Revealed: The Taellaneth - Book 2

by Vanessa Nelson

  The workspace was solid and dark around her, walls and floor shimmering with silver wards, dimmed flame of the burner on the workbench shining yellow, orange, white and red.

  Turning again, the air stirred against her cheek carrying the scent of snow, of sun, of fallen leaves and fresh growth. All seasons all at once.

  Looking at the wall of the building, Arrow wondered if it was solid here. Walking up to it, careful to move slowly, she put her palm on the surface, feeling it cold and real under her skin. She tried to scratch it with a fingernail and a shock of pain ran up her arm. Tried slapping the wall with an open palm and doubled over as agony ran up her arm. So, solid objects in the first world fought back in this shadow world. And it was not possible to actually walk through walls. She walked instead to the small door at the side of the rolling metal garage doors. Taking care to handle the object gently, she found she could open the door without pain. But if she tried to do damage, even a fingernail scratch, it hurt. Interesting.

  The door opened without alarm, the wards of the building recognising their maker, even in this different realm, and she stepped outside.

  The street outside formed the shapes she had seen in the first world, a few tight knots of colour showing people walking, unaware of her existence. The wide swathe of planting around the building, green in the first world, was a dense thicket of potential here. She could see the dormant plants waiting for winter to pass, the first buds that would shoot up in spring, the flowers open in summer and the golds and reds that would display in autumn. All potential seasons and all potential colours shown all at once. It was overwhelming, along with the scents that each season carried, and it took a long time, crouched by the nearest plants, to balance her mind and filter the information. She was not sure what was real and true and what was not, and suspected that it would be a long time before she knew.

  Wanting to explore further, remembering that she had been able to move much faster in this place than in the first world, she set off at a brisk walk, heading for the shifkin’s open land that bordered Lix. There was less chance of running into unsuspecting humans, and the Lix muster was small enough that she thought she could probably avoid them.

  The perimeter of the shifkin territory flared before her, a transparent barrier made of ‘kin colours. She touched one finger to the barrier, setting some of her will into it, asking for permission to enter, and was allowed to pass without fuss.

  Her strides were longer, body lighter, muscle aches a distant memory. She tried running a few steps and had to stop almost at once, dizzy as she rose too high from the ground, landed too far from where her feet had last touched. Crouching closer to the earth she took a moment to breathe and centre herself and became aware that she was no longer alone.

  Coming to her feet, one hand going to her sword hilt, she turned to find a distant, cloaked, figure coming closer with the rapid, easy movement that this place permitted. She raised her wards, silver brilliant in this place of shadows, and waited. If he had wanted her dead, he would have attacked by now.

  “You are learning, young thing.” An unfamiliar male voice, speaking Erith in native manner. An Erith magician who could also walk across realms. Perhaps she was not as unique as the Archivists believed. Or there was some other magic that allowed him to access this realm.

  “I am,” she confirmed.

  “You are powerful for one so young.” The observation was made in a casual, conversational tone that made Arrow deeply glad she was warded and had the weight of her sword under her palm.

  “Thank you.” She inclined her head as though accepting a compliment.

  “And quite skilled. Despite your age.” There was a shade in that voice. A mix of feeling. Envy. Bitterness. Greed.

  “Thank you,” she said again, mentally rehearsing the spells for further defensive wards. She did not call her strength yet.

  “There is much I could show you.”

  “Oh?”

  “There is power here. Power you can only imagine.”

  The hunger in his voice sent a tremor through her. Some magicians were so mad for more strength they would do nearly anything to achieve it.

  “In this place?”

  “Yes.” He bent and pulled up a handful of grass. “See the strands of life here.”

  Arrow blinked. She could see the strands of life, but she could also sense them, and use them if she needed to, in the first world.

  “There is life everywhere,” she pointed out.

  “But this can be more easily used. Turned to your will. Do with as you please.”

