Revealed: The Taellaneth - Book 2

by Vanessa Nelson

  The night grew longer. Despite the open door, the faint glimmer of her wards kept the White Guard at bay. Once or twice she had seen a shadow at the door. She kept her head down, pretending not to notice, and they had not come closer.

  The book was a deceptively slim volume, quite innocuous to look at in the first world. In the second world the spellwork still looked harmless, but the knowledge that it had forced into her mind whispered in an odd echo as she read, words on the page connecting with whatever had implanted in her. It was not a complete, or even partial, understanding, just a faint sense of recognition, the pages of the book making themselves comfortable in her body and mind, stretching out. Her second read through was as frustrating as the first. The individual words formed, clear before her eyes, but she could not read two words together to make any sense. Part of her was annoyed, part of her fascinated. The Academy lessons had mentioned this kind of learning as a theory only. Some powerful spell worked into the book had been triggered, yet she could not feel any active spells in her blood or body or mind, just that peculiar almost-knowledge and almost-understanding at the progression of words on the page.

  A fizz at the edge of her wards drew her attention and she looked up, finding Kester vo Halsfeld poised at the edge of the wards, wary of the silver that was cascading over him.

  “You always set battle wards when you are studying?” he asked.

  “My lord.” She drew down the wards, irritated with herself as she recognised the life-long habit of responding to the Taellan. She had managed, with effort, to ignore the cadre’s patrols. Or perhaps it was just this particular Erith she did not wish to ignore.

  “So?” He settled, uninvited, at a stool opposite. He had found time to braid his hair in a warrior’s style, she saw, very comfortable in the everyday uniform adopted by the White Guard. The uniform settled on him more comfortably than the gentleman’s clothes he usually wore, Arrow’s attention snagged on details. The uniform was free of braids, which told her nothing as the White Guard’s commander also wore no braids, not needing any to proclaim his rank. There was a long rent in Kester’s uniform from roughly where his heart would be, stretching down towards his opposite hip. It had been meticulously and carefully repaired, barely a shadow on the dark cloth. Like the ‘kin, the White Guard bore their scars without apology, and Arrow wondered how deep the injury had been.

  “My lord?” She had forgotten the question he had asked, mind too busy.

  His face tightened, a hint of displeasure, perhaps at her requiring him to repeat himself, but his voice, when he spoke, was perfectly even. “You always set wards to study?”

  “Not always, no.” She closed the book and began gathering in the papers.

  “Was that necessary?” he asked, tilting his head towards the dismantled clock. It was laid out in tiny pieces on a cloth.

  “Very,” she told him and did not say more despite his lifted brow, inviting her to continue. She bundled the cloth up, tying it off, doing her best to ignore the soft sounds as the various pieces clashed together and the guilt. It had been an exquisite piece of craftsmanship, even among the Erith’s high standards. It might have been possible to tease out the spellwork and render it safe. Maybe. That would have taken more time and patience than she had to spare. And, the guilty part of her added, there had been something intensely satisfying about comprehensively destroying something that had been owned between Seivella and the rogue.

  “Have you learned much?” he asked idly.

  “Some.” She rose, beginning to refill her bag with her supplies then stopping, looking at the worn strap and, with a deep sigh, filling the satchel instead. The whispering of knowledge grew loud for a moment and she stilled, staring at nothing, waiting for the voice to quiet. A yawn caught her unawares, snapped her back to the here and now.

  “It is past middle night,” he said mildly, “perhaps you should sleep.”

  “Svegraen.” She nodded, choosing to accept that as good advice, continuing to fill the bag.

  “You are annoyed,” he observed, tilting his head.

  “Was there something you needed?”

  “Simply curious as to what was keeping you up so late,” he admitted, nodding to the satchel, perhaps referring to the papers inside. “What have you learned?”

