Revealed: The Taellaneth - Book 2

by Vanessa Nelson

  “You survived.”

  “He let me go,” she bit out the words, jaw tight.

  “Argue later,” Kallish took a deliberate step forward, drawing attention, “find the rogue now.”

  “The main building,” Arrow said and moved forward as fast as she could.

  “Undurat.” Kallish’s tone made it an order and a moment later Arrow found herself bodily lifted, slung over the shoulder of the near-giant who was the second in Kallish’s third. She gave an undignified squeak then hung on to the warrior’s coat as all around her the warriors moved, flowing forward at a pace that drew tears to her eyes and blurred their surroundings.

  She was set down with exquisite care when their arrived at the main building, Undurat making a small bow before stepping away.

  The open doors of the main building gave no clue, as the doors were always open when the Taellan were in residence, but the wide-eyed messenger pelting down the front steps, tears streaming from his eyes, was a clear sign of trouble.

  “Svegraen, save us!” The messenger grabbed the nearest warrior’s sleeve.

  “Hold!” Arrow shoved forward when the warrior would have touched the messenger. “Stay still!”

  The warrior froze, hand stretched out in reflex courtesy to the messenger’s distress.

  “Little thing.” The messenger’s face changed, eyes shading to black. “This one is a mere snack.” The warrior, realising what was holding him, paled, one hand twitching as though to go for a weapon.

  “Hold, svegraen,” Kallish commanded, her own steel drawn, stepping lightly to one side. Arrow did not need to look to know that Kester was at the other side, blades likewise drawn, the ‘kin circling behind her.

  “You shall not have him,” Arrow told the surjusi.

  “Says who?” The messenger’s face twisted, and a bitter laugh rolled out.

  “You are bound,” Arrow told it, nodding down. It looked down and shrieked in fury at the slender silver thread of power around its ankle. The other end of the thread was in Arrow’s hand and she tugged, hard, pulling the thing off balance. It was a little more coordinated than the one which had held Gesser, stumbling towards her. She drew her sword with a move becoming smoother with practice and stabbed the messenger’s abdomen without pause, ignoring the shocked gasps from those around her, finding the banishment spell contained within the sword’s length and activating it with a word.

  The messenger collapsed to the gravel, eyes wide, sweat beading his face.

  “He will live,” Arrow told them, then beckoned to the warrior, still standing frozen, “svegraen, come here a moment.” It said something to the credit of the warrior’s training that he did not hesitate, simply came close enough that she could put her hand across his wrist, opening her second sight. “You are not tainted,” she told him, to his evident relief.

  “Was the stabbing necessary?” Kallish asked, interested.

  “I do not know. I am finding my way in this.”

  “It worked. He will last a while longer.” She waved away another pair of warriors who would have gone to the messenger’s aid. “The wound is not bad.” Kallish lifted a brow, considering Arrow. “Perhaps there is some benefit to your poor weapons work.”

  Heat rose along Arrow’s neck, surging up to the tips of her ears. She opened her mouth to snap a retort then carefully clamped her jaw closed. There were more important things to deal with than her hurt pride.

  “Inside.” Kallish waved to her cadre, holding back the youngest with a gesture. “Go and see if there are any reinforcements in the barracks.”

  “Svegraen.” The warrior took off at a flat sprint.

  Inside the Taellaneth’s main building the normally pristine and ordered interior had been overturned. Priceless carpeting was torn up, walls scored with deep gashes that looked like claws, paintings ripped, sculptures torn down and shattered across the floor. The group, battle wards shimmering in the air, followed the trail of destruction through the corridors.

  They found the Steward propped up in a small alcove that had held a fragile sculpture, tears openly streaming down his face. One of the young messengers was lying next to him, head resting on the Steward’s knees, barely breathing. The Steward’s odd position cued Arrow as she approached. His legs and arms had been broken, and she suspected his back too. He lifted his eyes to her as she approached, the clear amber devoid of taint.

  One of the cadre knelt by the messenger, checking him over with the quick, professional assessment of a warrior trained in battle medicine. The warrior glanced up at Kallish and shook her head. The messenger did not have long. The Steward caught the look and blinked, more tears falling. He shifted his hand slightly on the messenger’s shoulder, fingers tightening a fraction. The youngster’s face was perfectly calm as he lay, breath failing.