  Definitely a power-crazed magician. His presence brushed against her wards, testing, a familiar twist to his signature. The rogue responsible for the sacrifice on Farraway Mountain, the surjusi summoning in Hallveran, the disgusting magic that had been performed in Lix. Deadly, powerful, and skilled. He had had years to perfect his craft, moving with assurance in this alien environment and she was not even a novice in this realm. Heart racing, her fingers tightened on the sword hilt.

  “So, you can kill without being seen?” Her voice was sharp, tone making him straighten. She bit her tongue. A mistake. It would have been better to draw him on to more conversation.

  “Amongst other things.” All civility vanished, voice stripped to cold power. He reached under his cloak with a gloved hand and pulled out a long, straight knife. Not a knife. Nausea rose. Bone. A ‘kin or human bone that had been whittled to a point at one end. Evidence of another sacrifice. “Your power will make a nice addition.”

  “You have already tried to have me killed.” The accusation was out before she could think.

  A dry issued from the cloak, harsh sound that scraped her nerves.

  “Only once. Clumsy human forgetting a magician’s wards.” The shooting. It did not explain how a human had been able to get across the Erith border. More magic lent by this rogue, perhaps.

  “And the kidnapping was, what, your attempt to say hello?” The attitude, the tone spilling from her lips, was all ‘kin, she realised, the preface to combat.

  Another laugh. Another scrape. The back of her neck was prickling with awareness of danger, pulse racing.

  “You interfere too often.”

  Puzzling that statement over, she gathered her strength to her, a thick coil that snagged inside on the opening pages of that damned book, which was trying to unfold knowledge into her brain even as the cloaked magician spun his blade, readying an attack.

  A hollow, dark laugh, texture different than before.

  “You are no match for me. I have been watching you for years, little thing. More powerful than most at the Academy. Barely enough power to get here.”

  “Watching me?” Fury replaced nausea, a welcome heat. She was tired of scrutiny. Of judgement. Her sword was in her hand, length gathering light as she followed the slow movement of the magician’s pacing. He was trying to circle her. Trap her. Three short strides forward and she sliced out, cutting across the slender threads of magic he had been weaving.

  Another laugh.

  “Not as stupid as you look, then. Very well.” The cloak billowed, hiding his shape, and he came forward.

  The pale gleam of the bone blade was all she needed, bringing the sword up to block, stepping aside, footwork sure in this place.

  Spirit blade met bone. Bone shattered, splinters flying out, stabbing into the magician’s cloak, scattering harmlessly across Arrow’s wards. She stepped around, sword ready again, and saw dark, sticky mage fire in the other’s hands.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “Justice.”

  “From whom? For what?”

  “For what was taken from me,” he snarled, jerking back his hood. Arrow gasped, sound out before she could check it. A tall Erith, half his face was destroyed, melted to an unnatural shape. Nothing she knew could cause those injuries. But what had her full attention was that one eye was burning amber, and the other was wholly black.

  “You are possessed.”
<
br />   And he stood straight and tall, no deformity in his person. Powerful enough to hold a surjusi without breaking. More powerful still with the demon’s willing cooperation.

  Another one of those laughs, but with none of the hollowness. An Erith sound. She could not sense a surjusi, despite the bottomless eye. The lord was absolutely in charge, whatever had possessed him.

  “Such a limited way of looking at things.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “Playing is more fun.” He threw the ball of mage fire at her.

  Her wards flared. She hissed in pain, another magician’s power rasping against her senses. Forcing her feet to move, she closed the distance to the magician, his mouth in a perpetual sneer as he readied more mage fire for her.

  “You are stronger than I thought.” He was not daunted.

  “If you want justice, let us go and find it,” she suggested, and sent her will through the sword, strands of bright power snaking out, coiling around one of the magician’s hands.

  He screamed, an unearthly sound that made her want to cover her ears, and surged backwards, tugging her with him, off balance.

  “Burns!”

  “Stand still!”

  “Burns!”

  She sent more of her will into her sword, and the coils of power slid up the magician’s arm like a rope, tying him more securely.

