Taellaneth Complete Series Box Set

by Vanessa Nelson

  “That is so.”

  “Upon a recording?”

  “We believed we could uncover the truth.”

  Arrow watched, fascinated, as the Preceptor closed his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly. She thought she recognised the text. It was a favourite of his, an Erith warrior’s prayer for courage and patience.

  “My lord,” the Preceptor opened his eyes at length, amber sparks of Erith magic strong in his gaze as he fixed the elder in his sights, “neither you nor any of the Taellan shall attempt the use of collective magic without my express permission or authority. Is that clearly understood?”

  “You ...”

  “I am appointed by their gracious majesties with the sacred task of ensuring the preservation and learning of Erith magic.” There was power bound into the Preceptor’s words; power that was his from birth, supplemented by the power granted by their majesties. The Taellan were bound by the Preceptor’s voice just as surely as the new pupils at the Academy were bound.

  “So be it.” Seggerat was wise enough to know when he was defeated, displeasure plain in his pinched expression. He drew himself up. “You may be certain that their majesties will hear of this.”

  “You may make your own report if you wish, my lord,” the Preceptor conceded. He glanced at Arrow, brows drawing together, mouth flattening. “Arrow, you are bleeding. Go and get cleaned up. Report to my study at noon tomorrow and we will look at this camouflage.”

  “My lord.” Arrow managed a slightly deeper bow. She bowed slightly to the Taellan, the ringing in her ears worse as she moved her head, then very slowly made her way out of the room and back to her residence.

  It was only when she returned to her residence that she caught sight of her reflection in the dark windows. She paused, startled. She looked feral, eyes wide, expression dazed. Her hair, normally wildly curling, was standing on end in all directions. There was a thick trail of blood running from her nose down her chin, and further tracks of blood along her neck from both ears. Not the first time she had bled in service of the Erith, or when she had used too much magic. Her head ached with the aftermath, a deep ache only several hours’ sleep would cure.

  Getting ready for sleep she flinched slightly, realising that she must have bled over the elder’s handmade heirloom rug, and all too easily picturing his wrath at the discovery. The rug was far more valuable to him than she was. Closing her eyes, she found her face wet, wondering what new punishment Eshan would think of for her and exhausted at the mere thought.

  CHAPTER 6

  Getting to the Preceptor’s study required an all too familiar dance, avoiding the other Teaching Masters and Mistresses who might try and divert her, including Gesser vo Regresan, who had positioned himself along the Academy’s main corridor, the sour scowl on his face making the students tread carefully around him. Arrow took an alternate route, one the spoiled lord would not have thought of, through the concealed servants’ passages that were built into every high-status Erith building.

  She made it to the familiar territory of the Preceptor’s study without incident, a little out of breath, soothed immediately by her surroundings. Fifteenth cycle students spent a great deal of time in tutorials with the Academy’s master, standing in a loose circle on the scarred wooden floor, trying to follow whatever task the Preceptor had set for them that day.

  Some of Arrow’s best memories of learning magic were in this room, with its one wall of spelled glass letting in as much light as possible, motes of chalk dust hanging in the air, the familiar creak of the wooden boards underfoot, and the thrill that was the unfolding of knowledge in her mind. Working her own magic, watching the spells she created come to life, brought back memories of the wonder Nassaran had shown her in early childhood when he would settle down with her and show her the beauty in the simplest objects around. A blade of grass. The fast beating wings of a butterfly. Even the beetles that crawled on the earth.

  Today there were no students. The hum of activity in the Academy was kept at bay through the solid wooden door and the dampening spells the Preceptor had crafted into the room’s surfaces.

  She had arrived at the study at the appointed hour, and stood in front of the Preceptor’s enormous desk, waiting for his attention. He was scowling over what looked like a letter, elbow resting on a set of parchments; thirteenth cycle student homework, she thought, reading some of the work upside down and wincing slightly at some of the runes drawn. At least one of the students would most likely have to repeat the cycle, as, despite their advanced place in the Academy’s classes, they seemed incapable of drawing a straight line.