  “Nothing definite,” she hedged, looking into the mug at her elbow. There was a bare trace of coffee at the bottom, quite cold, and it was too late in the night to make more. Her head was thick with learning, fatigue and too much caffeine.

  “You are not used to sharing information, are you?” he observed, not offended, just commenting. Her head came up, and the silver sparks in her eyes had him straightening in his seat.

  “I am used to working alone.” She bit off her words, took a breath and looked away. “Having others around is an adjustment.”

  “We are here to help,” he said, voice mild.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “This item,” he began slowly, looking at the messenger bag, “is important?”

  Her throat closed up as she looked at the battered thing. Beyond repair, despite the wards and her terrible needlework.

  “It was mine.” One of the few things that had ever truly been hers.

  “Sometimes it is hard to let go.” The quiet understanding surprised her. Raised in a House, surrounded by retainers to see to his every need, she wondered how he had come by that knowledge.

  “Indeed. If you would excuse me, I should rest.”

  “Of course.” He waved a hand. She could feel his gaze as she left the room, forcing herself to drop the messenger bag into the waste bin at the door, along with the pieces of the clock, and to walk on, nearly stumbling as she crossed from concrete to carpet, not surprised to see the shadow of a warrior at the top of the stairs, two more in one of the front rooms, with a clear view of the door of her room. A flare of temper wakened, and she set a ward as she closed her door, wanting only sleep.

  It was only when she was close to sleep, warm and comfortable, that she realised that, among many other unasked and unanswered questions, she had never asked Kallish why the White Guard thought an exile deserved their protection. Even although he had not believed Arrow’s word, Whintnath had directly commanded Kallish and her cadre to remain with Arrow.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Arrow stared up at the Taellaneth gates. Again. Surrounded by White Guard. Again. This time she was fairly certain they were not going to arrest her or imprison her or drag her before the Taellan for punishment.

  As Arrow had not managed to find a way to bring the warriors with her into shadows, Kallish had point-blank refused to leave her in the workspace unattended. A round of sharp words had followed, settled by Kester announcing that if Arrow remained in the workspace, so would he. And the next steps in the investigation waited in the Taellaneth, in particular the necessary questioning of Evellan and Seivella. The magicians were still under the healers’ care. Too weak to be moved, so the healers had told the White Guard, perhaps not expecting Kallish and Kester to take them at their word and come to ask their questions in person.

  On assurance from Kallish and Kester that she would be allowed to leave again, Arrow had agreed to travel back to the Taellaneth. She bore the glares from the gate sentries, clearly as unhappy with her presence as she was to be here. The sentries backed down, as she had, under the combined authority of a cadre leader and a Taellan.

  Once through the gates, Kallish released her cadre to their own business, and led Kester, Arrow, and Orlis in the direction of the White Guard barracks, Arrow for once not ashamed of her appearance as she was once more in Erith clothing. Kester seemed confident that he could persuade the healers to let them in to see Evellan and Seivella. From what Arrow had been told, the pair had been housed in the White Guard barracks, under constant guard since their recovery, the healers not permitting any questions at all.

  The barracks building had only just come into view, austere lines a sharp contrast to the rest of the Taellan
eth buildings, when a wave of magic, stronger than anything she had felt before, washed over her, raising her wards, sending her hair in static clouds around her.

  “What was that?” Orlis was shaken, unsteady on his feet.

  “I do not know.” Kallish was frowning.

  “The Academy’s wards.” Arrow turned and began walking as fast as she could towards the Academy. The building’s safety wards had never been fully raised before to her knowledge.

  “That was just wards?” Orlis was still off balance.

  “The emergency wards, yes.”

  They came around a corner of one of the many beautifully maintained hedges and she checked in surprise. Tottering down the path towards her was Teaching Master Smaillis, one of the least favoured of all at the Academy. A stern disciplinarian, he had been responsible for Arrow’s first exile from the Taellaneth and had made no secret of the fact he did not think she should have been allowed back.

