Revealed: The Taellaneth - Book 2

by Vanessa Nelson

  “I am happy for you,” Arrow managed, just as Eimille reached them.

  “You are not welcome here,” Eimille snapped at Arrow, cheeks flushed with colour.

  “Arrow is my friend, aunt,” Vailla said, slipping one hand into the crook of her aunt’s arm, squeezing gently.

  “This creature is not welcome,” Eimille repeated.

  “My lady vel Falsen.” Arrow bowed, cutting across whatever Vailla would have said. “Lady Vailla. I bid you good day.” She turned and continued on her way, not wanting to face the Taellan’s wrath or Vailla’s dismay. It was cowardly to run, she knew, keeping her pace even with effort. Cowardly, and perhaps her only sensible option. Eimille vel Falsen was angry enough to summon the White Guard to eject her, and she had to see the Preceptor first.

  ˜

  Wanting to avoid more confrontation, Arrow slipped through one of the servants’ entries to the Academy and took the back ways to the Preceptor’s study. Her breathing was too rapid, pulse too quick, by the time she arrived, apprehension coiling through her. It took three tries to form a fist to knock at the door. Once managed, she was bade enter the room immediately.

  The door closed behind her, but she had no attention to spare for it, stepping into a room as transformed as the residence. The imposing desk was free of paper, the stacks now bundled into a new set of bookshelves, shelves already full. The surface of the desk gleamed, recently polished, as did the floor, the air pure, free of the motes of chalk dust that used to inhabit the room.

  Arrow took all this in with a swift glance, turning her attention to the Preceptor himself, also altered. She had last seen him pacing in front of the entrance to the underground below the Hessman residence, shadows coiling around him in restless waves, uneasy and furious that a surjusi incursion had happened so dangerously close to the Erith’s borders. The anger and fear were gone, replaced by apparent calm. Looking again, Arrow saw the faint trace of strain in the dark under his eyes, the ever-present shadows quiet around him, also a giveaway. Evellan was still worried.

  The act may be enough to calm Eimille, Arrow thought, but she doubted Vailla would remain fooled for long. Too carefully poised, he wore his usual teaching robes, yet looked utterly different. For a moment Arrow could not identify the change. Then she realised that under his teaching robes, for the first time she could recall, he wore not plain, dark clothing but brighter colours, a hint of sheen to his sleeves.

  It was just as well she had had the shock of seeing Vailla and hearing her news, Arrow thought. The transformed study and Preceptor might have rendered her speechless otherwise. She was even more conscious of her shabby human clothing, the warrior’s coat offering her borrowed finery that she was not entitled to.

  “I will be a moment,” he said, glancing up when she came to stand in front of the desk. “Please sit and have some tea.”

  Now truly speechless, ingrained Court manners came to her rescue. She bowed slightly and moved to the low table and chairs set by one of the fireplaces. For all the hours spent in this room during her studies, she had never been invited to sit, or to take tea with the Preceptor or, indeed, any Erith. Following his suggestion, she poured herself a cup and chose the chair with the best view of the room including the door. Balancing precious, rare, Erith china in her hands, which looked too clumsy and worn to hold something so pretty, she wondered what else had changed.

  Erith tea was something she had only had a few times before when the staff at the Academy’s refectory forgot to withdraw it from her notice. The rich, translucent liquid was an assault on her senses, flavour and scent of herbs and spices rarely found outside Erith lands, and she had to blink back unexpected tears. A few days’ exile and she had, it seemed, missed the Taellaneth more than she had thought possible.

  “You have had an eventful few days,” Evellan remarked, coming to settle at one of the other chairs. He had removed his teaching robes, another shock. His beautifully crafted Court coat was burgundy, sparkling with discreet jet decoration at collars and fastenings. He wore the finery with the same confidence as his teaching robes and Arrow remembered something that she had not thought about for many years. Evellan had been born into a House, a favoured son, brought up among the Erith elite. The manners settled around him as easily as the shadows, mocking her cheap clothing, callused hands, and stiff manners.