  With Evellan’s attention occupied, Arrow took a moment to study the room and the master magician. The piles of parchment and scrolls on his desk were higher than she remembered. The Academy’s deputy, Teaching Mistress Seivella, was absent and had been for some time, which would explain the additional administration and perhaps a little of the tiredness betrayed by the shadows under his eyes. The lady’s absence did not explain the faint lines of strain around the Preceptor’s mouth, or the unease shown in the shadows. Usually coiled contentedly about his robes, wisps of shadow were curling about in tendrils from the dark cloth, constantly in motion.

  “Blast the man. He seems to have written this on a hunt. Arrow, come, see what you make of it.” He held the letter up. Accustomed to the request, Arrow accepted the letter, recognising the hand at once. Gilean vo Presien, a highly respected war mage and one of the Queen’s closest advisors. Gilean and Evellan kept up an irregular correspondence, each complaining that the other’s handwriting was impossible to read.

  This letter was unusually bad. There were ink blots spattered across the surface and several crossed out words as well as a dark stain on one side of the parchment that might have been blood. Gilean was usually on the move, travelling through the Erith heartlands, sometimes not heard from for months at an end.

  “From the third paragraph,” the Preceptor prompted.

  “Yes, my lord. Let me see …” She frowned a moment more, piecing together the words, before beginning. “The testing ground for the young hunters has been … recovered from the grasses. It is quite remarkable how quickly they grow. The grasses, I mean. The hunters seem to get younger with each passing turn ...”

  She paused as a there was a sharp knock at the door followed by another person entering the room, not waiting for the Preceptor’s permission. Someone expected, then, otherwise they would not have got past the room’s wards. Evellan waved for Arrow to continue.

  “Passing turn of the seasons …” Arrow paused, trying to make out the next sentence. One of the most highly respected mages alive appeared to have written about red spotted cows and she was sure that could not be right.

  “A letter from my cousin?” Kester vo Halsfeld asked, joining Arrow beside the desk. He was dressed far more plainly than when she had seen him last in the elder’s study, wearing an approximation of the White Guard’s day uniform, charcoal grey embellished, in place of braids of office and awards of merit, with a leaf pattern. He brought with him the scent of weapons oil and cardamom and did not seem disturbed that he stood on equal footing with her in front of the Preceptor’s desk, giving her a nod as she glanced across. Stiffening, caught staring, Arrow returned her focus to the letter.

  “Indeed. When you are next in touch, please tell him that his writing is growing worse with age. With the practice he has had over the years, the opposite should be true.” Evellan held out a hand for the letter and Arrow returned it. He stared at the scrawl for a moment before shaking his head. “I will have someone else look at this. I cannot believe he means spotted cows, red or otherwise.”

  Arrow hid a smile, wishing she could be there when Gilean and Evellan had one of their rare meetings.

  “The elder asked me to attend,” Kester said.

  “Yes, he sent a message to advise me.” The Preceptor’s eyes remained on the letter in his hands, voice dry as the elder’s usual tone, and Arrow saw a shallow, m
etal dish to one side of the desk with some burned fragments of parchment. Evellan had not liked the elder’s message and Arrow wondered what message the Chief Scribe had actually written.

  Risking a quick, sideways glance, Arrow saw what might have been a smile cross the Taellan’s face before it resumed a neutral expression of polite attention. She wondered how long the Preceptor and the former White Guard had been friends.

  “Arrow, bring the spell mirror across and set up your record.”

  “My lord.” She bowed slightly and moved to comply. The Preceptor’s spell mirror was the largest she had ever seen, wider and taller than she was, held in a plain frame of black wood which had been set with wheels at some point in the past, making it easy to move.

  By the time she had set up the record to run through the mirror, the Preceptor had risen and joined Kester.

  “It should be possible to show this in three dimensions,” Arrow suggested. She saw the Taellan’s brows lift, perhaps in surprise at the idea, or perhaps at her speaking up without being asked.