  All his arrogance and authority had been stripped away. The Teaching Master was white, visibly trembling, and unable to speak for a full five breaths as he stopped in front of her, robes settling around him faster than his breathing.

  “Teaching Master Smaillis,” Arrow inclined her head, voice cool, “I am sorry to see you in such distress. What is the matter?”

  “A breach …” He had to stop again, drawing in a noisy, pained breath. Older than the Preceptor, and a former war mage, he was not in the best of health even on a good day.

  “Come, sit for a moment.” Arrow led him to a low bench bordering the walkway, unwonted sympathy rising. The mage’s wounding had been in body and spirit, and although students might despise his arrogance, they never forgot that he had been wounded in service of the Erith and was revered by other mages. He was a powerful, daily lesson in the price that could be paid for magic. “Here. A small healing.” She offered a small, stoppered vial from her bag. He took it without hesitation and swallowed its contents in one, hasty gulp.

  “A breach. Academy.”

  “What?” Kester was at her shoulder now, concerned.

  “Horrible. Horrible.” Tears ran down his face, lip trembling. “The Potions classroom. Someone. Surjusi. You must go.”

  “I will, sir.” The weight of expectation settled on her again, unavoidable, along with concern. The Potions Master, Hustrai, had been kind to her during her studies, a gentle soul. “The students?”

  “Safely away. Evacuated. Closing protocol. Wards raised.”

  Arrow shivered. The Academy’s closing protocol was a secret closely guarded among the teaching staff, shared with war mages on graduation, along with a demand from most of the mages for their oath that they would respond and defend the Academy if needed. Arrow had not been required to give that oath, the Teaching Master who had taken the oaths of her cycle deciding that there would never be a circumstance in which the Erith would require a half-breed’s assistance. So, her oaths had been confined to the ones all magicians made, which were solemn vows to not abuse her power, and, where she could, defend those who could not defend themselves. This last vow was often forgotten by the Taellan.

  With the closing protocol, the entire building was now wrapped in the strongest magic the Erith could bring to bear. And if the breach could not be remedied, and the appropriate spell spoken by a recognised authority, the entire Academy would be destroyed by that magic.

  “All the students and the Masters and Mistresses? The Archivists?” Arrow wanted to know, dropping to a crouch in front of him. He was crying openly, not bothering to wipe away the tears.

  “Most. All those not affected. Master Hustrai stayed behind.”

  “A student is possessed?” Arrow asked as gently as she could. Master Smaillis had seen one too many demons.

  “Yes. You must go. Cleanse it.”

  “I shall. Orlis, will you stay with the Master and see he is cared for?”

  “You might need me.” The journeyman’s jaw set in a stubborn line.

  “I have faced surjusi before. And the Master needs care.”

  “See to it, young thing,” Kallish instructed. She had gathered her braids into one long tail and was fastening her collar high. Preparing for battle. Beside her, Kester was likewise ensuring that his coat was secure, and weapons ready to draw.

  “I will go alone, svegraen,” Arrow began, stopped by the stern glares from each. She drew a breath, resigned. “Ward yourselves well.”

  “Lead on.” Kallish jerked her chin in the direction of the Academy.

  Arrow took another breath and, with one last glance at Teaching Master Smaillis, turned and continued on towards the Academy.

  As she went she could sense the alarm spreading through the Taellaneth. The closing protocol was powerful enough to draw the immediate attention of every single Erith in the Taellaneth grounds. White Guard cadres, some hastily fastening uniforms, were running through the grounds, an unprecedented event.

  Lord Whintnath, immaculately presented as always, was walking at a rapid pace towards the Academy on a course parallel to Arrow.

  “Svegraen.” Arrow glanced at her companions. “We do not wish to give this thing any more fuel. Best to keep the Academy clear.”

  “We will see to it,” Kester promised. “Kallish, with me.”