  Some of the founding certainties of her life at the Taellaneth were being overturned, the ground under her far more uncertain than it had been, bound and deprived of magic, in the back of the kidnapper’s vehicle. Someone wishing her harm was far more familiar than this civilised, pleasant greeting.

  “That is so, my lord,” she agreed after too long a pause, scrabbling for some composure. He settled back, and Arrow could not help noticing that the tea cup settled into his hand quite comfortably.

  “Kester and I are working on Seggerat, but it might take a while.”

  “Pardon. Working on what, my lord?”

  “Your return from exile, of course.”

  “The elder has made up his mind,” she answered through stiff lips. She did not want to believe that there was a chance the elder would change his mind, knowing his stubborn nature too well. Nor did she want to return, to be confined once more to the Taellaneth and at the Erith’s mercy. “And he has made his position clear.”

  “Arrow,” he said, breath leaving him on a sigh, “no one blames you for refusing the oath, but could you not have given us some warning? Perhaps we could have managed the situation better.”

  “To whom and for what purpose would I have given this warning?” Anger straightened her spine, raised colour in her cheeks, chased away the unease at how badly she fitted. She set the fragile cup down with exaggerated care and reined in her power as the surface of the liquid trembled. “To the Taellan who sent me to my death? To the Academy who only took me in when I was collared?” Jaw clenched, a torrent of words held back, she met the Preceptor’s started gaze, her own eyes glittering silver.

  “I had no idea that matters were so difficult for you,” he began.

  Temper rode over manners. She cut him off with a sharp hand gesture, one he made to his students. His eyes narrowed. His lips closed in a firm line, jaw flexing.

  “No matter.” Her voice was slightly unsteady. “I do not ask for your help, nor do I expect it. And you may wish to consider, in your discussions with the elder, in what capacity he would allow my return.”

  He did not move, watching her with dark eyes shot with amber, his expression one she could not read.

  She picked up her tea, finished the drink in a hasty gulp, not wanting to waste it, then set the cup down again into the sharp silence. “You did not send for me for this. You said there was work to do. What do you require, my lord?”

  Back on something like normal terms, she would not meet his eyes, not trusting her own temper, but saw something dark pass across his face before he set his own tea down.

  “We have run out of ideas,” he admitted, weariness weighting his voice and shoulders. “We have been trying to determine whether the threat is truly gone. That there are no more surjusi.”

  Arrow stayed still, not giving anything away from her expression. Typical of the Erith, concerned for a threat against their people.

  “We gained very little from the Hessman place. Or any of the Descendants.” He grimaced slightly, and Arrow wondered how much time and effort the Erith had put into tracking down the Descendants. Humans who had the misfortune to have Ancestors who had tried to harm the Erith. Several generations ago in human terms. A single lifetime for many Erith. And the Erith did not forget. The Preceptor was not done. “None of us can track this thing. See whether there is any more trace of taint. Well,” he amended, “everyone who was there failed. Seivella was absent.”

  “Again?” The question was out before she could think. The Academy’s deputy Teaching Mistress had been away too long, and with no explanation.

  “Again.” His chin lifted, exhale loud in the quie
t room. Irritation and worry combined, Arrow thought. He and the lady had been good friends for many years. “I … We need you to do what you can to ensure that there are no more surjusi in this world and banish any that you find.”

  “I will need resources,” she said and sat back in her chair, heart thudding. She saw no reason to tell him that she had assigned herself this task long before his request. He nodded, gesturing for her to continue. “Unfettered access to the Archives, the ability to come and go to the Archives without challenge from the White Guard or Academy staff,” she began, and saw his brows lift in unfeigned surprise.

  Impossible that he had not known of the daily difficulties that she had with the staff. Gesser might be the most difficult, but many of the Academy’s Teaching Masters and Mistresses made little secret of their disdain. A matter for another day, she decided. Or not at all.