  “Very well. Take that side.” Between them, she and Evellan lowered the mirror to lie on its back on the ground and the images which had been flat, contained on the mirror’s surface, sprang to full-size life, the Preceptor merging with the shadowed figure for a moment as the recording ran on. Kester carefully removed his hand from a weapon hilt, a hint of colour in his face.

  The afternoon passed with the Preceptor taking his time to inspect the recording for himself, firing questions to Arrow that she did her best to answer. When he was satisfied he had seen enough he paused, standing opposite Arrow across Marianne’s body.

  “And you did this thing alone?” he asked. It was an echo of the question the Prime had asked, but with a more pointed slant. The images, sharp and vivid, lay between them.

  “The mountain is very strong,” Arrow told him. He was frowning, the coiling shadows settled into a series of tight curls around his robes, motionless for the first time that afternoon. She waited. A magician of her apparent level of ability and power should perhaps have struggled more with the spell. And he had no ability to test the strength of Farraway Mountain. He could only test her. A faint scent of burnt amber crossed the room, the sparks in the Preceptor’s eyes growing as he stared at her. The familiar brush of his power, strong and certain, crossed hers. Testing. Probing. Not for the first time.

  She endured, confident in her own wards and the seals deep inside, invisible to anyone but her. He would see what she wanted him, and the rest of the Erith, to see, which was a mage of middling power. It was rare for someone of average power to pass all of the Academy’s classes but there was precedent; some of the Teaching Masters and Mistresses in the building around them possessed less apparent power than Arrow and had graduated through hard work.

  The oath spells in her blood stirred in response to their maker’s power, stretching like a cat, then purring softly. Her temper rose in response, the despised magic turning contentedly in her body.

  Satisfied that the oath spells were intact, and unable to find anything amiss, the Preceptor’s expression did not lighten. His face was tight, intellect and instinct in conflict.

  “My lord,” Kester broke the silence, “do you know what magic this shadow used?”

  “No,” he answered, not taking his attention from Arrow.

  “Where might we learn?” the younger lord persisted. “Such abilities seem dangerous.”

  “They are.” Evellan turned to Kester. Arrow was careful not to relax. Another dangerous moment had passed. There would be more. “The Archives might tell us more.”

  “The scribe’s archives were destroyed,” Kester said, confused.

  “So I heard.” The sour smile might have been satisfaction. The Chief Scribe was not well liked and had shunned Evellan’s assistance with the scriptorium wards. “The Academy has its own. Arrow, see what you can learn.”

  Dismissed, Arrow left, still more questions bottled up now laced with unease. Despite his flat denial, she thought Evellan did know something about the camouflage. There was a possibility, slim as it was, that Evellan had conspired with the Taellan in Marianne Stillwater’s death. Arrow’s lips thinned, brow creasing before she smoothed it quickly, frustration making her strides quicker than normal. There was so much hidden from her. Neither the White Guard or Taellan would tell their secrets. That, she expected. But the Academy took pride, publicly declared, in teaching its students about all forms of magic. There was clearly at least one form missing if what she had seen on the mountain was anything to go by, and the Academy’s Preceptor had not been surprised to find an unknown form of magic.

  The highest authority on magic among the Erith, the Preceptor most certainly had the resources to find a White Guard medallion, and access to the knowledge and power to conceal himself from the mountain to kill Marianne, even if she could not understand, yet, how or why he might have done so.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Academy Archives, a labyrinth of shielded tunnels under the Academy, yielded no answers and Arrow headed to her appointment at Marianne’s residence in Lix with her silent promise to the dead woman to find her killer ringing in her mind, hoping that finding out more about Marianne would enable her to keep that promise. Even if no one else heard it, a magician’s promise was as binding on her as the oath spells.