  The two ran across the gap to Lord Whintnath, and Arrow continued at her fast walk, the Academy’s wide-open doors not far ahead. There was no sign of the students or any of the Masters or Mistresses, but the magic that had been raised hummed in the air.

  “Arrow, wait,” Kallish called, note in her voice that told Arrow that whatever the warrior had discovered was important.

  Arrow took a few steps towards the group. Lord Whintnath was truly shaken, normally bronze skin pale, mouth pinched, amber sparks bright in his eyes.

  “There is a surjusi in the Academy,” the head of the White Guard told her.

  “Teaching Master Smaillis informed us of such.” Arrow nodded.

  “It has possessed Gesser vo Regresan.”

  “You seem very well informed, svegraen,” Arrow said over the shocked gasps from the other warriors. A third, Lord Whintnath’s personal guard, were drawing closer, shimmer of wards visible even in the first world. They were taking no chances with their leader’s safety.

  “The Taellan are aware. A messenger was sent to them, and to me.” There was a sour twist to his mouth, a hint of displeasure that suggested whoever had felt the Taellan had equal right to know would be facing the commander very soon.

  “Lord vo Regresan as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything else you believe I should know?”

  “Master Hustrai has remained in his classroom.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Arrow.”

  The direct address checked her, and she glanced over her shoulder to meet a very direct stare from Lord Whintnath.

  “Good hunting.”

  “And to you, svegraen.” She left without another word, a sense of urgency spurring her on. A surjusi. In the Academy. And in possession of Gesser vo Regresan. Not the most powerful of Erith magicians, but powerful enough that, combined with surjusi, he could do some damage.

  ˜

  She slid through the warding spells without difficulty. The spells were designed to stop things from getting out.

  The Academy was empty. Corridors that, at this time of day, would normally be filled with chattering students moving from class to class under the frowning watch of Teaching Masters and Mistresses, were deserted. The only sign of the students’ presence was the scuff marks on the wooden floors which were always polished to a high shine overnight by the Taellaneth staff, before being marked each day by hundreds of feet.

  The floors swallowed the sound of Arrow’s boots, used to far greater numbers. For once she did not care about making a noise or drawing notice, keeping her pace high. The Potions Master’s classroom was at the far end of the Academy, set in a small annexe to more safely contain its potentially flammable co
ntents. On the way there she saw that, although the rooms were empty, more than one Teaching Master or Mistress had warded their classrooms; wards to prevent curious students from entering and also to try and stop any taint from spreading.

  The Academy staff might teach about unclean magic, and surjusi, but they did not wish to deal with the reality of them.

  That was why Arrow was here, after all.

  Somewhere behind her she thought that Kallish was probably following, and perhaps Kester, too, since both White Guard seemed determined that she was not capable of managing on her own.

  She checked her stride as she came closer to the Potions classroom and found that the Academy was not quite as deserted as she had thought.

  A magician she did not know, an Erith with a slender scar along one cheek that must have come from a magically charged weapon, wearing the floor-length, light-absorbing cloak of a war mage, was waiting outside the Potions Master’s classroom.

  “Good day to you, mage.” Arrow made a small bow and received a hard stare in return.

  “You are the shadow-walker?”

  “I am Arrow,” she answered, teeth set. It seemed that the Archivists had been very open about sharing their suspicions.

  “You have dealt with surjusi before?”

  “More than once, yes.”

  “Lord vo Regresan will want his youngest saved.”

  Something about the mage’s tone made Arrow pause, tilting her head slightly.

  “What is your assessment, mage?”

  A flicker through his eyes, gone so quickly that if she had not been watching for it, she would have missed it. Too quick to read, but she thought he was pleased by the question.

  “The young one is gone.” The mage’s voice was heavy. “Others are on their way to provide aid.” Activating the closing protocol would have sent a summons to every war mage in reach. For if the Academy, the seat of Erith magic and magical learning, could not contain a threat, then the Erith were in serious danger.