  He writhed in her grasp, pulling her off her feet, and sent his own power through the rope. Her turn to scream. Every nerve ending caught fire. Her sight vanished. She held onto the sword through instinct and felt the moment it went slack. Calling the power back into her, she staggered to her feet to be met by a backhanded slap that cut through all wards, slammed across her cheek, sending her backwards, falling over stupid feet.

  Breath knocked out. Hard pressure at ribs. Knee. Cloying warmth. Magician’s robes falling around her, enclosing her until there was only dark. Not a single spark.

  “More powerful than you look, little thing.” Voice all wrong. Too low. Too smooth. Power called, tugging at her insides. So much power there. Just there. A hand’s width out of reach.

  Choking. Hard fingers on throat. Lungs burning. No air. Scrabbling fingers against smooth, unbreakable skin.

  Sliver of light. Sword. Hilt real and solid in her hand. Forward stab.

  Furious cry. Fingers loosened. Air into lungs. Sight clearing.

  Slammed against the hard ground. Breath gone. Heavy weight on her sword hand. Snap. Bones. Broken. Pain. Sharp, acid. Pain, pain, pain. Slender light of sword unwinding, spells unravelling, another presence forcing itself under her skin.

  She screamed with all the air she had, kicked, hit out, scratched, and tore at the thing holding her. Every bit of power she had exploded out, blinding.

  “Broken little thing. More powerful than I thought.” A weight pressed her head into the ground, melting snow biting into an open wound. Her chest was burning, sight dim again with lack of air. The weight lifted a fraction. She tensed. “And they think you can defeat me.” Something worse than the pain carried in his voice. A quiet pleasure that chilled her. “Let them hold to that hope. Let them think you can win. Their broken champion. Foolish little thing. This is not over.” A soft caress at her cheek and the presence was gone. He left, whisper of robes betraying a smooth, easy stride. Unharmed. Despite her best efforts. Leaving of his own choice.

  Earth under her. Broken. Breath hurt. Hand a mass of agony, palm full of the torn shreds of the sword’s spell. Blind.

  And more terrified than she had ever been in her life before.

  Wards stripped away. No defence. She could not care. Broken, he had called her, and broken she was. The rogue far stronger than she had imagined possible.

  A cough racked her. Face wet with tears. Too sore. She wanted to slide into dark, but another cough shook her. Hurt.

  Her eyes cleared gradually, shapes forming, knots of power. Other beings in the first world. She was invisible to them. Had to reach them. Had to warn others. Someone else would have to deal with the rogue. He had toyed with her. Left her in pieces. Too strong for her. She had failed.

  ˜

  It took a lifetime of searching to find the fissure she needed to get back into the first world. Stupid legs would not work, hand broken and useless for assistance. One handed, using knees and toes, she managed to get to the fissure and through it, achingly slow, spending too much strength.

  As soon as she was back in the first world, cold bit. Snow seeped through her clothes, numbing the tips of her fingers, nose, and toes. She flopped on her side, uninjured hand underneath her, and concentrated on breathing and not dying just yet. Her broken hand was still closed around the fragments of her spirit sword.

  “There you are.” That was the Prime, crouching in front of her. His eyes flared green as he looked her over. “You’ve been in a fight.”

  “I have.” The words slurred, jaw not working properly.

  “Who won?”

  “Not me.” That did not require much thought. The rogue had chosen to leave. And she was helpless, defences shattered. “Broken.”

  “Several bones, yes.” Zachary did not understand her. “Cheekbone and eye socket. Possibly your forearm. And definitely most of that hand.” The list was delivered with quiet detachment, a damning assessment to her ears. “What happened?”

  “Magician and surjusi. Well, I think surjusi,” she told him, trying to sit up and getting stuck in a half-sitting position, leaning on her elbow until she could gather enough strength to sit up fully, legs tangled, broken hand held to her middle. She touched her face and wished she had not, further shock of pain coursing through her. The skin was already swollen, and hot, thick trail of blood seeping from a gash at the side of her eye. She could also now see the damage to her hand and a small sound that might have been a whimper escaped. Worse than anything Gesser had done. The fine bones in the back of her hand were jumbled together, skin the only thing holding them together.