  Lix was a sprawling city, crawling further over the land each year, held back from the Taellaneth only by the treaties that bound the Erith and humans to peace. Even so, the city seemed larger every time Arrow visited, the humans greedily expanding into the land they held between the ‘kin and the Erith. The territories which had seemed generous when they were recorded into the treaties now appeared small. Humans could never have enough land, it seemed.

  Marianne Stillwater’s residence and its surroundings were a sharp contrast to the simplicity of Farraway Township. The address was within a walled estate, one of a half-dozen or so former stretches of land claimed and bounded by long-dead human lords and ladies, the walls now warded, and the land now occupied by expensive, exclusive residences that rivalled the Taellan’s manors in craftsmanship. Entrance to the estate was strictly monitored, gates manned by human magic users of mid-level power and skill, with only one road all the way through, winding in gentle curves through mature trees and high fences discreetly screening the buildings from the road and from each other.

  It was a far cry from her usual visits to Lix, going to the business heart of the city surrounded by towering buildings and too many people, all so busy, noisy conversations, crowds smothering her, fresh scents of the Taellaneth replaced by the stench of exhaust fumes and the casually discarded waste humans seemed to generate. Or visits to tall apartment buildings, tracing people the Erith wanted found, too many people pressing about and not one single ward on half the buildings.

  This was beautiful. A stillness that reminded her of the Taellaneth gardens, though no Erith would admit the comparison. The wards were well kept, the streets free of debris, and she could not hear a single voice. Peace. A place of harmony, free of the discordant politics of the Erith. The stillness reminded her of the cottage where she had lived with Nassaran, tucked away in a far corner of the vast grounds of the Taellaneth, away from other people. The cottage had long been abandoned, the one time she had been able to return to it, no sign of the old man since he left her at the Academy for training. Still, her soul eased at the reminder, her lips curving in a small smile.

  Following the shifkin’s directions, the residence she had stopped outside belied its age, a modern construction humming with electrical power that brushed her senses, designed to look as old as the original manor. The building was set back from the road, behind iron gates that opened with the smooth hum she associated with electric motors as she approached, boots crunching on the gravel as she made her way up the curved driveway.

  The garden was stark in winter, only a light dusting of snow at Lix’s lower altitude, the plants mostly bare twigs or cut back to
clumps of dry spikes, trees bare of leaves. Here and there was a wild, sharp scent that Arrow associated with ‘kin, hints that a human might not notice. Despite the leafy surroundings, the rest of the estate was almost exclusively occupied by humans and Arrow wondered how many of her neighbours had known what Marianne was.

  The bright red front door, colour standing out among the dormant garden, opened as she approached, and she checked involuntarily in her stride.

  Two people waited for her. A petite, immaculately groomed human female, blond hair shining gold from the artificial light behind her, and the Prime.

  “Good day.” Arrow made her feet move forward.

  “Hello, Arrow.” The Prime was self-contained, all the savage nature she had encountered on the mountain tamped down behind a polite facade. She did not trust the facade, or the fact that she could not pick up any of his feelings. “This is Lucy Steers.”

  “Miss Steers.” Arrow nodded, and, after a small pause, took the hand offered to her in a brief, polite handshake. Erith did not touch her, and Erith did not shake hands. The sensation of another’s skin against hers was odd, an unfamiliar assault on her senses, the human’s hand smooth and well-maintained against her own roughened skin, her wards prickling at the proximity.

  “Arrow? That’s an unusual name.” The woman meant nothing by it, simply making polite conversation, but Arrow felt her spine stiffen, the hated Erith word tripping through her mind before she squashed it.

  “It is what I am called,” she replied politely.

  “And you work for the Erith.” The woman’s lip curled slightly. “What interest do the Erith have in Marianne’s death?”

  It was a good question, Arrow thought, and one she would also like to ask the Erith. She would not get a straight answer, so had to speculate. With the ‘kin suspicious that there had been Erith involvement in the death, the Erith were using their most disposable servant to keep an eye on matters. A guess only. But she knew how most of the Taellan felt about her, and how most of the Erith felt about the ‘kin.