“I do not know, Prime,” Arrow said quietly, “but no White Guard would leave something so personal behind.”
“Personal?” Matthias’ voice. She had been so intent on the Prime she had nearly forgotten his son.
“The medallion left next to the body,” Arrow clarified. “It is …” tongue clumsy with the common language she had to search for the right words, “something sacred. Revered amongst the White Guard. No warrior would leave it.” That was not quite right, just the closest she could manage just now.
“The White Guard were framed.” Zachary’s voice was dark again, old anger giving way to something newer, and a hint of satisfaction. Teeth flashed, bright in the dying light, as he grinned. Not pleasantly. “Someone thinks to fool us.”
“Or it’s a double bluff,” Matthias speculated.
Brow furrowed, having to concentrate to follow the casual phrasing, a chill ran through Arrow that had nothing to do with the winter air. A double bluff, as Matthias put it, was something that the Erith were very capable of. Leave blatant evidence, which was impossible for any White Guard to leave, and disguise the fact that another Erith had killed Marianne Stillwater. From the Erith’s point of view, believing the shifkin to be simple, violent beings, there was an obvious course after that. Provoke the Prime, and the shifkin nation, into outrage, that could be coolly denied by the Erith, perhaps even pushing the ‘kin into violence, which the Erith would then return, the peace broken and the races spiralling down into another war.
And yet, even angry, and full of hurt, both ‘kin in front of her were thinking. Not the near-feral beasts some Erith judged them to be.
“Do you have the medallion?” Arrow asked, earning sharp, suspicious glares from them both. “I may be able to trace the owner.”
“No need,” Zachary growled. She kept her surprise to herself, wondering how the ‘kin had managed to identify the carrier of a White Guard medallion. The precious metal disks, awarded at the successful completion of the warrior’s trials, were imbued with magic, unique to each individual. Never displayed, they were worn underneath clothing, next to a warrior’s skin. They were for the living only, and went with the dead into their final journey, never left behind.
By a trick of the fading light, Arrow caught a clear glimpse of the Prime’s face, tight with emotion, cheeks hollow and eyes shadowed. He looked as worn out as she felt, as though carrying a heavy burden. Around him, first world overlaid with her second sight, she could see and sense thick tangles of shifkin magic, earthen colours almost invisible in the forest. Ties that vibrated with energy, tugging at him. Arrow had brushed against the invisible ties around ‘kin before. Ties the Erith did not understand. Ties that bound each ‘kin into its own collective unit, the muster. And from there bound them all together. Muster ties were tighter by far than the family and House connections that bound the Erith together.
Looking at that web Arrow wondered if he could feel the emotions of his muster, all the grief and anger and loss that had filled this clearing at the discovery of Marianne’s body. There was none of that grief in the Prime. Matthias, too, had damped down whatever loss he felt. The clearing was full of tight anger and determination, and suspicion. That last made her wish for her wards, although she was not sure how much use they would be against two determined ‘kin.
There was no sense of Marianne here, not even an echo, personality erased along with her life.
In the quiet of her mind Arrow remembered the vivid, silent, images of the wolf that had sprung out of the forest, running for her life, so determined to keep moving forward she had run her feet bloody. Arrow stung with the loss of someone she had never known, a scrape against her soul, and made a silent promise to Marianne, and not the Erith or the shifkin, to find out who was responsible. The promise slid through her body, binding itself as surely as the oath spells.
~
“Is this all you can do?” Matthias asked, voice sharp, breaking into her thoughts.
Arrow held a bitter laugh behind her teeth. All? All her energy, and a good deal of help from the mountain to power a spell that fewer than one in twenty Academy graduates, an elite group of Erith magicians, could perform. It seemed the ‘kin were as hard to please as the Erith.
“What do you need?”
“Can you track? Follow a trail?” She was no ‘kin to read body language like a book, but both the question and his casual pose were subtly wrong. Too deliberate, she thought.
“Not in the way of your people,” she gave him truth, “but there are spells that allow me to trace where a person has been.”
“And?”
“I need to understand the person’s essence to do so.” A low sound from Matthias and she hastily added, “It is the magical equivalent of scent. It does not usually tell what a person was thinking or feeling, just that they were there.”
“And?”
“And I cannot do that with what I know so far,” she heard the exasperation in her own voice and swallowed before she continued, “as I do not understand Marianne Stillwater’s essence.”
“The scarf?”
Although Matthias was questioning her, the Prime was listening intently, pacing back and forth behind her. She checked an impulse to turn and follow his movement, caught between two predators, not wanting to draw any more of the Prime’s close attention.
“The scarf allowed a connection with the earth and a person’s death leaves a clear mark on the world.” For a moment she wished she was speaking Erith to another magician. Trying to translate her innate understanding into Erith words and then the common tongue was frustrating. Matthias was glaring, arms folded over his chest.
“You need something she loved.” The Prime’s voice was quiet. Arrow’s heart picked up pace, attention snagged on the understanding in those few words. Erith and ‘kin magic had nothing in common. She had not known that any ‘kin had tried to understand Erith magic.