  The Steward looked up again, catching Arrow’s eyes. “Kill him,” he whispered, eyes returning to the messenger.

  “I will,” Arrow promised through a tight throat, then moved on, continuing to follow the destruction, with a sense of inevitability, towards the Receiving Hall.

  The sculpture that the Prime had so admired was broken into tiny fragments. Sharp cursing behind her told her exactly how the White Guard felt about that.

  “Svegraen, battle wards,” Kallish’s voice was grim as she reminded her cadre. The wards, which had wavered slightly, strengthened again, coating the group in a reassuring sheen of amber. “Mestera ovail.”

  Arrow almost stopped then, to tell them that she was not the one they needed. The rogue was too powerful for her. But there was no one else to deal with him. No war mages, who should be on their way here in response to the Academy’s emergency wards, and only a single cadre of White Guard, backed up by a small group of ‘kin. She cast a quick glance around, seeing the quiet resolve on the warriors’ faces, Orlis’ face reflecting that determination, his normal humour gone. The ‘kin were quiet. Too quiet, not even the sound of anger escaping. They returned her look with eyes shining with power, many of them close to change. There were too few of them, but they were not turning back, and she could not leave them. She tried to draw a breath, pulse thumping in her throat. Another breath and she managed to continue on, straightening her spine as they approached the slightly open doors of the Receiving Hall, wondering what carnage awaited inside.

  In contrast to the disruption elsewhere, nothing in the room had been disturbed. There were Erith inside, seemingly uninjured. The ten warriors from the gate, still armed, eyes shadowed with taint, and a few other Erith in soft clothing. A pair of scribes, and a few of the Steward’s staff, eyes likewise shadowed. And threaded among them a handful of humans. A shocking enough presence in the room that they held her attention for a long moment, a dangerous distraction.

  The humans were raggedly dressed, carrying automatic weapons, flat black metal as out of place here as the humans themselves. Among their number a medium-height human male watching the new arrivals with a hungry expression that made her shiver. Charon. He had escaped the Prime in Hallveran. She did not think Zachary would allow him to escape again.

  The human killer was standing close to the figure at the centre of the room, weapon cradled in his arms, tension in his shoulders.

  Free of shadows and disguise, the rogue stood straight, a tall Erith lord, dressed the part in floor-length deep crimson robes, pristine white shirt cuffs and collar lace, and a cloud of surjusi taint about him so thick that Arrow thought the lights had been dimmed. He had his back to her when they first came in, his head tilted up to examine the ceiling, Charon’s bleak stare keeping track of the newcomers.

  “There you are, little runt.” A voice she remembered. Unease prickled up her spine. She had known he was powerful, but the creature before her outweighed her by several times, stronger here than in the shadow world. She wondered what, or who, he had sacrificed to bring himself more power for the day.

  “What shall I call you?” she asked, taking a few steps forward, past Kallish’s watchful for
m. She made a quick motion with her hand when Kallish would have stepped forward, wanting nothing between her and the creature. None of the cadre had enough power, even collectively, to hold the rogue.

  “Evellan did not give you my name?”

  “He was barely alive, last I spoke with him.” Arrow stepped sideways, trying to see the lord’s face. He moved, keeping his back to her, a low, dark sound that could have been a laugh rippling the air. Her hair was standing on end, scalp prickling with the static in the room.

  “But still breathing? Pity.”

  “Lord Nuallan.” The voice was nearby. Arrow took a step back, not wanting to take her attention from the tainted lord, to find the youngest Halsfeld lord close enough to touch. She checked herself from waving him back.

  “The unwanted scion of a fallen House.” The Erith lord turned. Arrow wondered for a moment whether he was speaking of himself or Kester, then drew a sharp breath as the full force of the lord’s power rippled across the room. There were shallow gasps around her as the warriors and ‘kin saw the lord’s ruined face for the first time, the bright amber of one perfect eye, the bottomless pitch of the other.