  “Access to the Academy’s supplies and resources. Access to the underground without interference. You may send an observer,” she decreed, anticipating a concern, and saw a flash of amusement at that. “It would be helpful to have a combat trained magician who is prepared to stand against a surjusi.” Her throat was tight as she said that. The only combat trained magicians she had encountered were as disdainful of her as Gesser. The ache of healing bones had prompted the request; having another magician ready to use mage fire would have been very helpful. Enough had died already.

  “Anything else?” His voice was cool.

  She took a moment to mentally review her requests, then shook her head.

  His brows lifted, faint smile pulling his mouth. “You did not ask for payment.”

  She gave a short, painful bark of laughter, hearing the Prime’s words echoed.

  “I have never been paid for my service, and have no notion what it might be worth,” she told him. “You should be aware that the shifkin nation have also asked for my assistance in this matter. They want the full truth of Marianne Stillwater’s death.”

  And the full truth might not suit the Erith. There was another magician still at large, Arrow was certain. She had confided her fears to Evellan, bloodied and bruised from the fight that had ended Hessman’s life. He had been sceptical. As well he might. The evidence at the underground was of the Descendants having another try at defeating the Erith, not of a wider conspiracy. Her conviction remained. The complex magic had not been drawn by any of the Descendants. There was at least one more magician at large, skilled, powerful, and ruthless, with an unknown agenda.

  The ‘kin wanted the truth. The Erith would more likely want the matter suppressed as quickly as possible.

  “That is no surprise. You appear to have made a favourable impression on the Prime.” Evellan surprised her again with the gleam of approval in his eyes, and his knowledge. He picked up his own cup and held it a moment, shadows evident in his face as he looked down at calm surface. “We believe that Lix is free of taint, and that there are no more surjusi threatening the borders but cannot be certain. I have requested Seivella’s return at the earliest opportunity.”

  “Her knowledge would be valuable.” Arrow might dislike the woman for her own reasons, but Seivella was considered one of the Erith’s strongest magicians, and an expert, insofar as the Erith had one, on surjusi. And this despite the fact she had never taken the Trials.

  Something in his manner gave her pause and held back the obvious questions about where the lady was, what she was doing and why she had not appeared to give guidance, at least, on the incursion. There were secrets here that he did not wish to share. There had been enough learning secrets in the pursuit of Marianne Stillwater’s killer. Even her great curiosity had no desire to learn more. She told herself that it seemed rude to press for answers when she was in need of the Academy’s considerable resources and anticipating something of a struggle.

  “The Archivists are ready to assist you as you require. The castellan and stores keeper have been instructed to provide you with what you need.” Something of her surprise must have shown as his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “You are at present our best hope at ridding this world of the incursion. Besides, none of the other mages want to tackle this thing.” The dry humour settled Arrow.

  “You have thought of everything, it seems.”

  “Where will you begin?”

  “I have questions for the Archivists and will need supplies.” Free access to the Academy’s supplies was a dizzying prospect. The castellan and stores keeper guarded their resources jealously, so it was a relief to find the Preceptor had prepared the way for her. “Then I would wish to return to the underground. I will also need to contact the shifkin.” She cast a rueful glance down at her appearance. Her last outfit of clothing. Even the Preceptor’s word would not hold weight with the laundry mistress. “May I draw funds?”

  “As you need.” The Preceptor waved a hand.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Stop this thing,” he said, face grim. Arrow read the strain on his face. The last surjusi incursion had killed more Erith than any battle against the shifkin. An enemy against whom the Erith had no natural defences. Apart from her, it seemed.

  “I will,” she promised. The word of a war mage was not lightly given. He accepted her promise with a nod.

  He lifted a hand and, with a word, sent a pulse of magic out to the communications orb on his desk. Arrow’s eyes narrowed a moment. Such casual use of power was still novel to her, after so many years under the Taellan’s command. Pre-prepared spells like Evellan had just used had been denied her. No longer. Her body twitched, wanting to move and explore the new possibilities now open to her. Pre-prepared spells. Refining her spell work. Making her own healing potions. Housekeeping and cleaning spells. No more fights with the laundry mistress, or human laundrettes. She bit her lip to hide the smile, fingers itching for chalk to begin experimenting.