“Yes, Prime. Something she wore regularly or had a close connection with.” Or a space that she was happy in, she could have added, staying silent because of something she had understood from the way both ‘kin had moved or behaved. Marianne had not been happy on the mountain.
The soft growl at the edge of her hearing made her twitch, an outward reaction she controlled as soon as she could. Stripped of her usual defences, wards useless, she wanted to run away, far away, from that sound. The low, involuntary noise of a master predator. But there was no safety to run to here. And on her shaking legs, exhausted from the day’s efforts, the ‘kin would run her down in moments.
“Marianne spent most of her time in Lix,” Marianne’s widower told her. The mostly human city that sat between the Taellaneth and Farraway Mountain. Arrow stilled. She was not an expert on ‘kin but she knew that mate bonds were close. For a ‘kin pair to live apart was unusual. “The house should be enough.”
“We’ll arrange access,” Matthias added.
“Thank you.” Arrow wanted to ask why the ‘kin wanted her, an outsider, to follow Marianne’s trail. The want was easily set aside; the ‘kin had a use for her. They were allowing her to live, and she would not push them. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps when she understood their tolerance of her better. Maybe then she would venture some questions, try to satisfy the curiosity that burned almost as strongly as her wish to live.
“Will you be armed there, too?” Matthias glared at her.
“Armed?” she queried, wondering if she had not understood.
“The knife,” he bit out.
“The kri-syang.” She lifted her arm, leaving the blade where it was at Matthias’ low growl. “It is a tool used in magic. No Erith would think of it as a weapon. A tool only.”
“Looks like a blade to me.” He was not satisfied, but at least did not insist she hand over the blade. As personal to a mage as the medallion was to a warrior, Erith law forbade the use of the individually bonded blades as a weapon.
Behind Matthias, Zachary remained silent, watching the exchange with fever brigh
t eyes and no expression.
“I’ll get you the address back in town,” Matthias glanced up. “We should head back.”
Arrow followed his look and realised that it was fully dark above the trees, the snow reflecting just enough light from the stars and moons for her to see.
When she looked back to Matthias, the Prime had disappeared silently into the trees, leaving no trace of his presence left behind.
“This way.” Matthias led them back along the trail to his vehicle, Arrow deeply grateful for the guidance as they made their way through the darkening forest. Her power gone, she would not have found her way out without his help.
CHAPTER FIVE
To her surprise, the ‘kin had provided her with a comfortable room for the night at the Township’s only hotel, managing to convey without saying so bluntly that she should leave in the morning and wait in Lix until the appointed time for her access to Marianne Stillwater’s residence.
Refreshed from the first unbroken night’s sleep in longer than she cared to remember, and with no duties until her appointment, Arrow had been looking forward to a complete day to herself. She could not remember the last time that had happened. All she had to do for that day was get to Lix. One, simple task. Within the Taellaneth she was at the disposal of the Taellan, Eshan, Evellan and the Academy’s teaching staff, frequently on the same day. Some time of her own was a rare luxury. She had the length of the journey to Lix to plan how to use her time, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel as she left Farraway Mountain.
A direct summons from the Chief Scribe, as soon as she had left shifkin territory, had cancelled her plans before they had been fully formed. She had managed curt civility for the scribe, as he would tolerate nothing less, muttering a curse into the uncaring air when the connection was cut, and the oath spells stirred, binding her to follow Eshan’s directions.
She was back in the Taellaneth by early evening darkness.
Dealing with the mechanic, who seemed convinced she had somehow harmed the vehicle, and the open sneer of the White Guard sentry at the gate, disgust equally divided between her return and human clothing, were familiar frustrations, as was having to force open the door to her residence, the untreated wood warped with winter cold.
She shed her human clothing, returning to the formal, Erith clothing that she was required to wear within the Taellaneth, a servants’ knee-length coat, slit to hip-height at front, back and sides for ease of movement, with a series of small buttons that ran to her chin, plain breeches, and knee-length boots, all in dark, plain cloth. She tugged her sleeves to even length as she walked. The Taellaneth Steward had high standards and while he was a great deal kinder than the Chief Scribe, his gentle disappointment was somehow worse than Eshan’s sharp tongue. There was nothing she could do about her unruly hair, but everything else was as proper as she could manage. Her second-hand boots were a fraction too large, the soles parchment-thin from wear so that she could tell precisely where she was in the Taellaneth simply by the ground underfoot.
Passing around the back of the scribes’ quadrangle, she breathed deeply as she entered the heart of the Taellaneth, the landscaped grounds that housed the Taellan’s residences. She paused out of habit, struck by the contrast between the extraordinary, sculpted beauty of the Taellaneth and the uncoordinated, stripped-back simplicity of the shifkin territory. The ‘kin had settled their living spaces into their territory with minimal change, while the Erith ordered the landscape to suit their will.
In the manner of the Erith, the residences provided for the Taellan were set apart from each other, half-hidden amongst mature trees, forming a gentle curve that mirrored the tables in the Taellaneth meeting rooms, the centre occupied by an expertly crafted copse of trees with a water feature that burbled contentedly, taste of fresh water in the air complementing the scent of growing even in this season.