  “The supposedly dead wastrel younger son of a much-respected House,” Kester returned in the same, even tone.

  The creature before them laughed, a sound that scraped up her spine and made her want to run. Around them she was aware of the warriors’ battle wards rippling in response, and the tainted Erith taking a step forward, humans among them.

  “What do you want, Lord Nuallan?” she asked, gathering what power she could. The tiniest spark compared to his darkness. His eyes turned to her, both suddenly black with no pupil, and she gasped. “You are melded,” she said before she could stop herself, “but that is supposed to be …”

  “Impossible?” Another spine-grating laugh. “Along with the many other things my tradition-bound coward of a brother would have you believe.”

  “How?” she asked, interested despite herself, but also needing to know.

  “We share common goals.” The voice was wrong, as if two people were speaking in perfect unison. Perhaps they were.

  “What do you want?”

  “We were betrayed. We want revenge.”

  “How were you betrayed?” Arrow moved sideways again, keeping the creature in front of her, trying to get some distance from the cadre, who were too close to her. He tracked her movement, faint smile on his lips. Apart from those impossible eyes and the ruin of his face, he was an Erith lord, resplendent in his power, a compelling draw for any eye, the inherent beauty of the Erith cut to a sharp edge by the distorted face.

  “The House was burned.” The voice grated.

  “When it had been tainted?” Arrow checked her movement.

  “They burned us.” The growl would have made a ‘kin proud.

  “The House was lost,” Kester put in unexpectedly. He was still beside her. Closer than the cadre. Arrow’s jaw clenched. She was too used to working alone. Having Kester there, and the cadre following her, was keeping her off balance as much as facing the rogue in the first world.

  “The surjusi inhabiting your body tainted your House, Nuallan.” She dropped his title deliberately, knowing that would anger a full-blood Erith lord, brought up in the traditions and with all the arrogance of the House bloodline behind him. “It brought the fire to your house. It caused the burning.”

  “Little runt.” The voice issuing from the lord’s mouth had lost any trace of Erith heritage, dropping to an impossible depth. “Did you tell them that I let you live? That you cannot defeat me?” Arrow heard a few sharp intakes of breath close by. She had tried to tell them she was broken. No one had listened. And he was baiting her for his own amusement, a prelude to whatever slaughter he had planned.

  “And what do you call yourself, surjusi?” she asked, holding on to her power, the bright silver not enough to overwhelm the lord, but perhaps enough to do damage.

  “As if we would give you that gift. Kill them.” The tone was almost bored, words meaning little to Arrow, too focused on the threat in front of her, until the quiet of the room was broken by the sharp cracks of gunfire as the humans started shooting, bullets fizzing against the cadre’s wards. The other Erith in the room had drawn weapons and were swarming forward, past the humans, to attack the White Guard, dark cloud of taint covering them, thick enough to see in the first world. The humans, apart from Charon, kept firing, faces blank, hitting the possessed Erith, a few of the tainted falling to the floor in silence, blood flowing.

  Battle chaos ensued. The humans ran out of bullets and seemed unable to reload, moving forward, and swinging their weapons as clubs instead. She was bodily shoved aside as one of the Erith rushed forwards, Kester’s twin blades shivering above her as he blocked the heavy mace that had been aimed for her head.

  A heartbeat later the roar of a furious surjusi was joined with a more familiar but no less deadly sound, the low growls of shifkin rage. Lithe bodies danced around the room, some furred, some human, the Prime in their midst, wielding the huge broadsword with ease.

  Charon moved, as swiftly as any Erith warrior, stepping aside from his master, bringing his weapon to his shoulder. She cried out a warning, but Zachary had already seen the danger. The ‘kin sprang across the heads of several Erith, in an impossible jump, landing on Charon and knocking his weapon aside. Zachary rolled, came to his feet, sword ready, even as Charon drew a sword of his own.

  An Erith boot, one of Kallish’s cadre, narrowly missed Arrow’s head, where she was still huddled on the ground. She scrambled to her feet, personal wards flaring bright silver amid the taint, desperately trying to recall the spell she had used in the woodland to send her power out as a sheet. With no time to think properly, she simply pushed her power out, banishment spell laced into the ripple of silver.