  “Surjusi possessed magician?” Zachary assessed her wounds. “You’re alive.”

  “Broken,” she said again, shame coursing over her as she became aware of a crowd of people about. Kallish, of course, Orlis, Kester, and Kallish’s cadre. “Had him for a moment.”

  “You left the building.” Kallish was coldly angry.

  “Experimenting.” Arrow could not meet the warrior’s eyes.

  “And you nearly died.”

  She could not deny it. In fact, was not sure about the nearly part. Her magic slipped out from her grasp again, wards refusing to resurrect themselves. There was some power left in her, she could feel it, just could not hold it. Defenceless. She hated being defenceless.

  “Heal first. Shout later,” Orlis suggested, sounding like Kallish for a moment. He knelt beside Arrow and produced a small jar of healing salve from his bag. “For your face. Let me take a look at your hand.”

  “Or not shout at all,” Arrow suggested, taking the jar with thanks. She managed to open it one-handed and spread some of it across her face. The sting made her hiss, eyes watering, blissful numbness following.

  “The damage is bad. Did he stand on it?” Orlis was looking at her hand with intense concentration, amber brilliant in his eyes.

  “Probably.” She hissed again as a tendril of seeking magic slid around her skin, even that gentle touch burning.

  “Sorry. I cannot avoid hurting you,” Orlis’ voice was soft, “there is just too much damage.”

  “Beyond repair.” Arrow nodded, ignoring the stupid wet on her face.

  “I did not say so. Just that it will hurt.”

  Sluggish mind trying to puzzle that out, Arrow did not notice Orlis exchange silent glances with Kallish and Kester, and only became aware of the other Erith when firm hands landed on her shoulder, Kallish settling into a crouch at her feet.

  “We cannot wait. This will hurt,” Orlis warned.

  Arrow screamed.

  Every nerve ending lit. Everything black and white and red and black and
red and white. Scorching. Heat. Crawling. Itching. Burning.

  The sensations faded along with the hurt. She was breathing hard, face wet again, leaning against something warm and unyielding, heavy weights at her shoulders.

  “Done?” The word came from the thing she was leaning against. A voice she knew. Kester.

  “Done.” Orlis was in front of her, paler than he had been, eyes still bright. He gave her a smile as she blinked at him. “Sorry. The damage was bad.”

  “Was?” She lifted her hand and stared. The broken mess of bone and flesh was whole again, fingers moving smoothly as she experimented. She sat forward, weight falling from her shoulders, staring in amazement. “How?”

  “You have never been healed before?” Kester asked behind her.

  “Not like this.”

  “Erith healing can take care of most things,” Orlis told her, smile fading at her expression. “You never have been properly healed before, have you?”

  “No.” She closed her miracle hand into a fist, watching the movement as though it belonged to another being. “Thank you.” The words were inadequate, but all she had.

  “Not done yet,” he told her, pointing at her face. “You are going to have a very impressive black eye tomorrow,” the journeyman commented cheerfully. “May I? I promise it will not hurt.” Not sure precisely what he intended, but trusting his good will, she nodded. He settled his fingertips across the injured side of her face, gentle touch cutting through the numbness, making her bite her lip, hard, to hold back a whimper. Then a trickle of warm, healing power replaced the pain. Muscles relaxed, shoulders dropped, and she took a deep breath.

  “Bones knitted,” Orlis reported, a little paler again. “And I would not advise fighting anything for a while. The breaks need time to strengthen.”

  “Thank you,” Arrow said again. He could not possibly understand what it meant. Freely given Erith healing, her hand whole. Her fingers closed, catching the remnants of the shattered sword. She found a cloth in one of her pockets and wrapped the remnants in it, looking up when she was done to find the Erith and ‘kin standing a short distance away, gazes deliberately elsewhere. She was crying again, she realised, at the loss of the sword, some of the most difficult magic she had ever worked, torn apart by the rogue.