The residences were spaced five on each side and at the far end was the eleventh manor kept in readiness for their majesties. In the fifty years that the Taellaneth had been in operation, the Erith Queen and her Consort had visited fewer than half a dozen times that Arrow was aware of. Still, the manor was always staffed and glowed quietly in the night.
Apart from the Queen’s residence, only a few of the manors were lit. Several Taellan would have returned to the heartland and one was never occupied as the Halsfeld lords resided in the same building.
Arrow drew a slow breath in, absorbing as much of the peace of the gardens into her as she could, knowing she would need it when she entered the elder’s residence. No matter what she had done, he would be dissatisfied and find fault.
Shown into the elder’s personal study, Arrow found that he had guests, other members of the Taellan. The two Halsfeld lords, Juinis and Kester, were seated with the elder, along with Gret vo Regresan and Eimille vel Falsen.
As Arrow made her bow her mind quickened. The closeness among this disparate group was a new development, as far as she knew, and wondered if the rest of the Taellan were aware.
They were a curious group, the three oldest Taellan and two of the youngest. Gret and Eimille could be brother and sister, elderly Erith with parchment pale skin and black hair liberally streaked with grey. They, along with the elder, were clothed for their station, jewels and ornate cloth shimmering in the candlelight, the air scented from the candles and warm, spiced wine in delicate glasses at each of their elbows.
The Halsfeld lords were a study in contrast, Juinis, pale skinned with rich brown hair, Kester with pitch-black hair and golden bronze skin that blended well into shadow. Juinis was dressed for his station, as elaborately as the older three, Kester dressed almost plainly. Not related by blood, Juinis having insisted that Kester surrender his House and join House Halsfeld on Juinis’ marriage to Kester’s sister. A ruthless piece of negotiation of the sort generally admired among the Erith ruling class. And it seemed Juinis continued to be ambitious, keeping such close company with the three eldest and most influential Taellan.
Arrow straightened from her bow and waited for their commands. If the Taellan were surprised, or disappointed, by her return, they hid it well behind their public faces, as she had expected.
“Tell us what you have learned,” Seggerat vo Regersfel ordered.
“Was she killed?” Eimille vel Falsen followed the elder.
“Are the shifkin likely to declare war?” Juinis vo Halsfeld demanded.
“Who killed her?” Gret vo Regresan wanted to know.
“Elder, my lady, my lords.” Arrow bowed slightly, politely, once the barrage of questions had calmed, the peace of the gardens outside remaining with her for now. “There are few answers at this moment. It is clear that Marianne Stillwater was killed, and killed by magic.”
That sparked another round of questions. Arrow waited for a suitable pause before bowing slightly again and speaking.
“My lady, my lords, it is not clear who was responsible for the lady’s death. She was chased for a while across the mountain and then brought down by something unseen. I performed a resurrection spell at the site where she was killed for the Prime and his elder son.”
“Describe this scene,” Gret vo Regresan instructed.
“Did you record it?” Seggerat asked, overriding the other lord.
“Yes, my lord.” A simple twist of magic, built into the spell; a precaution in case the scene needed to be viewed again.
“Project it here.” He gestured to the spell mirror on his desk, black and calm in its dormant state. A finely crafted magical tool, the square mirror was as long and high as the elder’s forearm, set in an ornately carved wooden frame. Having used the mirror before, it took little effort wake the mirror’s spells. Once the mirror surface rippled, ready for use, Arrow released the images onto its surface. There was a momentary flicker then the surface settled, shimmering with a clear replication of the images.
Five of the most influential Erith alive gathered around Seggerat’s mirror to get a better look.
Arrow stepped back to allow them room, positioning herself behind the lady’s shoulder where she could see the recording to ensure the images stayed sharp and clear. Watching the Erith crowd around the mirror, Arrow was reminded of a human television, even though none of the Taellan would ever admit to having seen a television.
The Taellan were as curious as the shifkin had been, and as demanding in their viewing. They required different angles for the images, the scene played at different speeds, close-up detail of the point Marianne fell, the disposition of her body in the snow, and further clarity at various other points. The Taellan’s formidable attention to the images reminded Arrow once more of television viewing. Or possibly of human film directors; wanting a different angle, a different lighting scheme, a different pace to the action.
The Taellan were neither as patient or silent as the Prime and his son had been. Arrow held her concentration, showing the images through the disjointed commentary and speculation from the viewers. At length they seemed satisfied that they had seen enough different views of Marianne Stillwater’s death and the elder commanded Arrow play the scene through again.
“What was that object?” Kester vo Halsfeld, youngest of the Taellan, asked, curiosity drawing his attention to Arrow for a moment. In the recording, the figure had just dropped the barely-seen object next to Marianne’s body.
“A White Guard’s medallion, my lord.” Arrow kept her voice even.
The room stilled, all attention on Arrow for the moment.
“Where is it?” the elder demanded, amber sparking in his eyes.
“With the shifkin, my lord.”
“Did they know who it belonged to?” Kester asked, face a shade paler. He might be dressed in brocade and silk now, but he had been a member of the White Guard before his sister’s marriage to Juinis.
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