  A roar of fury had her huddling on the ground again, unreasoning, instinctive fear overriding her normal self-control.

  The Erith who had been tainted and attacking the White Guard stumbled, disoriented, but only for a moment until the surjusi wearing Nuallan’s body did something that Arrow did not quite catch. The Erith righted themselves and surged forward again, attacking with renewed force. Kallish’s cadre and the ‘kin were struggling to keep the possessed Erith at bay, trying not to kill them.

  “Kill him,” Kallish ground out, jaw clenched as she held off a determined, possessed Erith, “he is controlling these people.”

  Arrow nodded, fingers scrabbling in her bag automatically before she stilled, realising she had absolutely no idea how to destroy or kill the possessed lord. Shadow fell over her. She had been still for too long.

  “Little runt.” Hot, stinking breath washed over her face and she found herself lifted, one hand under her chin, the lord hauling her upright with no apparent effort until she was eye to eye with the lord, the bottomless black of his eyes a sinkhole drawing her in.

  “Let them go,” she managed, voice choked.

  “I will savour their deaths,” he contradicted, a too-pink tongue flicking across his lips.

  “And Seivella?”

  “Proved herself unworthy,” he said, but there had been something in his eyes.

  “Is that why you gave her an inferior surjusi to host?” she asked, pressing any tiny advantage, and saw a deep, brief flare of amber amid the black.

  “She was afraid.”

  “Any sane person would be,” Arrow countered, dark spots appearing at the edges of her vision. She sent her power out again, and he did not flinch. Lips peeled back from his teeth in a semblance of a smile with no humour in it. He was winning. She was held above the ground, feet swinging in the air, pressure at her throat painful and deadly. And he was winning.

  Around her she was dimly aware of the sounds and sights of battle, a spray of arterial blood catching her unawares, causing her to flinch back. The surjusi did not move. The arterial spray reminded her of Hustrai’s death, his blood still on her clothing along with the scent of his de
ath. Hustrai had not deserved to die. None of them did.

  A spark of anger lit. She scrabbled at the lord’s wrist, trying to free herself. Under his sleeve her fingers brushed against something. A kri-syang. Without thinking, she drew it from his sleeve and stabbed the lord’s arm with it, pouring her power in along with the blade. He shrieked, dropping her to the ground, silver blade sticking out of his arm. He drew back a boot and kicked, hard and fast. She barely had time to roll away from the worst of it, gaining another bruise for her collection.

  Acting on impulse, and certainly not rational thought, she dove forward, wrapping her arms around his legs, and tore him to the floor, mostly due to surprise. She sat on his arm, forcing the bleeding wound to the floor, and somehow, despite his efforts to be free, managed to draw her own kri-syang, slicing open her palm and pressing it to the floor so their blood mixed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You were taken before this place was built,” she told him, gritting her teeth as he tried to shake her off. The protection spells built into the room were ready, waiting to be triggered. The words were there in her mind, but they needed to be spoken and she was having to fight too hard to keep him still.

  A moment later and his struggles dimmed. She glanced up, startled, to find the Preceptor, abdomen bound with a blood-soaked bandage, lying across his brother’s legs, grim determination on his face.

  “Hold him,” she told her former teacher. He nodded once, beads of sweat on his forehead with the effort and the pain. With a moment’s peace, she hastily spoke the trigger spell for the room’s defences. Bright Erith power rose all around, slicing through the black, adding to the White Guard’s battle wards. Cries of pain, distorted with taint, sounded around the great room, possessed Erith struggling against the clean wash of Erith defensive wards.

  Still struggling with the surjusi, Arrow barely noticed.

  “I bind you, surjusi Nuallan and Nuallan vo Mystlan, to this place, to this time, to this will, to this power,” Arrow began the spell and felt the rage pouring off the surjusi in waves. Despite the room’s protections, it was drawing its minions to the space where she lay, holding her bleeding hand against the floor, air around growing dark with the press of bodies and the taint. The spell was a long one, another of Serran vo Liathius’ efforts, she thought, and the surjusi-possessed Erith was far stronger than her and the weakened Preceptor could hold.