  The orb cleared and an unfamiliar Erith, in what looked like the dark, practical clothing of one of the administrative staff at the Academy, peered from the glass. The image was too small to provide detail, all Arrow could tell was that the figure was Erith and, as he spoke, male.

  “Preceptor?”

  “Orlis, the Lady Arrow is appointed as my personal emissary and tasked with the matter of pursuing the surjusi incursion. You will see to it that the lady has every assistance and access that she requires from the Academy and Archives.” Arrow could not conceal a start as she was given her title for the first time. War mages were always honoured with courtesy titles. Evellan did not notice, his attention on the orb.

  “Yes, my lord.” There was no hesitation in the assistant’s voice.

  “You will accompany the Lady Arrow, and inform Lord Whintnath that the Academy requires a full cadre escort for you both.”

  “Yes, my lord.” No hesitation again. In fact, if Arrow was any judge, Orlis sounded eager. She frowned slightly, trying to recall if she had met him, but could not immediately bring a face to mind.

  “That will be all.” Evellan waved a hand and the connection faded. Arrow, given courage by the formidable assistance he was offering, silently raised a brow in question. He smiled slightly. “Orlis is Gilean vo Presien’s companion and assistant and has been so for many years. He helped the old fool hunt baelthras, and although not a fully trained war mage, has some combat experience. He is here on study leave.” The Preceptor’s mouth twitched in a smile. Arrow could not help wondering how a magician more accustomed to trailing in the Erith wild lands was managing in the Academy.

  “He will be an asset, my lord, thank you.” Arrow held herself still despite a tremor of anticipation. More resources than she had ever thought possible. It took only a moment for the excitement to fade, years of history with the Erith setting doubts in her mind. Used to being an outcast, tolerated at best, she wondered whether she truly would have the whole resources of the Academy, a cadre of White Guard and Gilean vo Presien’s former assistant with her, or if she would need to find other ways to hunt the rogue.

  “If you en
counter any difficulties, I wish to be told,” Evellan said, uncannily reflecting her concern. “And I wish to be kept up to date.”

  “Naturally, my lord. Will that be all?”

  “For now,” he said, after a short pause. She wondered if he had been about to mention her exile, or express his doubts, again, about another magician’s involvement, and was grateful when he said nothing, simply rising with her.

  “I would offer my felicitations, my lord, to you and the Lady Vailla.” It seemed a polite thing to say, made awkward by the gap in their status. Matters were easier, sometimes, among the ‘kin.

  To her inner amusement a faint wash of colour crossed the Preceptor’s face, along with a mirror of the tiny smile that had played around Vailla’s mouth. Theirs was not the strangest partnership that Arrow had ever encountered, and, judging by the fond look on the Preceptor’s face, he was just as keen for the binding as Vailla. Cut off from the Houses by reason of his appointment as Preceptor, he would not have been Lady Eimille’s first choice for her niece, Arrow was quite sure, but she was sure that his position as one of the Assembly, and one of the most powerful Erith among their people, would console the lady even as Vailla’s evident delight did.

  She left him to his forthcoming vows and went to gather resources to hunt the Erith’s greatest fear.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A few paces outside the study a strange Erith male stepped into her path and made a shallow bow. Among the Erith, a polite request for attention. The gesture stopped her in her tracks. No one had ever bowed to her before.

  Halted in the corridor, she suffered another shock. He was Erith, yes, but not just Erith. Evidence of mixed heritage was clear across his face. He had a rare scattering of freckles across skin as pale as her own, coupled with a tangle of bright hair in varying shades of red and orange, resembling the fronds of a flame wort plant, eyes reflecting the same colours. The freckles betrayed something other than Erith in his heritage, but, unlike her, his outward appearance was more Erith than anything else.