carved individually by master craftsmen. This was the Taellaneth, unsubtle symbol of Erith power and artistry. Every piece of it was beautifully designed and finely made.

  In this building the Taellan conducted much of their business, at their Queen’s insistence. And none of the Taellan had been in residence this morning. Arrow frowned. It was costly, both in money and magic, to travel so fast and so far to bring all the Taellan together. There had been no disturbance in the grounds, and none of the chattering scribes had mentioned anything worthy of the entire Taellan’s attention.

  Mind turning on possible reasons for the gathering, Arrow straightened in automatic reflex when the door opened again, wider this time, and Eshan stepped out, a taller, older Erith with him, the other Erith’s midnight blue robes plain by contrast to Eshan. The older, burnished bronze skin finely lined with his years, small hints of white in his black hair, had no need of adornment. Seggerat vo Regersfel, head of House Regersfel, Eshan’s master and leader of the Taellan. She bowed.

  “Not a bad notion,” Seggerat was saying to Eshan.

  The scribe preened under the praise, cheeks flushed.

  The elder turned his attention to Arrow. “There has been a disturbance among the shifkin. You will go and aid their investigation.”

&n
bsp; “My lord?” She blinked, wondering if she had heard correctly.

  “A disturbance,” the elder repeated slowly, irritated.

  Arrow simply stared, wide-eyed, trying to absorb the startling command.

  “My lord …” Eshan leant closer to his master and murmured something, too quietly for Arrow to hear.

  “Very well,” the elder snapped, eyes flaring amber, a sure sign he was deeply disturbed. He glared at Arrow as if she were personally responsible. “The Prime’s mate is dead. You will aid the shifkin in finding the truth of the woman’s death.”

  “My lord.” Arrow’s bow was pure reflex, heart skipping, brain turning in circles. The Prime’s mate. The shifkin equivalent of the Erith Queen’s Consort. Dead. Unexpectedly, otherwise the Taellan would not be meeting. And not by natural causes, or there would be no need for investigation or the uproar she had heard.

  Another heartbeat and unexpected sorrow hurt her chest. The shifkin woman had been a stranger, but too young to die. Shifkin and Erith shared a common trait of long lives, with the oldest spanning centuries.

  “Eshan, make arrangements.” The elder’s eyes, amber fading, flicked over Arrow. His face tightened with a familiar expression of distaste. “Yes, not a bad notion at all.” He nodded to Eshan and returned to the room, noticeably quieter on his return, door closing firmly behind him.

  “Get what you need. Transport will be at the gates shortly.”

  “Sir.” Arrow’s polite response was made to the scribe’s back as he stalked away, slippers silent on the handmade runners.

  She stayed still for several heartbeats, a dozen questions rising, none of them uttered. There would be no answers from the Erith. The oath-spells bound into her blood and skin, the price of her continued existence, stirred, reminding her that she had orders to obey and promising pain if she did not comply. Her pulse quickened, excitement and apprehension mixed. A venture out of the Taellaneth was welcome. And yet. The Erith and the ‘kin had a long, bloody history of conflict, peace held just now by the thin width of the parchment on which their treaties were written. The conflict still burned under the surface and she had just been shoved into the middle.